My parents, Alabama born and bred, were careful to raise my sister and me with the belief that we were no better and no worse than anyone else. They taught us to respect people of all colors and to appreciate differences.
When I was 18, I worked with an international mission organization in Amsterdam. I was smitten with cross-cultural life. I thrived on the discovery of living and eating like the locals, enjoying their traditions, customs, and quirky sayings. In turn, I learned to appreciate the quirks and eccentricities of my own culture and language in the process.
The fun of cross-cultural and interracial friendships is in the exchange. Once you get past all the little nuances, though, you realize that we're all just people. The rest is secondary. Fun. Intriguing, Fascinating. Sometimes frustrating. But always secondary.
But when it comes to African American culture, I learned over the years just how hard it is to reach across the fence and find someone willing to reach back. I learned, in fact, that this fence isn't so much about language or culture. Rather, this is a well-fortified wall of mistrust, hurt, and anger over any number of insults that African Americans have suffered. I also sense that there is, within the African American community, some sort of active teaching that goes something like this: "Be polite. Be kind. But don't trust."
My black friends (the few brave enough to reach back across the fence--all gold to me) taught me, through their stories, what racism looks like on a very personal level, and that's what Raybon's book does as well. I have heard stories like hers before from friends, colleagues and even students. It always shocks me. I know racist behavior happens, but because I am eager to transcend barriers, I'm still surprised that some are not. It's a shame. They miss so much.Eddie Huff was the first black friend who reached across that fence to me. Actually, he jokes that I was his first teenage daughter. I lived with Eddie and his wife Vickie, a petite white woman, while serving with the mission I mentioned earlier. Vickie was a little nervous when I first moved in. Here I was, this young white girl from Tennessee that the mission had placed in their home. (Ironically, my roommate, yet to arrive, was a white woman from South Africa!) Eddie wasn't home when I arrived, suitcases in hand. Vickie helped me move in.
Suddenly, she stopped and said, "There's something I need to tell you about my husband." (All kinds of scenarios raced through my head. He's a paraplegic. He's deaf. He's a paranoid schizophrenic!) After a beat or two, Vickie smiled sweetly and said, "He's black."
I laughed outloud. "Is that all? Geez, you scared me to death." I was thrilled! Growing up in the South in the 70s was a long, long way from Bull Conner's Alabama, but there still wasn't a whole lot of interracial friendships in my schools. So this was my first chance to have a real black friend. Even better, I was part of their family. They had two small children--Talitha, who was 4 and Eli, who was about 3. I became the big sister, and I listened and learned.
I learned that though Eddie's mother was a white German, he was black as could be, and the hardships he faced had nothing to do with his white mother and everything to do with his color. He experienced many of the same snubs and insults that so many others have experienced. Yet, maybe because he had lived part of his life in Germany, maybe because his mother was white, maybe because he actually spoke another language for the first few years of his life--maybe all of that together made him willing and able to reach across that fence to befriend anyone willing to reach back. I'm grateful for that.
Racial relationships have come a long way, but each time an African American is ill treated, it reinforces that mantra: Be polite. Be kind. Don't trust. And sometimes the walls go higher.
Raybon's book provides deeper insight into what it feels like to walk around in black skin. I once had a dear Guatemalan friend tell me that she had experienced racist behavior from some of my colleagues.
"Really? I don't see it," I was genuinely surprised.
"Why would you?" she reminded me, "You're white."
Indeed. I had missed that very obvious fact. The world looks and responds to me differently simply because I am white. Oh sure, I've had my own share of insults for other reasons, but Raybon's book provides just a taste of what it means to live within dark skin and be targeted for no other reason, and this is a valuable perspective for white readers.
But Raybon's book is ultimately about forgiveness--which transcends all colors. Someone once said that unforgiveness is the poison we drink, hoping our enemy will die. Despite the ways she was treated, Raybon realized that if she did not forgive, she could never be whole. She began to see that her life was false and reactionary. A life all about proving herself to be worthy--no, even better--than those on the other side of the fence. After all, hadn't her anger produced "good" things like career success, achievement, and recognition?
But Raybon's book is ultimately about forgiveness--which transcends all colors. Someone once said that unforgiveness is the poison we drink, hoping our enemy will die. Despite the ways she was treated, Raybon realized that if she did not forgive, she could never be whole. She began to see that her life was false and reactionary. A life all about proving herself to be worthy--no, even better--than those on the other side of the fence. After all, hadn't her anger produced "good" things like career success, achievement, and recognition?
Remarkably, she finally named her behavior for what it was: bitter spite. And she courageously concluded that it provided a poor platform for an identity. She challenges us all with her willingness to do the hard work of rebuilding her identity on something far more profound--the grace of God. As a Christian, Raybon realized that the "love thy neighbor" bit included white people. Still, the reader feels the struggle and weight of the truth that Raybon slowly discovered: The journey of forgiveness is costly and lasts a lifetime.
One irony and sadness to me in this book was that the "white friend" in the title is barely a blip on the radar. I thought I would be reading a story about a wonderful journey of discovery and love between this writer and her white friend. Instead, the book is about Raybon's growing awareness of her need to forgive and let go so that such a friendship could even be possible. I admit it: I was really disappointed, but in fairness to Raybon's very personal journey, I left the book knowing that as she embraced mercy, God would give her new friends of all shapes, colors and backgrounds. (Her latest book, I Told the Mountain to Move, does indeed reveal beautiful and moving glimpses of how colorful her world has become.)
I'm not sure who Raybon had in mind for her reading audience: People of color? White people? I'm not sure it matters. There are nuggets of wisdom here for anyone, and her considerable writing skills--powerful, rhythmic, lyrical, filled with a rich voice--make the reading a pleasure. We all have our biases, whether against another race, or another culture, or even another socio-economic group. The lessons of forgiveness cannot be taught enough, and Raybon's willingness to reveal her honest struggles to forgive provide encouragement to us all that we can do the same.
