Everything but the Burden

Melissa,

About 15 years ago, two of my closest friends and I went on a Caribbean vacation. Trying to forget the stresses of the lives we left behind, we all enjoyed ourselves thoroughly; we spent one night dancing the night away on the deck of a boat. A young white woman approached us and started to dance with us. She had a bubbly personality and her laughter was infectious. We all truly enjoyed hanging out with her that night. As we prepared to leave the boat, she turned to us and said, "I really wish I were black like you guys." Sigh...

I could sense my two friends shaking their heads and fading into the background, because they knew that this was my domain, they knew I wasn't going to let this comment go unchecked. The conversation went something like this:

Young woman: "I really wish I were black like you guys."
Me: "No you don't."
Young woman: "No, it's true. I've always wanted to be black."
Me: "No, really you don't."
Young woman: "You don't understand, I really wish I could trade places with you."
Me: "Oh really? Tell me why."

As I pushed her on why she wished she was black, she made several astute observations. She saw the easy camaraderie my girlfriends and I had enjoyed with the crew of the boat, all of whom were black. She saw that we greeted other black folks we didn't even know, sometimes with just a head nod, other times with a hug. She saw us dancing away on the boat, laughing and enjoying life and living in the moment. What she had seen of "black life" was carefree, but also communal. She saw an identity that we claimed and wore proudly. She saw who we were and how we were, but she didn't see or couldn't know what it cost us to be who we were.

I looked at her, almost trembling with anger. I said: "you may want to be black, but what you really want is everything but the burden." She didn't understand nor had she thought about the costs that come with being black in America. I explained to her that black folks, even strangers, often acknowledge one another because they face the burden of invisibility wherever they go. I told her that we greet one another like long lost cousins because for too long, our humanity and our dignity were denied by others. I told her that regardless of my Ivy League credentials, I had more in common with the crew of the ship than with many of its passengers. I told her that where she saw laughter and joy, I saw catharsis from pain and healing from brokenness. I probably said too much and went on too long, because an audience had gathered by the time I finished speaking.

Although this happened 15 years ago, I often think back to this moment as a pivotal one in my life, where I felt called to articulate something about the joys, but also the very present burden that I felt being a black woman in America. And I have been thinking about this incident in the larger context of what I feel being an American citizen and also a global citizen.

We cannot enjoy the resources of one of the wealthiest and strongest and most secure countries in the world, willingly partaking in its riches, but remain unwilling to shoulder the burden. We can't complain about the educational system, but refuse to volunteer at our local schools or attend school board meetings. We can't critique the political leaders running our country, but refuse to vote in local and national elections. We can't complain about the crumbling infrastructure, but constantly veto additional tax money to maintain building standards. When we all share that burden, the load is easy. When we foist the majority of those burdens onto the poor, onto the very people unable to bear these burdens, we reinforce one standard of living for the rich and another standard of living for almost everyone else.

The clean water that I waste while waiting for the hot water heater to do its job, comes at the expense of a young woman being forced to bathe in dirty water in the Ganges River. The 14 gallons of gas I just put into my car, so that I chauffeur around my small child, comes at the expense of a family living without electricity. Certainly, I work hard and I feel as if I've earned the few joys in my life. But I cannot experience those joys without acknowledging the burdens and doing all I can to help lighten the load.

I don't regret what I told that young woman that night so many years ago, even as I should have perhaps been more temperate in my tone. But I feel compelled to preach this Sunday morning (perhaps to the choir!). We cannot righteously enjoy all the freedom and prosperity this country and this world has to offer by accepting everything but the burden.

Yolanda