IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD

I have been reticent to address “controversial” topics on social media.  Though I enjoy spirited conversations and healthy dialogue, I am by nature more reserved about expressing my views. I value family. I treasure friendships. I want everyone to get along and play nice.

 I respect the rights of all to choose when to speak, what to write, who to vote for, who to believe, who to trust, and who to love. Last year ushered in times like I’ve never known. Though I respect the rights of all to freely choose, I’ve concluded that every choice comes at a cost, and sometimes it’s a price tag we can’t afford.

So I’m using my voice now in the hopes that some will hear. I fear we will bankrupt our individual and collective conscience if we don’t heed the escalating signs around us. It is time to listen. And it’s time to speak. I cannot be silent.

 In my neighborhood, this week.

YMCA: One of Tillamook’s central gathering places. For the fit and firm among us, and for those aspiring to be, you can’t beat it. A place devoted to health and wellness. I’m deeply grateful for this grand place where my children “grew up” and where I myself have spent countless hours. A “safe” place for all, or so I thought.

I know this story through a 20-something young Hispanic woman whom I would trust with my life. She shared the following story which brought tears to my eyes and stirred anger in my heart, an anger I must heed. 

Her cousin went to the Y Tuesday evening sporting his Christmas gift, a new iWatch. After hearty exercise,  he went to the sauna, noticing as he went that a white woman was following him. As he sat down to relax, the door opened and the woman declared, “So you think just because you have an iWatch you’re not going to get deported now!  It’s just going to be a lot easier for them to track you.” And she shut the door. 

This is only one of the stories I’ve heard. Some I’ve witnessed, such as the man who told me in front of a Hispanic friend (completely out of the context of the conversation) that when he went to Tillamook High School in the early ‘60’s, “There were NO racial problems. None!”

I want to believe these stories are the “exception.” Are they? ONE is too many.  

I hear people sometimes say, “I’m not racist,” as though they must prove their beliefs and actions come from someplace holy. I like to think of myself as being inclusive and aware and caring and not like “those” bigoted “others.” Yet I must examine my own heart. I must humbly listen to the stories of people with skin different than mine, language not spoken in my home, attractions foreign to my own. 

When I search, I sometimes find those “hidden” areas with lurking prejudices that surprise me, those ways of thinking that betray what I value most—relationship. Sometimes I must say, “I’m sorry. Help me understand.” I pray for discernment and wisdom to know when to speak and when to be silent, and for a pure heart to love.

So getting to the nitty gritty. Are these just fancy words, anecdotal stories? Tomorrow will I have forgotten today's passionate reaction?  Now is the time. It’s why I will talk to the YMCA director. It's why I will watch and listen and speak up in grocery stores and banks and schools and doctors’ offices and wherever I am. 

 Now, this moment. I must say, “No more. Not ever.” My friend’s cousin deserves it. Our vast human family in all its wondrous hue and color is worth the cost.