“I don’t want to write this”
The dark truth of this statement makes me raise my eyebrows slightly in surprise.
I have always considered myself an ally. I grew up surrounded many faces different than my own; lovely shades of ochre and almond color my earliest memories in Southeast Asia. As I grew, God continued to bless me with learning opportunities regarding the history of racism and how it exists today. He sent me to college courses, brought me into diversity clubs, and led me to generous individuals who invited me into their traumatic experiences by sharing their stories with me. I can remember weeping after these discussions, feeling so heartbroken for them and yet helpless to fix the problem. I cried out to God to give me opportunities to help, whether that meant keeping silent to allow other voices to be heard, or speaking up when my voice was needed.
Yet here I am, standing at the edge of an opportunity, seeing my prayer in tangible form, and fear seeps out from the depths of my heart.