White privilege and one eye-opening event

I realize that I may lose some followers with this one, but I felt it needed to be said… for the 40 millionth time. This is not a political post, race relations spans all of humanity whether or not you believe we should tax the rich.

Image may contain: 4 people, including Emily K. Thomas and Tony Thomas, people sitting, child, outdoor and nature

First of all, I feel like people immediately get offended and on the defensive when “white privilege” is mentioned and it really shouldn’t be that way. It’s a term to simply ask you to stop, think with your heart, hear what people are saying, and try to see life through the eyes of a person of color. As white people, even though we don’t realize it most of the time, we are given certain privileges that others don’t see. We expect that if we enter a building, we will be treated courteously and not be followed by a security guard. We expect that if a police officer pulls us over and we are polite and courteous, that everything will go okay except maybe the ticket we take home. We even expect that when we do raise a little hell and talk back to the authority figures, that more than likely, we will not end up dead.

Let’s think of “white privilege” as like what royals or “A list” celebrities experience compared to what the average citizen might. A royal walks up to pretty much anywhere they want and security guards simply step aside and question nothing. However, at that same location, an average citizen would be IDed and have their bag inspected before entering.

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Some young 20 somethings being rowdy in a hotel parking lot Savannah, GA – never once thought about being shot at or having the police called on us – white privilege

I thought that I understood my privilege before and I was ashamed of it. But being ashamed does nothing, and in the wrong mindset, causes bitterness and resentment. I thought I understood until one day, I was scrolling through Facebook after a few recent stories about innocent black men being killed for things as innocent as simply going for a jog and saw a friend’s post. Let me tell you about Cherice, a black veterinarian. I barely know her. I joined a Facebook group that is for veterinarians who are mothers and is a place where we can talk about cases, ask for parenting advice, or just vent about rough times in our lives. A couple of years ago, I posted about the very hard time I was having working at the clinic I was at and expressed my feelings of frustration, severe depression, and of being trapped. She was one of the first members to privately message me and give me support and pour out her life story to let me know that I was not alone.

Later, we became Facebook friends and, eventually met at a Veterinary conference where we got to have a brief chat between lectures and got to hug each other – finally through all the help she’d extended to me. Cherice had NO IDEA who I was when she reached out to me, but gave me her heart and soul. So, when all this was coming out about Ahmaud Arbery, I saw a post from her on Facebook that made my heart sink and tears immediately well up in my eyes. She posted an adorable picture of her two little boys taking a bath, and wrote:

“At this point I have no idea how to keep my own sons alive. I imagine I’m supposed to feel “lucky” that they don’t look “that” brown. Maybe they will get a pass and someone won’t kill them. I don’t even know how to feel about even typing that”

Read it again.

I thought I understood what it meant that I have unwritten privileges that people of color (POC) do not. I thought I got it that when I send someone my resume or have an interview on the phone, I am lucky enough to not have to worry about if my name sounded white or if my accent sounded white enough. I thought I understood that my father was able to go from absolute dirt poor to second in command at the Robins Air Force base because of the opportunities and unspoken advantages available to him from his time of birth that allowed him to succeed and get into Georgia Tech (one of the first white colleges in the south to allow black people and not even until 1968 – that’s ONE generation, not 100s of years ago), and get the promotions he got. I thought I had pretty well educated myself by watching documentaries and shows on Netflix such as “Dear White People” – where the main character looks almost exactly like my niece (white/black blend).

Then, I read Cherice’s post, guys, and my guts. Hit. The. Floor. I have suffered from post partum anxiety where you are constantly in fear your child will be harmed or die to the point that I sought help. I cannot watch shows where a child or baby is in danger, even though I know it’s fiction. But, to read her post and think that of all the crazy scenarios I have pulled through my head, I have never thought what would happen when my babies grow up and someone sees them and immediately judges them as a criminal just by the way they look. I will likely never have to, but what if I did? What kind of pain it must be for POC to create the most beautiful sweet babies, the centers, the loves of their lives, and know that others will likely look at them like they are less than. Not only that, but have to worry that because of the way they look, people may even want to harm or kill them.

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Tony and I with our first little precious baby – not thinking about how the world will judge her.

This is white privilege. No one is asking white people to feel ashamed. We cannot help that we were born into privilege just as they cannot help they were born not white. What we can do, though is talk about it. Next time you are driving down the road or watching TV, try to note the ratio of white to black or POC you see when it comes to movies, shows, even simple billboards. Black people and POC have a stigma and none of it is being helped by the majority of the everyday people we see in the media being white. If we could surround ourselves by a normalcy of seeing POC doing everyday things that we can all relate to, maybe the idea of seeing a POC would not be so shocking.

When I moved to mid Michigan from the south, I had been there about 2-3 WEEKS before I saw a black person. I was so excited, I called Tony who was still trying to get all our stuff together in South Carolina. Despite the fact that I saw like one POC in the first 2-3 weeks I was there, and not many in between that time and when I left 5 years later, some people there were still racist. I wondered “how can you be racist when you don’t even see black people?” The only thing I can reason (because everything needs reason) is that these people only knew black people in the media. And what does mainstream media normally show black people as? That’s right. Nothing. There’s not even a normalcy for black people in the movies. It’s definitely getting better, but not much. So, for these people living in mid Michigan in their mostly white world, black people and POC are basically foreign to them, and anything foreign must not be trusted.

So, when you consider your white privilege, don’t get mad. Don’t be offended. Don’t immediately start swinging. Try to see the world through the eyes of the unpopular and try to think of anything you can do to help. Helping can be anything from purposefully hiring a POC (qualified, obviously – and so many are) to just looking deep inside yourself to make a change, then spreading that change to anyone who will listen. It’s 2020 and there’s still leaps and bounds of progress we can make.

I’m sorry if this post has somehow offended you. I mean literally zero ill will. I just want to help bridge people together. Sometimes it’s hard to think of yourself as needing to grow, I face it everyday in my own work as a vet. I’m never the best I can be, I can always be better. So can you. <3

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Sweet baby Oscar, watching kites and, I’m sure, reflecting on life

Thanks to my friend, Cherice for approving my use of her quote. I will keep you in my prayers and hope the world changes sooner rather than later.

Love, Emily

I appreciate it, but you’re wrong about me

Warning: stream of conscience type writing to follow so if you’re not a fan of James Joyce – whom I was forced to read in high school as a “classic” and thought he was a little overrated. I mean, I feel like literary critics/buffs sit down to read these things, see that the grammar is not atrocious, but fall asleep in the middle of it, snort awake and shout “Classic!” so as not to lose face in front of their peers. Where was I going with this? oh, yeah – then you probably won’t like this post. Also; religion; racism; and homophobia.

One time, when I was on a farm call for a cow, I don’t even remember what for, but I remember at the end of it, the farmer was so impressed with my demeanor he said “You must have been raised in a church. I can tell” I was certainly flattered, I understood what he was trying to say, but he was wrong.

I was raised in the deep south where EVERYONE had a church, normally southern Baptist, but some heathens (according to the Baptists) that were Methodist. I was raised without God. My parents were considered “hippy parents” where hippy was a derogatory word in the south. I didn’t mind. Although everyone who has ever called me or my upbringing “hippy” have never been able to consistently tell me what that means, I still ask anyone who says it. I took it as a compliment because if being “hippy” means caring for EVERYONE, loving and respecting everyone no matter who they are or what they believe (kind of like Jesus), then I was okay with that. No. I was proud of that.

My only experiences with church when I was growing up was to go when we visited grandma and occasionally if I had a sleep over with a friend who went to church. Both sets of my grandparents lived in Abbeville, GA. Wilcox county. My parents were next door neighbors when they met. Just to give you a feel of this place, they made national news when they had their FIRST racially integrated prom in April of 2013 (NOT 100 years ago, 7, less than S.E.V.E.N. years). My father has an experience when he was a child where he was going to church and a small group of young black men came up to the church steps and were stopped. They asked, very peacefully, if they could come in and worship, but the deacons all lined up to block their way and they were turned away.

When my sister became pregnant with a black man’s child, she received a letter from my very dear grandmother. A woman who had dedicated her life to worshipping Jesus; had never missed a day of church unless tragedy struck; volunteered for any and all events to help others; spent her last years when she could no longer walk knitting hundreds of sweaters for children in need; had even been one of the first teachers to volunteer to teach at the first integrated school when my mother was a child. A woman, who sent my young, scared-senseless sister a letter stating how disappointed she was in her and how much shame and teasing my sister would bring her family, but what was worse than anything to her was how my grandmother’s church would never be able to accept the child.

Then, of course, there were the friends I had who were avid church goers but would state things like “but if I ever brought a black man home, my father would kill me!” or “they need to stop blaming the system and just go out and get a job” then turn around and ask the receptionist if the person calling asking about a job “sounded black” because he “didn’t care, but some of the clientele might” and yet somehow, these people still claim not only to be not racist, but also followers of Jesus (not white). I won’t even get started on the unmentionables such as homosexuality – I mean we all know that’s why God is destroying the earth through global warming – which is also a hoax. *insert sarcasm* – my sister (you know, the one that shamed our family with her mixed race child – the child who, by the way, is now 20 and excelling in a pre-med degree at CSU) is a meteorologist (not on TV) and dedicates her life to studying weather patterns.

So, you can see why, as a young person, church was not attractive to me. I was raised by parents to love everyone and treat everyone with respect and people who I would think should be the epitome of love and acceptance were some of the worst. I started attending a church when I started dating Tony as his family were avid goers. I was attending a Sunday school session with one of the deacons when there was a small argument/discussion about how Jesus would only accept those pure of heart and how homosexuals were evil (or whatever) and I finally spoke up and said “Jesus said to love everyone, Jesus IS love, we should love everyone as we love Jesus” and the older, very bald man wearing thick black rimmed glasses (think Judge Doom from Roger Rabbit ’88) stared down at me – a teenage girl daring to speak to a grown man – with a half smirk and said “I’m not talking about that HIPPY love!” and went on with his speech.

I eventually moved to Michigan and had children that I thought might benefit from some socialization. We picked a church rumored to have a fantastic youth/childcare program and started attending. I went there with a chip on my shoulder and lots of grains of salt, prepared to put up my mental dukes and a wall around me. It wasn’t as I expected. The message was about love and acceptance and I began to soften. We joined a small group trying to get more involved and to further socialize our young children as Tony was a stay-at-home dad back then. It was there that I was introduced to the most lovely group of people I have ever met associated with a church. They taught me so much, including how every sin is equal in God’s eyes, but that He loved us so much that all those are forgiven. So, let’s say for a moment that homosexuality is a sin – so is going out in public while I’m on my period or wearing clothes of two different materials or eating shellfish. We’re all sinners, so we should stop telling each other that; just let it go and love and support each other.

These people because some of our best friends and their kids became by kids’ best friends. It was so refreshing to attend a church and socialize with people where it was all about love and acceptance. I slowly started coming out of my shell. I had always been afraid for people to know I was Christian because I knew how I felt about Christians or ones proclaiming to be in what I had seen. I knew that if someone came up to me and asked me to talk with them about Jesus, I would have immediately written them off and gone about my day. I’ve been in several groups of Christians that admit to not having any non-Christian friends because they feel like it will soil them or their children.

I would say that most of my friends are NOT Christian and I love that. I don’t take every opportunity we have together to bring it up, not even close. Some of my friends may not even know how passionately I seek answers. I tend to be drawn to the emotional train wrecks the most. Some of them seem to turn around and have ended up happy. Most of them stay about where they are, some of them (okay – one of them) completely blocked me out of his life. I guess I’ll just keep trudging along like Forrest Gump running across the country; happy for companions, sad for the ones I’ve lost, but not dragging anyone along.

So, against my better judgement, but keeping in tune with my “what comes up comes out” description someone once gave me, I responded to that farmer who made a statement about my upbringing with “No, actually, I wasn’t. I was just raised by parents to be a decent human being and to love everyone no matter what.” He acted a bit put off, but then brushed it off and thanked me for helping him.

Now, for some pictures of God’s creations

Little Stony Man, Shenandoah National Park, VA
Georgia Aquarium
Virginia Snow
Virginia sunrise
Pictured Rocks, Michigan – upper peninsula
Glen Arbor, MI
North Manitou Island, MI