Reflections on Confronting My Color Blindness

Stacy Patty

      

             Sometime around 1986 while in ministry in New York, I was attending Union Theological Seminary.  In a class on Theology of Culture, I was assigned the task of presenting and defending the black theology of James Cone, widely regarded as the founder of black liberation theology.  This was not a task I relished.  I read his God of the Oppressed carefully and repeatedly to try and understand.  But it was very offensive; Cone seemed to say that Jesus was black and that only those who had experienced blackness could comprehend the liberating Jesus.  But I had to complete the assignment, so I dutifully summarized what I took to be the book’s thesis and main points and then proceeded to explain that Cone was too offensive.  If black theologians want us to understand what they are saying, they must tone it down, seek common points of reference with normative theology, and go more slowly with their radical (even if perhaps good) proposals, I argued.  And then I took the barrage of strong, inflamed responses.  “You have not suffered!  You cannot understand!  You must repent!” seemed to be the sentiment, literally pointed at me, that day.  I don’t remember the exact words that day, but I will never forget one scene:  The young black minister in his fancy three-piece suit standing over me with anger and calling me out.  The professor – a white Methodist male of Southern heritage – remained silent.  I felt humiliated and defeated (“I was trying to help Cone and his followers!”).  I left angry (after all, I had been fired from one church by then; I had suffered!) and confused. 

            Over the coming weeks and months, I met with that professor, and two others – also coincidentally white Methodist males of Southern heritage).  They listened to my anger and confusion and whining and questions.  They offered encouragement, and over time, words of advice, but they never justified my thoughts that day in class.  I don’t know how long I remained angry and confused, and self-righteous.

            But one day along the way, it hit me.  The initial offense was necessary to wake me from my slumber, to begin restoring sight from my blindness.  As a white person growing up in West Texas, I always enjoyed excellent public schools within easy walking distance from home.  I only even know that there was another side of the tracks – literally – when my blue-collar parents brought Mandy in once a week to clean the house.  Occasionally I would hear the n-word, but it never really seemed anything other than an identifier; even so, I sometimes joined others in fixing things by “n-rigging” them, but that phrase “meant no harm.”  I never worried about getting into a college, or paying for it, really.  And I never gave a thought to any real concern of one day getting a job and raising a family in peace and prosperity.  I realized that my family legacy was one of hard work and strong faith, and thereby life successes, but I never gave any consideration to the many others whose hard work and strong faith left them hungry, homeless, or in extreme poverty.  And in adult life, I have been fired – twice so far, and nearly three times – but I’ve never lost the safety net of family and savings and the ability to borrow money at reasonable rates.  I’ve never been stopped by the police and feared for my life.  I’ve never been followed around a store as if I might steal something.  I’ve never been turned down for a job because of my color, or my inferior educational past, or my prison record due to a lack of legal funds for adequate defense.  I’ve never been told that my ancestors did not have a soul.  I’ve never had to realize that I don’t know my original last name.  I’ve never had to sit on the back of the bus.  For that matter, like most of my contemporary friends, I’ve rarely had to even ride a bus – they’re much too slow and dirty.  I’d never realized that mid-20^th century laws regulated housing developments and distorted regional voting districts at the disadvantage of black families.  I’d never realized that the colleges and universities associated with the Churches of Christ were some of the last higher education institutions to integrate.

            And I’ve not really understood the Jesus of the Bible – a darker-skinned Jew who challenged religion and fought for social justice and dependence on God alone, with an end of all idolatries.  I’d never considered well, before my encounter with liberation theology, that the oppressed can teach me more about God than many European theological giants.  I’d never really understood suffering as a place close to God.  I’d never really listened to the words of spirituals.  I had not really known the Gospel.

            I still struggle with my own subtle racisms and/or attitudes susceptible to festering racism in me.  If I enter a restaurant and find only a few seats at the bar, I will likely avoid the one next to a black man.  I can easily make judgements about my black academic colleagues and their “over-the-top” cadences and rhetoric.  I walk through a D.C. neighborhood at dusk and avoid the black people on the side of the subway.  I enjoy a good black spiritual because of its “unique” style.  I’d rather not sit through a long and emotional worship service at a black church.  I admit that I remain complicit, even sometimes perhaps subconsciously, in structures of oppression and injustice that my own lifestyle supports or fails to confront.

            I am thankful for that class assignment, those professors -- Tom Driver, Christopher Morse, and Larry Rasmussen -- for Jim Cone, and for the many mentors, friends, and people of color who continue to help me see.

slp

11 June 2019