Jumping Tandem

Going There: Color Blind

Deidra — Fri, 24 May 2013 09:00:59 +0000

The idea for “Going There” came about as a result of the 31 Days In My Brown Skin series I wrote in October, 2012. (You can read those posts here.) The series generated a lot of valuable dialogue, and when the thirty-one days were over, it felt as if the conversation wasn’t done. So, I invite you to share your story as it relates to issues of race, ethnicity, and culture in your every day life.

The goal of “Going There” is to encourage ongoing dialogue about topics of race, ethnicity, and culture in a way that is thoughtful and that shows respect, with the goal of advancing our understanding of the beautiful diversity in the humanity that surrounds us. Interested in sharing your story? Start here. Today’s post is written by my son, Jordan Riggs.

Every time I hear the words “I don’t see color…” I cringe.

Let me explain –

The light-hearted conversation put a sour taste in my mouth when my friend said “…Because you’re a white black man.” It hit me in a flash, this comment is ignorant and in my opinion racist. I voiced my opinion and a discussion was sparked. It started with a few questions revolving around what makes a black man white? Is it how well he articulates his words, his white friends, his taste in clothes, or music? He responded “How is that ignorant?” So I rebutted by explaining that if that was his point then he is saying that “black” black people don’t articulate, have one black friend, and only listen to rap. The response was this “When you word it that way, it’s ignorant [but] you don’t embrace black culture.”

I took a deep breath and responded, “Okay, I’m done. I love you.”

Questions raced through my head but the big one was this: What is black culture to you? Because to me it sounded like I needed to speak ebonics at all times, hang out with only black people, and keep my itunes playlists somewhere between the genres of RnB and Hip-Hop/Rap.

I have been thinking a lot about the way “black people” are viewed in society, so much so that I was prompted to begin a script about the topic. My primary question was this: “Has anything really changed?”

Perhaps with the death of black leaders like Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. the civil rights movement stopped dead and suddenly instead of continuing a discussion our feelings on race drifted into this grey area of “Politically Correct” leaving us with several burning questions, sadness, and perhaps unadulterated anger (amongst other things,) that had to go unaddressed because, well, the conversation just wasn’t allowed.

I see black people on television/youtube and wonder “are people laughing with us or at us?” I watch people like Charles Ramsey, who, with the aid of another man saved three women and a child who had been held hostage in a home for at least a decade and all anyone can talk about is “how funny are the things this black man says, look at his clothes, his hair, his demeanor…” down to the man’s menthol cigarette. In my world (and I am aware that everyone’s environment is different) the conversation had shifted from “this man is a hero,” to “look at this clown.”

On the other side of the coin I feel like racial equality from an African American stand-point has begun to morph into racial superiority in some instances.

At the end of the day I love my friend who thinks I am a white black man, but the statement makes me double-back and wonder how far do we still have to go? Of course we see color and racial differences and so in order to really seek equality across the board its important to recognize that we do identify (within and without) in part, based on the color of our skin. Because of this it is important to remain positive and open when it comes to discussions on race because the one thing between you and knowledge is an unanswered question. So, what are your views on race? What stereotypes do you cling to that prevent you from seeing a person as a person? And what are healthy ways to open these types of discussions as we move forward?

~~~

Jordan Riggs. 24. Budding filmmaker. Creative thinker.

Pentecost + Abercrombie & Fitch

Deidra — Mon, 20 May 2013 20:50:07 +0000

It’s been more than a decade since the first trip we took to Chicago with our children. We drove a rented Chevy Blazer from Connecticut to the Windy City for a minister’s conference. H had been invited to this conference by a ministry colleague, and we decided to make it a family summer vacation. We arrived in Chicago, ill-prepared for the rain and, yes, wind. I wore sandals, and when I think back on that trip, I remember my toes were cold for most of our time there.

The plan was that we’d drop off H in the mornings for his conference, and the children and I would explore the city until late afternoon; then we’d pick up H and have dinner together. That first morning, we drove over to the church where the conference was being held. The sun tried to outwit the overcast sky by peeking through breaks in the clouds, and we rode with the windows down — right up to the front door of the red brick church. H leaned over and kissed me good-bye and the children waved adolescently from their seats in the back of the SUV.

I made my way through traffic, making a mental note to ditch the vehicle and take the train the next time around. We sat still on the highway while my children pointed out the speed with which the trains were passing us by. By the time we found a parking spot and unfolded ourselves from the Blazer, everyone was hungry and grumpy and sick and tired of the whole adventure. So, I wasn’t in the best mood when I found myself standing in Abercrombie & Fitch, in the middle of downtown Chicago.

By now, you know about me and the way I scan a crowd for anyone who looks like me. Well, standing there in that store, I scanned the store and saw one store clerk who looked like me. At first, I thought I might be able to breathe a sigh of relief. But then, I looked at the ads on the walls in that store and saw not one single shirtless, photoshopped person who looked like me. Now, that is both a good thing and bad thing, in my opinion. No exploitation of brown-skinned teenagers and adolescents going on here, right?

I remember walking up to that brown-skinned store clerk and asking, “So, I noticed there aren’t any brown-skinned people in the ads on the walls?” That store clerk looked at me with a blank face and one of the white store clerks chimed in, “Um…there might be some in our catalog,” she said. “Really?” I asked. “I think so,” she said. “May I see a catalog?” I asked. She looked beneath the counter and handed me a catalog. Not one brown-skinned person on all of those pages. That spoke volumes to me. I was already opposed to the sexy, shirtless marketing techniques they’d chosen, but the obvious decision not to market to my demographic sealed the deal.

I’ve avoided A&F ever since.

When we picked up H from the conference, I leaned over and kissed him and asked, “How did it go?”

He paused. Then, “It was…” He searched for the right word, and decided on, “…interesting.”

“Really?” I replied. “How so?”

“Well,” and here he named the man who had invited him (we’ll call him Ralph), “Ralph acted as if he didn’t know me at all.”

“What?” I asked. This just didn’t make sense. Back in Connecticut, these two men had lunch together, engaged in theological conversations, enjoyed each other’s company, and were growing a friendship. “Did he see you?” I asked.

“Yeah,” H said. “I walked up to him and said ‘Hello.’ It was weird. He’s the only person I know here. He’s the reason I came.”

“Well, what do you think that’s about?” I asked.

Again, H hesitated. It had been a long day, and I was asking him questions he probably didn’t care to answer. But, he reached down deep and said, “It seems sort of like a closed community. Those guys are clearly very close, and they may not want anyone new to join them.”

“Then why did he invite you?” I asked.

H thought again, “I’m beginning to wonder if he invited me, or if I invited myself. I’m not sure, anymore.”

Somehow, these were the memories that surfaced as we celebrated Pentecost yesterday. Pentecost is the day when the Holy Spirit was given to the disciples and they were able to tell the story of the gospel in different languages so everyone around them could understand it and choose whether or not to accept the free gift of God’s love for them. No languages excluded. No visitors ignored.

I’ve been thinking about Pentecost and I think the church has gotten all caught up in the fact that the disciples spoke in different languages, and the church has made that the big deal. As if speaking in tongues was the stamp of approval, affirming a person really is living a life of faith, in step with the Holy Spirit.

But what I believe now (and I’m not discounting the speaking in tongues part) is that God wanted us to know the message of the gospel is for everyone. Everyone. Different language. New to the whole idea. Different culture. Different history. It doesn’t matter. Anyone who hears it, understands it, and says, “Yes! I want that!” is forgiven of their sins and lives in friendship and fellowship with God. Now let’s say, however, someone hears how much God loves them — how much God is for them — and says, “Nah, I got this. I don’t need that. Thanks, though.” Well, I think God is loving and kind and patient and respectful enough to not make a person say, “Yes” to Him if they don’t want to. And, not to then insist they hang out with Him forever if they’d really rather not.

Pentecost is not about giving people one more way to say, “You over there, you’re in. But you with the yellow shirt? You’re out.” It’s not another way to single out a group of people and say, “Because you didn’t jump through this hoop, you don’t get to sit at this lunch table.” Pentecost set the table and invited everyone to the party. It didn’t say, “You’re not sexy enough to wear my clothes,” or “I don’t really want you in my group.” Pentecost said, “You! Yes, you! You’re invited! Put your dancing shoes on!”

Sometimes people look at the invitation and decide they’d rather sit this one out. Or wait for their favorite tune to play before they break a sweat on the dance floor. My inclination is to raise an eyebrow in their direction, turn my back on them and say, “What? They don’t like disco? Only acid rock? SHAME on them! I don’t want them and their music on my dance floor anyway!” Well, shame on me for drawing a glittery line around myself and calling it good. When I do that, I’m no better than the A&F guy who doesn’t want certain people wearing his clothes. Or the ministers at the minister’s conference who didn’t welcome the new guy in their midst. As much as I have to fight it, I don’t want to be like that. I’d rather keep pointing at the invitation and saying, “You! Yes, you! You’re invited! Put your dancing shoes on!”

Sunday

Deidra — Sun, 19 May 2013 01:00:37 +0000

Love from the center of who you are; don’t fake it. Run for dear life from evil; hold on for dear life to good. Be good friends who love deeply; practice playing second fiddle.

~Romans 12:9-10 (MSG)

~~~

Welcome to The Sunday Community. Link up with a photo and just a few, brief words of inspiration. Not many words at all.

Then, extend a bit of hospitality to the others here. Take some time to visit with one another and share a bit of grace. Please grab the Sunday button from the link at the top of the page to post at your place, so others know where to find us.

Celebrating Our Bodies, As Women {and…a hard-cover giveaway of Mom In The Mirror!}

Deidra — Fri, 17 May 2013 12:00:02 +0000

My hips. I think they have a mind of their own. My hair turns grey and, so far, I’ve been able to let it be. My skin breaks out when I eat chocolate, or when I don’t wash my face with the right cleanser. One of my eyes is smaller than the other and, if I’m not careful, I can let these things define me — own me. I don’t want to be that woman. I don’t want any of us to be that woman.

Today, I couldn’t be more pleased to introduce you to Emily Wierenga and her latest book, Mom In The Mirror: Body Image, Beauty, and Life After Pregnancy, which Emily co-authored with Dena Cabrera.

Today, at the end of this post, Emily is giving away a copy of Mom In The Mirror.

~~~

I’m used to apologizing for them.

“I’m sorry about my wide Dow hips,” I say as my friend slides into the sled beside me, both of us with babies on our knees and toddlers between our legs, children left and right and me voicing contempt for the body that bore them.

And then I correct myself even as the snowmobile starts and we move down the track of snow. “I mean, I’m sorry about my beautiful birthing hips,” I say, and my friend laughs. Nods.

And it’s a start. I’m beginning to speak in love about myself. It’s not perfect, but I’m not either, and God is and he is making new everything about me, spirit and body, even as I get older. Because I’ve invited him in. I’ve invited him into my heart, and into my eyes. I’ve invited him into my soul and into my mouth.

Because becoming a new creation is actually pretty literal. It doesn’t mean feeling new. No, it means becoming new. It means God taking our old natural instincts and replacing them. It means him breathing spirit and life into our vision and our speaking and our thinking.

I have a lot of days where I barely look in the mirror because I’m so busy looking into the faces of my children. I don’t have time to look at my reflection, and yet my children always think I’m beautiful. “Do you see the way Kasher looks at you?” Trent says. “With the utmost adoration.”

And my boys see me at my physical worst: at my sweats and bathrobe, messy hair and sleep-worn eyes worst. They smell my coffee breath and my unwashed body and they snuggle closer. They keep their hands on my shoulder even as they play because they don’t want to lose contact with me.

Our depth of relationships, with ourselves, with our children, and with our creator, define our beauty, because relationships are eternal. They give us meaning and value and worth. The world wants us to think that appearance defines beauty because it can profit from that philosophy. It can’t profit from something intangible, like love. Only we can.

So I’m trying to speak kindly about my beautiful Dow hips, to stop apologizing for my existence. Because this body gave birth to two boys, and it gives birth to marriage every day, and it bears spiritual life too.

I love my hips. I love my lips. I love my life. Not because of who I am but because of who lives in me. And He is beautiful.

~~~

UPDATE: The winner of a copy of Emily’s book is Sharon O.! Congratulations, Sharon!

Today, Emily is giving away a hard-cover copy of her new book today, Mom in the Mirror: Body Image, Beauty and Life After Pregnancy, co-authored by Dr. Dena Cabrera, and foreword by supermodel Emme.

Here’s an excerpt from the book:
“Giving birth produces life in more than one sense. It’s the baby powder, milky-breathed spirit found in the softest limbs you’ve ever felt, and it’s the respect a man feels for his wife as he watches her give up her body for another.
“And it’s the deep-rooted soul satisfying feeling of knowing you were born for more than the mirror. That you were born to see the face of God in your child, and to know, you yourself are a miracle.”

I want you to have this book! Tell me ONE thing that you love about yourself, and you’ll be entered into the drawing!
Otherwise, you can order it through the book’s website: www.mominthemirrorbook.com.

Emily Wierenga is a mom to two beautiful boys, wife to a handsome math teacher, and author of Chasing Silhouettes: How to Help a Loved One Battling an Eating Disorder (www.chasingsilhouettes.com) and Mom in the Mirror: Body Image, Beauty and Life After Pregnancy (www.mominthemirrorbook.com). To learn more, please visit www.emilywierenga.com.

When The Force Fails

Deidra — Wed, 15 May 2013 13:58:20 +0000

I come from a long line of strong women. Independent. Self-sufficient. Smart. Savvy. Talented. And did I mention independent? Yep. That’s us. Collectively, we’ve been through a lot, and our strength has served us well. We can accomplish quite a bit, all by ourselves. We put our minds to it, we focus, we tighten our belts, we put our shoulders to the wheel. We make things happen.

We are a force to be reckoned with.

And therein lies the problem. At least for me. Because all of that independence and focus? It’s tricky.

It’s my day to hang out at (in)courage! Join me there for the rest of the story…

Sunday

Deidra — Sun, 12 May 2013 01:00:52 +0000

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. ~Galatians 5:1 (NIV)

~~~

Welcome to The Sunday Community. Link up with a photo and just a few, brief words of inspiration. Not many words at all.

In Which H Unravels and The Bible Comes Together (for me, anyway)

Deidra — Mon, 06 May 2013 16:47:59 +0000

H and I had to drive to Michigan yesterday. It’s a thirteen hour drive, on a good day. And H? Well, he’s good for ten straight hours on the road. After that, things begin to fall apart. He’s the first to admit it. No amount of blue skies, disco music, or sunflower seeds can stop the cabin fever from setting in.

So, with our destination just a few curves in the road ahead of us, we suddenly have to start making stops. Rest stops. Pit stops. Food stops. Stretching stops. Stop stops. And, before you know it, we’ve tacked three hours on to the end of the drive. Even Santana was rolling her eyes at us from her spot in the cargo hold at the back of the Subaru.

After all these years, I’m used to the unraveling. But still…

Yesterday, at about hour ten and a half, I took video of H singing and dancing to the gospel music of Bishop Noel Jones blasting through the speakers. I’d share the video with you, but I’ve been forbidden.

Anyway.

Before we hit the ten hour mark, H and I had been listening to the New Testament on CD" target="_blank">the New Testament on CD. For hours (which I admit may have contributed a small portion to H’s undoing yesterday). Honestly, it was fascinating. For the past few months, H has had the CD playing in his car. So, when I drive to the grocery store, or to the post office, I get a few snippets of the gospels, or maybe one of the epistles. It’s been good and everything, but it’s also been a lot like my morning bible reading.

In the mornings, I get a cup of coffee, and settle down to read a bit in the bible. The truth is, it often seems disjointed to me. I mean, I understand the overall gist, but it doesn’t always seem to fit together, if that makes sense. So, say I read the first chapter of Romans on Monday. When I open the book again on Tuesday, I usually have to go back and reread the first chapter in order to make sense of the second chapter. By Wednesday, I just don’t feel up to reading two chapters in order to make sense of the third so, I flip over to a Psalm to see if anything in there jumps out at me for the day. On Thursday, I remember I was trying to make my way through Romans, but I have no idea where I left off, so I start all over again with chapter one. And by Friday, I just chalk everything up to the fact that the weekend has begun. I am SURE there’s a better way. Something more intentional. Something more for detail-oriented people (which, we’ve established, I am not).

Here’s the thing: I know I can struggle with reading the bible and then leave frustrated, wishing God had wired me to be more analytical and systematic. But, that’s not the way God wired me. God wired me with a love of words, and an unquenchable love of story, a vivid imagination, and a preference for the dramatic. So, yesterday — listening to the gospels of Luke and John, and the letter to the Romans, as we drove east on I-80 — my goodness! And, wow! What a difference! I kept looking over at H, saying stuff like, “Did you know that?!?!” and “So THAT’S what that means!!!!” and “You’re kidding me!!!!” and “That’s incredible!!!!” and “Can you even IMAGINE that?!?!?!”

(OK, maybe there’s a legitimate reason for H falling apart at the ten hour mark.)

I mentioned the CD on Facebook, and Diana Trautwein (aka Internet Pastor) responded with this: “This is how it was meant to be absorbed – read aloud and heard, most especially all of the epistles.” Yes! The bible was written (and I know you already know this) before the Gutenberg press, before the internet, before microfiche (remember that?). Its gospels and songs and letters and stories were shared in one sitting, with everyone sitting around listening, as one person shared aloud.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. But I’ve got a feeling more of us could benefit from a good, long, sit-down of the storytelling kind.

And you? What bible study methods have you discovered that make the words come alive?

Sunday

Deidra — Sun, 05 May 2013 01:00:54 +0000

We love because he first loved us.

~I John 4:19 (NIV)

~~~

Welcome to The Sunday Community. Link up with a photo and just a few, brief words of inspiration. Not many words at all.

(Un)building Walls and Platform-Sitting

Deidra — Fri, 03 May 2013 09:00:38 +0000

When I stood in the shower, the water ran itself in tributaries — slipping around my shoulder, gliding over the small of my back, and then traipsing over the curve of my hip. My flesh and bones mark time. The fullness in my hips and belly, mocking my attempts to tame them. Aches unravel beneath the rivulets of water; water I run hot. So hot, it makes my skin all splotchy red. Steam will hang in the air long after I’ve turned the faucet to off and H yells from the kitchen, “Did you save any hot water for me?”

I am lost in thought and giddiness — looking forward to a lunch date with a friend. We will linger over naan and mango chutney and mulligatawny soup. This friend of mine has a knack for calling at just the right time and — more often than not — into our conversation she weaves the words, “Hey, do you wanna go with me to…” So later today, we’ll have lunch. In the shower, I am rinsing Crabtree and Evelyn lather off my wrist when I realize she’s got a gift for this. For friendship.

Holley Gerth once said we sometimes build a wall around ourselves and then we wonder why we’re all alone. Behind the wall. It takes work to get out from behind walls like those. Climb over, crash through, dig a trench and squeeze your body underneath. Call out for help (God forbid — I know, I know). Accept the hand that’s offered through the crack in the mortar.

I turned 49 this year, and I’m still learning how to be a friend. Some days, I have to remind myself to pick up the phone. Write a note. Send an email. Ask for help. Let my guard down. Linger. Share my fears. Laugh until I can’t catch my breath. Trust you. Let you in.

Friendship is a gift and it is worth the risk of tearing down the wall and all the other things I use to try to keep it safe. And I say it’s a gift, but really…that word is nowhere close to being good enough. Friendship is light and life and disco music (or, maybe you prefer unicorns?). Contrary to what we may have thought, it can’t be bought. It can’t be sold.

In the restaurant, my friend and I sit in chairs across from each other, at the table in front of the plate glass window. This part of the restaurant is two steps higher than the rest of the room. So here we sit, sharing a platform. Eating naan. Spooning chutney. Sipping soup. It is utterly divine. The platform-sitting is not lost on me. You caught it, too, didn’t you? Isn’t this the best use of a platform? To set a table on it and invite your friends over for a meal?

I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, this is the thing worth protecting. This breaking of bread. This clinking of silverware against white, restaurant dishes. This friendship in front of a plate glass window.

Sun and Shadows

Deidra — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 09:00:34 +0000

There’s a story in the bible about Jesus, Peter, James, and John. It (sort of) goes like this:

One afternoon, Jesus invites these three guys to join him up on the mountain. They lace up their Timberlands and strap Camelbacks over their North Face vests. Peter checks the back pocket of his cargo shorts to make sure his iPhone is easily accessible, and they start their climb. James and John, the brothers, snap photos of each other and Tweet them out to friends back home.

The men talk easily and pass around a zip-loc bag of Trial Mix. Peter digs around the raisins, in favor of M&Ms. Jesus laughs. The men kick up dust as they make their way along the mountain trails. The sun makes a slow arc across the sky. There are sheep and all the things sheep leave behind, and every now and then a low-flying bird sends a song into the clear, blue sky.

I imagine the three — Peter, James, and John — anticipated something. After all, they’d been hanging out with Jesus for a while. They’d seen what He could do. Maybe they were hoping Jesus would sit them down at the top of that mountain and lay out His plan for their lives. Or, maybe Jesus was going to share His strategy for world domination through military power. Perhaps they thought He’d unravel all the mysteries of the universe, and if not all the mysteries, maybe He’d unravel the ones that kept them up at night.

They are a dusty, breathless bunch when they reach the mountaintop. Peter stretches his arms above his head, and then places his hands on the small of his back and arches backwards, breathing great breaths of air. He reaches down, picks up a stone, and throws it off the mountainside, just to see it fall. John gulps water from the mouthpiece on his shoulder. James shields his eyes with his hand and looks out across the horizon.

“Did you say something?” James asks his brother.

“No,” John replies. “I thought that was you.”

The three men turn toward Jesus at exactly the same time, and they’re amazed at what they see. Jesus, radiant in light — from the inside out, and deep in conversation with Moses and Elijah.

Peter reaches for his back pocket and steps forward to interrupt them, “How cool is this?!?!” he exclaims. He fumbles with the apps on his iPhone, thumbing through, looking for Instagram. “Hey, you guys! Let me get a photo! And let’s just hang out here! In fact, I’ll build an altar to mark the spot, and we’ll make this our headquarters!”

I have to admit that Peter is one of my favorite bible characters. He is pushy and unpredictable and spontaneous and goofy. Just when he thinks he’s got it all figured out, Jesus flips the script on him and leaves him scratching his head. He means well. Really. He does. It’s just that his emotions get the best of him. Honestly? I think Peter simply says what everyone else is thinking. And in that moment, he’s thinking, “I want to live like this forever! I don’t want this moment to end! And…I want a record of it. I want to know that I know that I know this happened — that it wasn’t just a dream!”

I can tell you I felt the exact same way just a few golden-edged days ago, when the veil between heaven and earth became gossamer-thin, as 100 courageous women (and a few brave men) gathered on the Nebraska plains. I wanted to pour the moments into a quart-sized Mason jar, spill myself right over the side and into the midst of it all, and seal the jar with beeswax so we could stay there forever. Even as my eyes grew dry and scratchy in their sockets, and my heart pounded in my ears from exhaustion and from excitement and from the breathtaking thrill of God breathing life into our dreams, I wanted to it to last…

…forever.

But time unfolds itself in sun and shadows, like amber waves of grain. We stretch for breath and throw stones off mountainsides, and shield our mortal eyes from the sun; we gulp water wherever we can find it. And we dream on.

How about you? Are you still dreaming?

Photo credit: Diane Bailey, a woman with a beautiful heart. Have you read her book?

Bible story: Mark 9

With Michelle…

…and Laura.