I remember very clearly the first time I discovered I was privileged. It was September 1994, I had started a new school, Forest Park Middle School. I had transferred from Pine Tree ISD to LISD so I could attend the high school my dad worked at and because it was a dream of mine to always be a Lobo. First, I had to be an Eagle and it was FPMS that I learned a valuable lesson: I am a privileged white boy.
I haven't given much thought to my time at Forest Park because I such an awkward kid and it was a new place with new people and I was completely out of my league. 8th grade was not a great year for me. It was okay, just not great. It wasn't until I read the story and sequential blogs/articles about Trayvon Martin that I remembered a very significant memory.
It was our first football game of the season. We were playing John Tyler's Jr. High team and I had somehow earned the starting strong safety position. It wasn't a great game on my behalf. I did what I was supposed and made a couple of tackles but I was working through some serious fears out there. After the game, on the bus ride home, I remember clearly a teammate getting upset at the lack of playing time he received.
"It's crap," He said, "I get one play and that white boy gets to play the entire game? That's crap. Just because he's a coach's son who gets special shoulder pads and a special face mask."
As I look back on it, he was right to a degree. I had received special treatment in a way because my dad was a high school coach. He was able to get me shoulder pads that had the cool rib protectors and my facemask looked like an NFL facemask. Though, none of that helped with all 180lbs of Frank Cox runs through you. I was privileged. I still am privileged: I am white, middle class, perhaps a little upper middle class, man who knows the right people.
I tried to fight that perception of me in middle school. I fought it all the way into high school and through high school. I tried to fight that perception. And you know who helped me fight that perception? My African American and Hispanic friends.
After the comment on the bus, I felt a tap on my shoulder by Shun Bradley. He said, "Don't let it get to you. You did good today." I didn't receive words of faith or encouragement from my white teammates. The words came from an unexpected person. It came from a person who would repeatedly go out of his way that year to make sure I felt welcomed, encouraged and included until I got my feet underneath me. I have no idea why he did that and I wish to God I didn't forget that memory until now.
We live in a racially divided society. We have been brought up to see others of different races as suspect. I am, in many ways, prejudice. We all are. We have all looked at some of a different race or someone of a different social standing with suspicion. Our lives are not divided just racially but by gender as well. If a white man ever says he is the oppressed or a part of the 99%, it is a half truth. Sure, we may not all be wealthy cats but we will always be given the benefit of the doubt because of our gender and our skin color. And that is wrong.
Jesus wasn't a white man with blond hair and blue eyes. He didn't die for the rights of the privileged. He didn't fight for the upper class. He fought for those on the outside. He fought for those on the margins. He fought for those who were persecuted because they were different. It was the privileged people who crucified him. It was the privileged who worked the crowd into a frenzy. It was the privileged who sought to trap him.
I think Jesus would have been proud of the white preachers who wear hoodies in the pulpit, Sunday, and spoke out against the travesty of Trayvon's death. But I think he would challenge those white pastors. I think he would say, "It's great that you're doing what you're doing but you could do more. You're still preaching to people, whom the majority look, think, dress, and act like you. Why not pack up your congregation, close your doors, and walk over to the African American church across the street and worship with them today? And afterwards, why don't you stay around for lunch?"
I wish I had the courage to do such a bold thing. To which Jesus would say, "What stops you?" And that opens up a whole can of worms inside my mind.
Lastly, this past Sunday, I had the honor of attending a surprise party for one of my dear friends. Several of us, of different races, gathered under the same roof to celebrate the life of someone we hold dear. My son, Connor, made a new friend that day, Christian. Christian is just 2 months younger than Connor. And as I watched the two of them play and then hug and kiss one another goodbye, I prayed that my son would never look at Christian and see a black man. Instead he would look at him and see a friend, a brother. There are many things I cannot control as a parent, that however isn't one of them.
I may not be able to fight the injustice of Trayvon's death. I can however prevent it from happening in the future. In my son, in our children, we have the opportunity to raise a generation that does not see the color of skin but see the face of a brother, a sister, a friend. We can make the dream of a past generation a reality by teaching our children in the eyes of God there is no black, yellow, red, brown, or white, only people created by the same God who created them.
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