showing up is a phrase that has been demonstrated in my life. there is a long list of people who i owe my utmost gratitude because they showed up for me. the past years of my life have been marked by an inner turmoil as i wrestled with accepting my identity. and as i sought deeply for answers that no one could give me, i have been privileged by the countless people who have showed up.

after george floyd breathed his last words: I CANT BREATHE, the protests began. pain has a way of surging through a dam that has been pressurized by years of silence, oppression, and apathy. i struggled watching white people show up to the conversation about racism.

carrying with me the stories of pain, injustice, oppression, and racism that people entrusted to me through the past years, i have seen the conversation of racism take many shapes. and as it has come front and center to our world (as it should) my heart broke deeply these past few days. my heart ached because these conversations, these stories, these oppressions have been crying out from the earth since the explorers of america brought the first ship of slaves to the new land.

why is it that a few broken windows in our quaint downtown area served as the catalyst for white people to show up to the conversation? why does an empty, black square take the place of raw, authentic, embarrassing, hard conversations? how can we, from the comfort of our privilege, become so bent out of shape about non-human destruction while ignoring the hatred that is killing real lives? and we still find it acceptable to use our deeply taught prejudice to justify how our glass didn’t deserve to be broken.

questions keep rising to the surface. and my anger is hard pressed to settle inside my stomach as we see people showing up from all areas of life.

but here’s what i know from living in a conservative, evangelical town. there have been people who have showed up for me with the intention of trying to squeeze my very unique experience into their expectations and framework. for years, i have been trying with all my might to contort myself into the way others suggested i live. but i failed. i always failed.

so in the days ahead, as we begin showing up to these conversations with the privilege that has been indebted to us, how we show up to the conversation about racism matters. by all means, yes—show up to the damn table! there is a seat for you. stop hiding behind discomfort. we are needed at this table. but what matters far more than our presence is our spirit. and as we sit down to this table, remember we won’t have any answers, there isn’t a quick fix, we aren’t talking about a few broken windows, and we will need a lot more capacity to process the brokenness of systemic oppression than an empty, blank, black square.

at this table we will need to repent. we will need to listen. we will need to cry. we will need to position our heart to receive so we aren’t tempted to cram someone’s vastly different experience into our white-washed, safe worldview where everything has a place. this conversation will be messy and we will feel awkward, scared, and vulnerable. but we can do hard things.

show up.

please show up.

but don’t be too calloused that your pride won’t allow your spirit to expand as your soul leans toward the cry of the oppressed. the dawn is coming and we need many souls to gather around this table of injustice so we can inhabit the revolution that is ours.

happy pride month to the beautiful souls whose lives have taught me to love myself. and as i learn to love myself, i will always work to demonstrate how black lives matter far more than our white culture has ever portrayed.

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