Racism and Homophobia, an Illinois Thing
When I was growing up in Illinois, I assumed you were racist because my first experience of race on coming to Illinois from Wisconsin was to be told and shown by the neighborhood kids where the Klu Klux Clan meeting house was. And, not in an oh, that's appalling, we should stay away, but in a proud matter of fact, this is who we are, way. I was 7. Especially, as the facts just kept adding up, for they told me that black people aren't allowed in this town. They told the pastor's kid, the United Church of Christ pastor's kid that blacks weren't allowed. Coming from the liberal democratic religious family that I did, to hear people weren't welcome shocked and appalled me. I didn't understand, my family had been teaching me to love everyone from the time I was small, to fight injustice, to work to end oppression. I learned in Illinois, that other white people could not be trusted, might not be safe. My experiences of this just kept getting affirmed with each new community my dad began to serve. In high school a black family moved to town and was gone a week later. A week, it only took them a week, to experience the blatant, in your face, meanness of rural white America towards outsiders, especially outsiders of color.
So when I went to college I decided to go to the big city, that evil mecca that should not be attached to Illinois. In Chicago, I was confused by the white people. I still started from the assumption that they were racist, I mean we did build a highway system that segregated Chicago. But I met people for the first time who weren't other UCCer's who believed that everyone was fully human, that racism was something to be fought against. Working to get Harold Washington elected mayor, invited me into a circle of people who believed in a different world. But I still always new in the back of my mind on meeting a white person that at any moment their racism could pop out and it did regularly.
So when I went to grad school in Connecticut, I wasn't prepared for the ways in which racism was hidden. People were for the most part democrats and liberal. So I would begin to trust someone and then there it was the racism. They would make a comment about Puerto Ricans or those people from Bridgeport. They wouldn't see anything wrong with the police checks on the highway that seemed to only stop the people who were black. I learned that racism in liberal white America was more insidious, hidden under a veneer of civility.
This is the Illinois I grew up in. Racism was never hidden. It was open and in your face, in the way people told stories about Chicago, still considered the mecca of evil that should be excised from the rest of Illinois. President Trump did not make America racist again, he just made overt acts of racism acceptable. He broke down that veneer of civility. The people who thought I am not racist they are just full of criminals in Chicago, Rockford, Aurora. In a whispered voice, you know they were black. Proudly telling me, I called the UU church and told them that All Live Matter and they should take down their sign. Those little stories, those whispered words, they make these larger acts of hate and racism possible.
I wasn't surprised. I wasn't surprised by the red hat being the new symbol of racism. The truck in my neighborhood that had been boasting a confederate flag, now has a MAGA hat on the dashboard. For my whole life I have been saying no to this racism. I have been trying to unlearn that parts of myself that from just being white in America is racist. I have spoken out in the pulpit and at the diner table when racism has reared its head.
People who clapped at a sermon that spoke against racism when I first arrived, now speak to me about not being too political. But this group of people has always had some, not all, who didn't want to hear about homophobia, didn't want stories of welcoming lgbtqi people. We have a problem with racism and homophobia in this county. White people who were oblivious to racism and homophobia have woken up. People who hid their racism behind a veneer of civility have dropped the veneer, although here in Illinois it wasn't all that hidden. We have a deep systemic problem in this country of racism and homophobia. We can't turn our eyes, we can't let the comments role off us.
A young girl listens as women gather for a rally and march at
Grant Park on October 13, 2018 in Chicago, Illinois to inspire voter
turnout ahead of midterm polls. (Getty/Kamil Krzaczynski). March to the Polls, Chicago 2018
This is a picture of me that made my young adult self squeal because I made Bernie Sanders facebook feed. A politician I had admired since I was just out of college and studying political science who has his own race problems, women problems. But, what this picture doesn't show, is the person next to us. I'm in red. She was an angry, older, MAGA loving woman. She didn't have a hat on, but during the speeches she would yell "lock her up". She wanted to know why the Hispanic women on her other side would not translate a chant for her. She was ruining the vibe of togetherness, connectedness. There, at a time and place where we were gathered in unity and diversity, she came deliberately to cause us discomfort, to remind us that Trump won. I don't know her motivation, but it had to be a powerful emotion to draw one to yell hate at a rally for unity. This is Chicago. This is Illinois. She reflects the people I grew up with, the people who don't have a problem with racism or homophobia.
I wish I had the answers. I wish as the pastor I could preach God's love for everyone and people would change. I wish my words telling people that you are beloved, that you are created in the image of God, made a difference. I wish that every week as I bless my congregation telling them they are loved and nothing can separate them from God's love and they should act on that love. Made a difference, changed hearts and minds. Yet, my words are not enough, my anger and sorrow are not enough. My thoughts and prayers are not enough.
But each day, here in Illinois, here on the outskirts of the Chicago suburbs, I rise up and try yet again. I speak out, protest, pray, and cry. I comfort and challenge. I seek to bring God's dream of goodness and love here on earth.
So when I went to college I decided to go to the big city, that evil mecca that should not be attached to Illinois. In Chicago, I was confused by the white people. I still started from the assumption that they were racist, I mean we did build a highway system that segregated Chicago. But I met people for the first time who weren't other UCCer's who believed that everyone was fully human, that racism was something to be fought against. Working to get Harold Washington elected mayor, invited me into a circle of people who believed in a different world. But I still always new in the back of my mind on meeting a white person that at any moment their racism could pop out and it did regularly.
So when I went to grad school in Connecticut, I wasn't prepared for the ways in which racism was hidden. People were for the most part democrats and liberal. So I would begin to trust someone and then there it was the racism. They would make a comment about Puerto Ricans or those people from Bridgeport. They wouldn't see anything wrong with the police checks on the highway that seemed to only stop the people who were black. I learned that racism in liberal white America was more insidious, hidden under a veneer of civility.
This is the Illinois I grew up in. Racism was never hidden. It was open and in your face, in the way people told stories about Chicago, still considered the mecca of evil that should be excised from the rest of Illinois. President Trump did not make America racist again, he just made overt acts of racism acceptable. He broke down that veneer of civility. The people who thought I am not racist they are just full of criminals in Chicago, Rockford, Aurora. In a whispered voice, you know they were black. Proudly telling me, I called the UU church and told them that All Live Matter and they should take down their sign. Those little stories, those whispered words, they make these larger acts of hate and racism possible.
I wasn't surprised. I wasn't surprised by the red hat being the new symbol of racism. The truck in my neighborhood that had been boasting a confederate flag, now has a MAGA hat on the dashboard. For my whole life I have been saying no to this racism. I have been trying to unlearn that parts of myself that from just being white in America is racist. I have spoken out in the pulpit and at the diner table when racism has reared its head.
People who clapped at a sermon that spoke against racism when I first arrived, now speak to me about not being too political. But this group of people has always had some, not all, who didn't want to hear about homophobia, didn't want stories of welcoming lgbtqi people. We have a problem with racism and homophobia in this county. White people who were oblivious to racism and homophobia have woken up. People who hid their racism behind a veneer of civility have dropped the veneer, although here in Illinois it wasn't all that hidden. We have a deep systemic problem in this country of racism and homophobia. We can't turn our eyes, we can't let the comments role off us.
This is a picture of me that made my young adult self squeal because I made Bernie Sanders facebook feed. A politician I had admired since I was just out of college and studying political science who has his own race problems, women problems. But, what this picture doesn't show, is the person next to us. I'm in red. She was an angry, older, MAGA loving woman. She didn't have a hat on, but during the speeches she would yell "lock her up". She wanted to know why the Hispanic women on her other side would not translate a chant for her. She was ruining the vibe of togetherness, connectedness. There, at a time and place where we were gathered in unity and diversity, she came deliberately to cause us discomfort, to remind us that Trump won. I don't know her motivation, but it had to be a powerful emotion to draw one to yell hate at a rally for unity. This is Chicago. This is Illinois. She reflects the people I grew up with, the people who don't have a problem with racism or homophobia.
I wish I had the answers. I wish as the pastor I could preach God's love for everyone and people would change. I wish my words telling people that you are beloved, that you are created in the image of God, made a difference. I wish that every week as I bless my congregation telling them they are loved and nothing can separate them from God's love and they should act on that love. Made a difference, changed hearts and minds. Yet, my words are not enough, my anger and sorrow are not enough. My thoughts and prayers are not enough.
But each day, here in Illinois, here on the outskirts of the Chicago suburbs, I rise up and try yet again. I speak out, protest, pray, and cry. I comfort and challenge. I seek to bring God's dream of goodness and love here on earth.
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