Searching For Kind Eyes

I grew up in Appalachia Ohio. I want to talk about one aspect of my childhood there. My hometown played a critical role in the Underground Railroad. I listened to stories and learned about my towns brave heroes. Both black and white, risking their lives to house and ultimately lead enslaved people to freedom in the North. I can remember as a child feeling so much anger and angst learning what those slaves risked and endured on their voyage to my hometown.

Some stories ended in heartbreaking tragedy while others made the angst and anger move aside for inspiration and passion. Because some stories ended in freedom. Honestly, what is more passion inducing than a story of someone risking it all to gain their freedom and finding it? I learned other stories as a child; angst and anger always wrestling with passion and inspiration.

Angst in learning that they tried to make Rosa move back a row in the "colored" section for a white woman like me. Passion when she bravely refused. Can you imagine being that brave in the face of that type of hate? Inspirationin hearing those poetic and beautiful words spoken by MLK, followed by absolute heartbreaking angst and anger learning of his unjust death.

These are just two examples of how my views on skin color were formed as a child. I don't think I could find the words to describe how learning those stories moved me. Childhood emotions are big. I can't imagine having a family member who had to endure those horrific events. I've hoped my entire life that I would be someone who stands up for and protects those faced with any injustice. I can remember having internal conversations with myself as a young girl. Would I be brave enough if one of these situations ever occurred in front of me? Feeling passionately that I would want to be on the same side as my heroic hometown ancestors.

I spent time talking to my kids when they were growing up about these stories. Repeating our towns proud history. Black and white people working together to help free those slaves. When they were old enough to start thinking about racial issues we would have conversations about how poorly people were treated because of the color of their skin. One particular summer we started listening to the song Hurricane by Bob Dylan. The first time I popped that CD in, they would complain about how long the song is. Over 8 minutes. But then they were challenged to listen to the words and try to understand the story, the true story. I think hearing that it was true changed their interest. They went from this song is too long, to how could they do that to him? They went from I don't want to hear it to I HAVE to hear it again, please play it again. They asked questions and they were angry for Rubin Carter. They wanted to know if he was free now, they wanted justice for him and I was proud that they understood how wrongly he was treated. 15 years later, and I get snaps of their car dashboard when the song Hurricane comes up in their playlist. I'm thankful that the song still means something to them, that it left an impression that stuck with them. Once again, childhood emotions are big.

In the last several years there's been this uncomfortable for me shift. I've heard that I can't want to protect or love someone who doesn't look like me if I see fault in DEI practices. I've heard I'm too priviledged. I've heard I'm not making room or sharing my space. I've felt like I needed to check myself, hearing that I'm probably racist if I hold my purse close to me when someone with different skin color than me walks by me in an alley. I've listened and wrestled and self inspected. Digging ruthlessly to root out or find whatever it is they say is wrong with me. Thinking they must be right and I need to listen because that young girl I was promised to always listen. Angst and anger.

Then I started coming across more and more black people that I wanted to follow on X. But more impotant than the color of their skin; people who believe what I believe. Morally. Ethically. Politically. Spiritually. Another shift came, one that brings back passion and inspiration. I'm inspired to hear that they're not against me or angry with me. I'm inspired to hear that they stand with me and I with them. I'm inspired to hear that they don't believe that I was born with some racist predispostion because I was born white. I'm relieved to hear that they don't think that I think I'm superior to them, because I don't.

The heores of my hometown and the heroes I learned of growing up fought for that to be reality, for us to stand together; on shared morals, shared religious views, shared political views and shared ethical issues and never once consider the color of ones skin when deciding who to stand by. That childhood inspiration has never left me and this most recent shift makes me so hopeful that we are closer than we have ever been in making that dream a reality.

Have I clutched my purse when a black man with a hood up and downcast eyes has walked by? You betcha. But I've done the same thing when that sketchy white dude with the leather vest and skull tattoo on his neck walks by. Because it's never been about the color of someones skin, it's always been about the look and gaze of their eyes. There are good and bad people of every race and ethnicity.

We just have to keep looking each other in the eye in order to see the heart or in some cases the hate of each person. I'm so glad to know and understand that. I hope I always make my hometown ancestors proud. I hope I never forget to look everyone I meet in the eyes and that I learn the intentions of their heart. Maybe I'll gain some angry responses from these words but maybe I'll also gain some friends. Friends of all colors that share the most important characteristic: kind eyes.

John 7:24 Stop judging by mere appearances, but instead judge correctly.