When Confronted with Injustice /George Floyd

Aug 9

When George Floyd died here in Minneapolis, a huge spot light was shone on the systemic racism that not only exists in our city and state, but is hiding in neighborhoods, governments, police stations and homes all around the United States of America.

In my early 20’s I spent a lot of time down south. Florida, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana. I remember driving the long stretches of highway in the Deep South, watching towering trees line the roads and just past them lush green fields with mansions standing tall in the background. It seemed to me in those moments, the south was unchanged from times I had read about. My time in those places reaffirmed these thoughts. I knew racism existed in the south. It shouted at you from every car with a confederate flag bumper sticker, every house with more of the same hanging proudly from the front porches.

I knew racism happened in the south, I witnessed it. But racism here, in Minnesota? Maybe outside the cities, but I grew up in a first ring suburb of Minneapolis. I often talked about how in my high school I felt like a minority it was so ethnically diverse. I didn’t see how racism existed here. Sure, there isn’t a lot of crossover between people of color and white people here in the Twin Cities but I didn’t see that as something I could, or even needed, to change.

When I sit and think about it, I can name different times, specifically in my teenage years, when I was confronted by blatant racism around me. Not in my family or even close friends, but by people who were like me in status and color. The disdain for people of color simply because of their skin was expressed confidently, matter of factly in a way where there was no mistaking what their true thoughts and opinions were.

So when George Floyd died here in Minneapolis, like most, I was shocked. How could this be happening here? We don’t have ghettos, not really, not like other places. We are nice, even if it is a bit of a fake “Minnesota” nice, fake nice is still a far cry from killing a man in the street, riots and the hate that followed. It left me reeling. I don’t live in the city, but I don’t live far from it. I was shaken from the injustice I was witnessing and simultaneously the constructs of my sweet, safe city being torn down brick by brick (literally).

I began to realize, as a person who had committed her life to fighting against injustice, I had allowed myself to be ignorant to the obvious injustice surrounding me. Because it was overwhelming to me, because it hid in plain sight, because I had no idea what to do about the very divided by color place I lived in I shoved it to the back of my mind. I could defend myself and say the past 8 years I have been busy building a non profit that fights human trafficking, raising a family, advocating for fair trade etc. But here is the truth: I could have learned more about racism in the 21st century, I had opportunity and I chose not to because I didn’t want it to be my problem to solve.

This exact attitude is one I have been fighting against in others for 8 years when it comes to human trafficking. People who acknowledge it as an issue but have recused themselves from it being their issue. Well, no more for me. Obviously race is an issue and it is an issue in my community. And because of this it is an issue I have to be aware of, search my heart about and take action to fight for equality (justice) in.

In the midst of the chaos engulfing our city I purchased Latasha Morrison’s Book, “Be the Bridge” on Kindle. It was completely sold out as a hard copy so I went on a long walk and began to listen. Halfway through I was crying. I stopped, and looked to the sky.

“God,” I said, “do I have racism in my heart? Have I contributed to this knowingly, unknowingly?”

I have to tell you, I wanted to run from the idea that my inaction, my silence, my ignoring the issue had meant I had contributed to it. My justice driven heart revolted at the thought that racism, even if small, also lived in my heart and on my watch was going unchecked in my city. The sweet voice of the Holy Spirit met me in that moment. I repented and I vowed to be a humble learner, to lend my voice wherever I could. To be a person of ‘mishpat’ (Hebrew word for justice) - restorative, rectifying justice in my spheres of influence.

It wasn’t easy for our city, it still isn’t. And those first days weren’t easy for me either. When we are confronted by the reality that what brings us comfort is the very reason someone else has suffered, it is painful. There is a moment where we can choose to recognize the injustice woven into the fabric of a way of life we love or ignore it, protect it, fight for it; pretending the injustice never existed in the first place.

I don’t believe recognizing injustice means we throw a whole culture, system or way of life in the toilet. I believe it is more nuanced than that. I also don’t believe we can pretend injustice only lives in the past, or lives in the neighborhood, house or heart of someone else, not ours. To work towards a world where equality truly is for and experienced by all, each of us will have to allow humility to be the posture of our own hearts first. We have to look at the issues surrounding us, the human issues, listen to the stories and check ourselves.

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The more I learn about injustice, the more stories I listen to, the more I realize every person has injustice of some kind in their story. Injustice experienced can make us bitter and less compassionate taking an attitude of; “we got over that, so they can too.” Or, it can create deep wells of compassion in us where we can drink of empathy and shared experience causing us to want to learn, understand and change so the injustice can be remedied and hopefully, in the future, end.

The injustice I have experienced in my life is no where near what people of color experience in their past and present, or those who have been exploited and trafficked for labor and/or sex have experienced. Yet I have found, when injustice has happened to me it either happens because I am already acting in a way that has me on the outside of the majority culture (as a women for example) or it positions me to the outside.

The outside of the majority culture is a lonely, sad place to be. It is almost like to the majority culture you don’t exist anymore. They don’t want to end up like you, so the injustice experienced must somehow be your fault, or not be as bad as you say because if it is then they know their own position is also precarious. And just like in Jr. High, everyone wants to fit in.

I wish a man didn’t have to loose his life and a city didn’t have to burn for me, and perhaps you, to take a second look at the responsibility we have in first changing ourselves, and second using our voice to change the culture we find ourselves in. And yet, George Floyd’s death has taught and is teaching me many things. The series of events here in the cities has led me on a deeper journey of understanding of the injustice the country I call mine is built on and sheds some more light on why the fight against modern day slavery has been so hard. But maybe the biggest lesson it is still teaching me is when confronted with injustice I can’t be afraid to do the hard, scary thing and look intently at myself, the majority culture I am a part of and am comfortable in to see where I could be off and where I could start to be a part of change.