Last Place in the Human Race {guest post}

By Nichole Woo | Website: www.walkthenarrows.com

I’m too slow for my life.

I reached this epiphany recently at stoplight, as I rolled my toothpaste-blue minivan up next to a red-hot Ferrari. It was a contrast too comical to ignore. So, I rolled down the window:

“Wanna race?” I teased, from my towering, sixteen-cup holder perch. The driver smirked and revved his engine. He left me in the dust, but not without a new metaphor to ponder.

Like it or not, we’re all part of this human race.

Within moments of a “positive” on a home pregnancy test (provided aim is good), we’re involuntarily and irrevocably nudged off the starting blocks. A barrage of benchmarks accost our lives in utero: Movements are measured, heartbeats counted, and that’s all before labor (which is often too early or late).

We welcome our beloveds with a kiss and an Apgar score, with many metrics to follow. Blink and these scores evolve into ABC competency, “unofficial” Pre-K soccer goals (that are counted anyways), ACT/SAT results, college acceptance letters, suitable relationships and bank accounts balances.

For better or worse these metrics are constant companions, pushing us through life at breakneck speeds. We pity those who straggle behind, but press on towards an ever-allusive finish line so we can win . . . we’re not sure exactly what. We fear that if we slow down, we’ll surely be lapped by something or someone; which means, we all just keep going in circles.

Years of pounding this course have frayed the fabric of my soul. I’m always winded and perpetually losing pace. It’s no wonder:

I’m the minivan, not the Ferrari.

Why am I pushing so hard to check the next box, when it’s always followed by another? Are these metrics, escorting every lap of life, a proper plum line? I must finish the race; but who says I should break the tape at world record pace?

Perhaps there is time to roll down the window, and just pause.

When I pause, I see things both heart-breaking and beautiful. I see glimpses of humanity as the dust clears: Some sprint by while others limp; a few can only crawl. There are others slowing too – Samaritans quietly crossing over to help some who stumble, and others stranded on the ground. They’ve tossed conventional measuring sticks, falling behind to usher others ahead.

I see a father put down his phone, to look up at his child. I hear the single mom’s “yes” to the caseworker asking her to welcome a second child. I glimpse the teacher, lingering long enough after the bell to gift his struggling student with a kind word. I catch the customer, pausing just long enough to meet the cashier’s eyes and smile.
They pause, as He did from the beginning:

When He saw what He made was good, and again to seek the pair who ushered in its corruption. He perceived Sarah’s pain, Hagar’s rejection, and David’s unborn frame. Then with human eyes He paused, and peered beyond earthly flesh: In the crooked tax collector, the unclean cloak-toucher, and the wayward woman at the well. He paused for imperfect humanity, again and again, to usher in divine glory.

This is the paradoxical beauty of falling behind.

To decelerate in this life seems like sacrilege. Surely, we’ll be lapped – passed up, passed by, or passed over. But to pause is to shadow the God who sees * the souls around Him and declares, “the last will be first, and first will be last.” **

I’m too slow for my life. Now, I’m thinking about driving even slower. Because whenever I wait for the dust to clear, I see that “human” matters infinitely more than “race.” In the pauses I remember: It’s not about when I finish, but who finishes with me.

*Genesis 16:13 (NIV)
**Matthew 20:16 (NIV)

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Despite a deep desire to belong, Nichole Woo often finds life nudging her to the margins. She’s been the only girl on the team, the only public speaking teacher afraid of public speaking, the only Caucasian in the extended family photo, and the only mom who lets her kids drink Fanta. She calls the Rockies home, often pretending to be a Colorado native in spite of her flatland origins. Visit her blog at www.walkthenarrows.com.

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My new book Invited: The Power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness is now available for pre-order! You can read about the book as well as some of the advance praise for the book by visiting this page. Sign up for my newletter above to keep up-to-date on pre-order bonuses, launch team, book recommendations, and more!

Building Bridges with Chinese Muslims {guest post}

By Jodie Pine | Instagram: @jodiepine

God doubly blessed our family with the opportunity to live, not only in the hospitable land of China, but also among the super hospitable Muslim minority people there.

Whenever we visited someone in the village where my husband did ethnographical research, we were served tea and something to eat.

Sometimes I had to let my best friend there know that I would really rather talk with her than eat, as I would stop by to visit and she would spend most of the time in the kitchen cooking for me! They are extremely generous, servant-hearted people who greatly honored us as their guests.

Initially, after being on the receiving end of Chinese Muslim hospitality, I felt intimidated to try to extend it myself. I thought I needed to fill the table with a huge variety of dishes like they do. Eventually though, I came to realize that being present and interested in them, with a learner’s heart, was more important to our guests than an impressive meal.

During the 4 ½ years that our family lived in central western China, we probably learned more through our mistakes than our “successes” about extending hospitality to our Muslim friends.

Once when my husband and sons were out of town, I invited a group of female Muslim college students to our home, and my daughter prepared a Halal lunch. We were both very surprised when they refused to eat our food. They didn’t even drink the tea we offered them, because they said we were not clean. After engaging in a somewhat heated spiritual discussion with us for about an hour, they said they needed to leave.

I had thought “being clean” meant the food we were offering them was clean (meaning that we did not cook pork in our kitchen). However, a friend I consulted afterward helped me to understand that when we had all entered the apartment together they had not seen me wash my hands, and I hadn’t offer them a place to wash either. Clearly, there was more to being clean than I had realized.

Another one of our cross-cultural lessons was that our Chinese Muslim friends had a wide range of devoutness. Some were simply non-pork eating Muslims, and that was the only thing that made them different from the Han Chinese. Others took their faith practices and traditions very seriously.

Once, my husband asked my Muslim friend who came over during Ramadan about the fast he assumed she was doing. She politely informed him that actually she doesn’t practice Ramadan, and would like a glass of water! That was an awkward situation, but we were all able to laugh about it. We learned that making wrong assumptions had the potential of making our Muslim friends feel guilty, like they were not “good” Muslims.

On the other end of the spectrum, one of our more devout Muslim neighbors had our family over for meals several times, but consistently refused our invitations to have them over. Instead of taking it personally, we concluded that maybe eating food that came from our non-Muslim kitchen would have violated their conscience.

Over time, we discovered that some of our Muslim friends had no problem eating the chicken that we served when we told them that it came from the grocery store with a Halal sticker on it. Others told us that they would only eat chicken that was bought from a Muslim butcher at the market, to give them confidence that the proper prayers had been said when the animal was killed.

When our family noticed that it was the youngest son in the family who had the responsibility of filling the tea cups of the guests, our youngest son (before we adopted two more) took over this task and did very well. We also observed that younger people treated their elders with a lot of respect, and so we tried our best to incorporate this value into the way we treated our guests as well.

We learned that in group settings, men and women often ate in different rooms. So we were prepared, when groups came to our home, to set up a separate women’s table in my daughter’s bedroom if that would make our guests feel more comfortable.

Sometimes guests wanted to recite their prayers during the prayer time that occurs around dinnertime. We offered our daughter’s bedroom for them to pray in, as it was in the best location facing Mecca. We made blankets available for the them to put on the floor, or sometimes they used their own jackets. We also removed all pictures that would be between them and the window while they prayed, as that is forbidden.

Looking back now, I would say that my biggest lesson from our time of living among Chinese Muslims was: If we enter a new culture and are easily offended or quick to judge what we encounter as “wrong” instead of “different,” we’ll end up building walls instead of bridges.

Humility in cross-cultural hospitality enables us to realize that we are always capable of making mistakes or being misunderstood, but we can refuse to let either of those concerns stop us from seeking and building relationships with those who are different from us.

There is a strong message in our world right now that Muslims are our enemies. Our family’s experience with Chinese Muslims proved the opposite to be true. We are grateful for God’s gift of life-changing friendships with some of the most beautiful people in the world.

*Parts of the this post originally appeared during two interviews at The Serviette.

About Jodie:

As a mom, I juggle two different kinds of parenting — long-distance to our 3 adult kids (who are white on the outside but very Chinese on the inside) and our two adopted Chinese boys at home who have special needs. Since being back in the US, my husband has taken up cooking Chinese food, with a specialty of Lanzhou beef noodles (where we used to live and where our boys are from), giving us a taste of “home.” You can follow our story on my blog. I am also on Instagram and Facebook.

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Our theme this month is “Hospitality Around the World.” Email me at scrapingraisins @ gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting. Guest posts should be between 500 and 900 words. Be sure to include a headshot and bio. The theme for August is “Homelessness, Refugees & the Stranger,” so send me a post for that, too, if you have a good idea!

And if you’re not a writer, be sure to follow me on social media (links in upper right) to keep up with the latest blog post or sign up for my newsletter below for links to thought-provoking articles, a digest of blog posts, and a few things I’m into these days! xo

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When You Know You’re Not an Artist {guest post}

 

By Heather Caliri | Instagram: @heathercaliri

If I knew anything for certain when I was a child, it was that I was not the artist of the family—my older sister Katie was.

Looking at her work, I knew I’d never be as good as her. I wouldn’t even be in the same universe as her. Anyway, I had my own ‘talents’: school, and the performing arts, and generally being the favorite child. I didn’t need to do art.

That was her thing.

I felt nervous when I learned that for my ceramics class in high school, we had to keep a sketchbook. To my great surprise, I liked drawing.

I liked that with nothing but pencils, pens and my own imagination, I could transform a blank notebook into something indelibly, creatively, mine.

I took a few more art classes in high school, and then one more in college. In those classes, making art felt like caring for a mean-spirited cat. Sometimes, it would curl in my lap and keep me company, and sometimes it would turn around and try to claw my eyes out.

Once, I used some new watercolor pencils to craft swirls of color on a page, thrilled with the freedom of abstraction. When I showed my tender risk-taking to my high school art teacher, he told me I should look at another student’s abstractions, because they were much better. I felt like he’d sucker-punched me.

A drawing from high school.

Later that year, I started making faux album covers for a made-up band I called The Cheshire Cats. At first I felt proud of my work, but laterI felt dumb that I was playing around with words and fonts when my classmates were making real art.

And in a college drawing class, we were supposed to do gesture drawings of a bell pepper. When I glanced over at another student’s work, I saw a pepper. When I looked down at mine, I saw weird squiggles. My eyes filling with tears, I took my HB pencil and made a long gash down the middle of my newsprint.

Years later, thinking of that class, I made this.

All this to say: most of my formal art training served to make me feel terrible about myself, my work, my skill. It mostly taught me to compare what I did to all the other people around me.

It kept me from making things.

The other day, one of my friends saw my sketchbook and said you’re such a good artist. She also said that she was not.

This is the drawing she liked. Note: I copied the pattern from wallpaper, which is totally acceptable but always feels like cheating to me.

I wanted to take her face in my hands and tell her that all these words we use to judge our art—good, real, artist—they are MADE UP WORDS. They do not mean what they think we mean. They do not say anything useful.

I started making art more when my children were little. By then, I had been writing for a long time, and I’d learned that “talent” was a shell game. I bought my kids nice art supplies, and when they made things, I did too. I realized if “writers” are people who write, then “artists” are people who make art. I didn’t need permission to claim those names.

It’s amazing what reading a few craft books does for your skill level.

Making art still feels tender to me. Unlike with writing, which has felt mine for nearly twenty years, art feels a bit like using my left hand to cut a piece of paper. It’s awkward. I feel my lack of practice, especially when I draw.

Drawing this peony made me sweat.

I don’t care. Art making is not about skill, but about desire. The only question I want to ask about art is: do I want to make some? Do I have a picture in my mind I want to make real? Do I want to take a piece of discarded paper, or a recycled cereal box, and resurrect it into something beautiful?

Basket made of old sheets with papier mâché citrus. Note: the basket was supposed to be a rug. Oh, well.

I think many of us hold back from making things because we feel incompetent and think lack of skill is a problem. It makes me tremendously sad to think of all the joy that fear steals from us. It makes me angry to think of how we teach art, pitting one person’s joy against another.

Still: there’s a simple question for each of us to ask. Do we want to make something? If the answer is yes, it is brave and bold and beautiful to set aside our fear and try.

About Heather:

Heather Caliri is a writer and shy artist from San Diego who uses tiny, joyful yeses to free herself from anxiety. Tired of anxiety controlling your life? Try her mini-course, “Five Tiny Ideas for Managing Anxiety,” for free here.

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Our theme this month is “Create.” If you are a maker, artist, or creator and you would like to guest post, I still have a few spots left! Otherwise, check out the themes for the coming months here. And if you’re not interested in guest posting, follow me on social media (buttons on the top right) to be sure you don’t miss a post this month!

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I Am 200 Percent. I Am Chinese-American. {Guest Post}

The Chinese-American Weight of Being 200%

By Kaitlin Ho Givens | Blog

After lunch we played hand games. It was just what we did in kindergarten in the suburbs of New York and so after eating, we’d turn towards each other in pairs on the lunch benches, sing songs and clap our hands together to the beat.

There was one hand game that ended with “Chinese! Japanese! Indian chief!” with corresponding hand motions – pulling your eyes to slant upwards for “Chinese,” downwards slanted eyes for “Japanese,” and crossing your arms against your chest for “Indian chief!” You were supposed to freeze on “Indian Chief,” and the first person who moved, lost.

I hated this game. I tried to avoid it at all costs and so I was a big proponent of “Miss Mary Mac,” whose silver buttons all down her back, back, back were much more pleasant. One of my earliest memories is playing with a girl who refused to play anything besides the one I dreaded most.

What’s wrong with Miss Mary Mac? I thought, irritated.

I reluctantly agreed. I found myself going faster and faster as we played – clap clap clap – so fast we could barely fit the words over the beat. Clap clap clap.

“Chinese! Japanese! Indian chief!” I did the motions in a flurry of movement and purposely “unfroze” myself so I lost and we could move on to another game.

But the girl stopped. She looked at me with a mean grin, and said, “You kind of look like that.”

I feigned confusion. She pulled at her eyes to slant them, and laughed. It was what I dreaded most. Someone had noticed I was different, and it was clearly not a good thing.

I remember lying on the floor eating grapes and asking my mom, “Mom? I’m 100% Chinese, right?”

And she said, “Yes, Daddy and I are both Chinese so you’re 100% Chinese.”

I continued, “And I’m 100% American, right? Because I was born here.”

“Yes, you’re 100% American.”

I paused. “So I’m 200%?”

My mom laughed, “Yes, you’re 200%.”

Much of my life has been feeling the weight of this 200%, and yet somehow, being not enough of either. Not American enough, not Chinese enough. I had the vacillating experience of attending a predominantly white suburban school and going to Chinatown on Sundays for my Chinese church.

In school, I was seen as fairly quiet. At church, I was one of the more outspoken. At school, I was the smallest person on all of my sports teams. At church, I was bigger than most with an athletic build that was unwonted, and I often felt like I had to lose weight.

At school, I would get the “slanty eye” jab from people who were feeling particularly mean-spirited, while at church my eyes were admired for being “so big” because I have double eyelids (a feature that most have, but many Asians do not, and one of the most popular plastic surgeries in Asia).

My white school friends didn’t take their shoes off when they came to my house, and I was horrified. When I asked them to take them off, they laughed and said that was weird. “Nevermind,” I muttered. I vacuumed with vigor after they left.

In Chinatown, Chinese shops involve no lines, actively pushing yourself forward and shouting in Chinese; they are not for the faint of heart. The Chinese bakery women would say things to each other about me in Chinese after my feeble attempts at ordering baos; I didn’t know what they were saying but I knew they were talking about me because “lo fan” means white person, and they used that term to refer to me, the white one.

I couldn’t hide the fact that I wasn’t white at school, especially with a last name “Ho” that would always get snickers, while at church I was called a twinkie: “yellow on the outside, white on the inside.”

In subtle and overt ways, I was continuously told by white Americans that being Chinese was weird, and I was abnormal. And yet I couldn’t change the shape of my eyes or the food we ate and the way my culture shaped me, so I was stuck in shame. And it seemed I could never be Chinese enough to fit into the Chinese community, leaving me exasperated. I was confused, weighed down by the 200% of my Chinese-American self, continually feeling like I was not enough of either.

The cacophony of my hyphenated Chinese-American identity sent me running every which way to find a place where I belonged. By the time I got to college, I was jaded by both the white American community and the Chinese community and found myself seeking acceptance in the black community on the gospel choir and the step team, with the Latino community in their cultural association.

It is good to discover other cultures, but it was at the expense of my own identity. I was ashamed of my Chinese-American identity, trying to deny my own culture, and desperate to hear that I was enough. I was weighed down by the load of trying to carry an identity I didn’t understand. I was running from my own skin, my own self, and ultimately, I was running from the One who made me.

I heard the voice of my Creator through a bumper sticker in the Dominican Republic: “Soy especial, Dios no hace basura.” I am special, God doesn’t make garbage.

Something broke inside me when I saw that bumper sticker. I heard the voice of God say, “Kata, you are enough.”

I heard, “The ignorance and inhospitality of white Americans and even your own race have bent you in shame. That was never my intention; I want to heal you so you can stand tall.” I heard God say that his creation of me as a Chinese-American woman was not a mistake, but profoundly purposeful.

There was beauty to be discovered, brokenness to be exposed and healed, and joy and redemption to come if I would just stop running and heed his call. A call to stop cowering under the weight of my own confusion and shame, receive his words of life, and stand tall. A call to intimacy with the Father and a call to a greater understanding of how he made me; a call to see what it looks like to worship him in the fullness of who I am and invite others to do the same.

From that catalytic bumper sticker moment, I have been on this wonder-filled journey with Jesus where I’m still figuring out what it means to be a third-generation Chinese-American. The journey is long but marked with freedom and curiosity, not avoidance and shame. It has been an exhilarating ride of discovering depths of the Father’s heart in ways I never would have known if I had kept running.

If we deny, dismiss, or push aside our ethnicity and race, we are robbed of opportunities to experience deep healing, to enter into the stories of those who are different from us, and we mistakenly assume that our way is the right way and everything else is weird, which hurts our neighbors and our witness.

The Father declares that he has created us purposely, and well. He invites us to explore our ethnic identity with him. Whether we come from a majority or minority culture, we have an ethnicity worth discovering. May we have courage to trust our Creator and be open to his beckoning. Surely it will bring light and life to us and our communities in ways we might never have expected.

About Kaitlin:

I am Kaitlin Sara Ho Givens, also known as “Kata.” I am a Chinese-American campus minister focusing in planting new movements, empowering leaders, and raising up purposefully multiethnic, reconciling communities that reflect the heart of God. I am pursuing a Masters of Divinity at Gordon Conwell Theological Seminary. I hold a Bachelor’s degree in English from Boston University. I speak Spanish and French and Minion proficiently, with Greek and Hebrew up next.

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Consider joining the Facebook group Be the Bridge to Racial Unity to learn more about how God is moving the church towards racial healing and growth.

If you are a writer, consider using the hashtag #WOCwithpens to showcase the writing of our black and brown sisters of faith every Wednesday specifically, but anytime as well! You can find the explanation for the hashtag here.

The theme for March is “Simplify” and for April is “Books and Writing.” Email me at scrapingraisins@ gmail (dot) com if you have an idea for a guest post!

**This post contains Amazon affiliate links

Much of my life has been feeling the weight of this 200%, and yet somehow, being not enough of either. Not American enough, not Chinese enough.

 

Why Black Panther Matters {by Yabome Gilpin-Jackson}

Black Panther

By Yabome Gilpin-Jackson | Instagram

At age 7 in Grade 2, my son came home from chapel day at his private Christian school and said, “Mummy, I don’t want to be African anymore!”

I stopped and turned to face him.

I felt panic lodge itself in my chest and my heart respond by pumping and flooding blood to my ears.

I blinked – hoping that resetting my vision would rewind and reset the moment.

“Africans are poor,” he continued, and went on to say some more things I will not reprint.

The backstory when I found it out? There had been a presentation and video for a fundraiser to help “poor kids in Africa” in chapel.

In kindergarten at age 5, my daughter came home from school fussing about needing to choose and bring a picture of her favorite princess for a project. She ran through her choices.

“Cinderella, because she worked hard and overcame hard stuff.”

“Ariel … well, because I just like her”

“Pocahontas … because she’s brown and I don’t really like Tiana … well I liked her for my birthday cake, but I don’t really like the story … or I could choose the new British princess because she’s pretty.

I piped up … “Well, if you are going with a real princess instead of a fairy tale one, how about a modern-day African princess? Here, let’s look up Princess of Lesotho, or Princess of Swaziland.”

“What?!!! There are really black princesses? African Princesses???”

These stories are not about my children’s preferences. They are not about difference or diversity or even fundamentally about my daughter choosing a brown-skinned or dark-skinned princess over a lighter-skinned one. These stories are about representations of identity and why I wrote my short story collection – Identities. To me, that’s what Black Panther is about and that’s why it’s a milestone movie. Let me explain.

We, humanity, are storytelling beings. We live in and through the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves, which are informed by the stories around us that send us identity signals. Subsequently, we make identity conclusions and live by them.

The majority of the identity signals in the stories about what it means to be a Black African in the world are simplistic, narrow and negative. Just pay attention to the stories about “Africa” and “Africans” that you can recall now and see what’s there…Right – that’s what I mean. Those identity signals you are recalling are the same ones that my daughter and sons receive when they see images of themselves reflected only as poor, dirty, helpless, orphaned, children.

They get these images and the message it sends to them often out of context, with little dignity or compassion and with the same, singular, simplistic storyline – African children and Africans in general are poor and helpless on that “dark continent.”

Of course, I am not saying socio-economic issues faced in countries on the continent are not real or that help isn’t necessary. However, the stories that are told about why and how ‘those people’ come to need help can become complicit reinforcements of the complex systems that created the poverty and adversities in the first place, and can hurt rather than help the changes needed.

In our subsequent exchange, my son told me the identity conclusion the presentation left him with – it is better to be white than black/African, so that you won’t be poor and he doesn’t think he ever wants to go to Africa. Of course, my husband and I did our parental bit to dislodge his narrative from his brain – we reminded him we were from Sierra Leone in West Africa, had lived and grew up there and will for sure take him back. We described and showed him ways in which “Africans” are in fact not helpless but amazingly resourceful, generous and innovative in the face of the challenges we face. We showed him maps and pinpointed the exact country and community his school had fundraised for and how small it was in the vastness of Africa.

Wakanda in Black Panther may be a fictional country in Africa, but the parallel of the beauty and richness of the African continent is real. Wakanda’s vibranium may as well be the tantalum that powers our information tech hardware found in abundance in the Democratic Republic of Congo and its environs; or the Blood Diamonds of Sierra Leone; or Oil in Nigeria or any of the other vast natural resources that continue to quietly and often illegally leave the richest continent in natural resources.

Africa’s resources fuel the world’s economies while “Africa” remains depicted as “uncivilized, at war, and poor and helpless.” This, of course was the exact plight the fictional Wakandans were concerned would occur – it is in fact the reality of what Africa and Africans have faced since her “discovery.”

Superheroines and superheroes have a place in the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves, because they stretch our imagination and inspire us to reach for more than what we are now. This – reaching beyond our current comfort zones – has always been the way humanity grows and thrives. Our Supers are simply projections of ourselves – the best parts of us – and for the villain Supers – representations of the worst parts of us. Supers are in effect simply role models – or our role icons that we place on pedestals to reach for. When a culture only projects one people group as Supers, it also says this is the ultimate image we must all aspire to.

Black Panther’s T’Challa and all those powerfully intelligent, strong, relevant and relatable black African women in it, gives my daughter and sons images of super icons they can reach for. My daughter had the opposite issue to her princess selection challenges after watching Black Panther on preview day. She liked and could relate to so many of the black women in it, she kept changing her choice of favorite.

Perhaps the moments in the movie that depict most clearly what I am saying here are the closing scenes. At the end of the movie when T’Challa unveils his plan for the Wakandan Outreach Centre to Shuri, a Wakandan ship lands in the basketball court behind them to underscore the point. After marvelling at it, one of the boys walks over to T’Challa and says: “Hey … this yours? Who are you?”

Black children of African descent living off the continent need this. They need these moments of relatable role models, real and iconic, that they can look up to and hear stories from, so that they too can believe in their ability to reach higher. I am not just saying this theoretically. I lived my formative years in Sierra Leone and understand that the core identity I subconsciously developed by seeing and living among a myriad role models there–in spite of a legacy of colonial education that had me read about lots of non-Black role models–is not as easily accessible to my children as it was for me.

Coincidentally, I attended “A Conversation with Michelle Obama” on her visit to Vancouver, BC the same day as watching Black Panther [what icing on my global African identity cake!]. Michelle Obama’s description of the work her family had done to mentor children on the margins in ways that they can touch, feel and connect to while in the White House made these same points.

In the outtake, T’Challa shares his plan at the UN General Assembly to share Wakanda’s technology with the world and he aptly uses an African proverb often attributed to Nigeria: “In the moment of crisis, the wise build bridges and the foolish build dams.”

So, I say, in a racially divided world, building bridges is our only option. The hour for self-preservation is over. It is time for meaningful reparations, forgiveness, healing, and progress. Let us widen our lenses to truly build open space for the original peoples of these Americas and all us immigrant communities and forced arrivals–Black and White–all made in God’s image – to thrive. Ensuring equal representations of all our peoples is the least of the ways we can do that. Thank you, Marvel.

About Yabome:

Dr. Yabome Gilpin-Jackson considers herself to be a dreamer, doer and storyteller, committed to imagining and leading the futures we want. She is an award-winning scholar, consultant, writer and curator of African identity and leadership stories. She was born in Germany, grew up in Sierra Leone, and completed her studies in Canada and the USA. Yabome was named International African Woman of the Year by UK-based Women4Africa and also won the Emerging Organization Development Practitioner by the US-based Organization Development Network. Yabome, who is married and the mother of 3 children, has also published several journal articles and book chapters and continues to research, write and speak – most recently at Princeton University – on the importance of holding global mindsets and honouring diversity and social inclusion in our locally global world.

Follow Yabome on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, or at her website, www.sldconsulting.org

Buy her book, Identities: A Short Story Collection here.

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How is God calling you to enter the race conversation? 

This month we’re discussing racism, privilege and bridge building. If you’d like to guest post on this topic, please email me at scrapingraisins(dot)gmail(dot)com. Yes, this is awkward and fraught with the potential for missteps, blunders and embarrassing moments, but it’s necessary. Join me?

I’ll go first.

(Consider joining the Facebook group Be the Bridge to Racial Unity to learn more about how God is moving in this sphere.)

If you are a writer, consider using the hashtag #WOCwithpens to showcase the writing of our black and brown sisters of faith every Wednesday specifically, but anytime as well! You can find the explanation for the hashtag here.

If you’re a white person who’s new to all of this, I compiled some resources to start you on your journey (because I’m not much farther ahead):

70+ Race Resources for White People

80+ MORE Race Resources for White people

Black Panther’s T’Challa and all those powerfully intelligent, strong, relevant and relatable black African women in it, gives my daughter and sons images of super icons they can reach for.

**Contains Amazon affiliate links

*image from ETonline

Before You See Black Panther, Read This (Spoiler-free Review by Jake VanKersen)

I asked my friend, Jake, movie buff and comic book and Star Wars expert, to share his intitial thoughts after seeing the much-anticipated Black Panther film. This article is helpful pre-viewing preparation for people like me who know very little about comic books or superheroes, but still enjoy a good superhero film (though I’d argue this is more than “just a superhero film”).

A review of Black Panther

By Jake VanKersen

On every level Black Panther is completely unapologetic about what it is and what it is trying to do. Yes, it is a Marvel movie and it unapologetically embraces every bit of that successful brand (it is the 18th film in the series). Yes, it is a superhero movie so it unapologetically gives us well-crafted action scenes. At the same time given that Black Panther, aka T’Challa, is the king of a fictional African country called Wakanda, it fully embraces African imagery and customs. In the hands of director Ryan Coogler, Black Panther also unapologetically touches upon race relations in the United States.

Black Panther opens with T’Challa preparing to take the role of King of Wakanda following the death of his father T’Chaka in Captain America: Civil War. Wakanda was never colonized by the Europeans. They built their country on a precious resource called verbranium which has allowed them to become an advanced technological state. While Wakanda has never been touched by the European Slave Trade, the effects of it are felt all around them. Wakanda’s decision to remain isolated from the rest of the world and ignore the problems around them are now starting to reach their borders.

It is under these circumstances that T’Challa begins his reign as king. While heavy is the head that wears the crown, he is anything but alone. He has the help of his sister Shuri, a technological genius that equips her brother with all his gadgets and upgrades his Black Panther armor. He is protected by warrior women known as the Dora Milaje that serve as royal bodyguards. The chief of the Dora Milaje, Okoye, is one of his closest confidants. He also recruits Wakandan spy and former girlfriend, Nakia, to help him.

The egalitarian role of men and women in Black Panther is another profound and effortless statement made by the film.

The cast is an obvious strength. As T’Challa/Black Panther, Chadwick Boseman is a strong and empathetic king. Boseman plays the character as a man who simultaneously feels the weight of his country on his shoulders, but has the resolve to hold it. Michael B. Jordan is the villain, Erik Killmonger, and plays him as a man consumed by rage but with a discipline to focus it on achieving his objective. I simultaneously empathized with why he was so angry and yet was shocked by his wickedness. As T’Challa’s sister, Shuri, Letitia Wright tells us everything we need to know about both her character and the great relationship she has with her brother from her very first scene.

Look, the bench is deep with this cast. You have Lupito Nyong’o, Forest Whitaker, Angela Bassett, Andy Serkis, Sterling K. Brown, Martin Freeman, and current Oscar nominee Daniel Kaluuya (the lead from Get Out). Frankly, I could spend time going through the entire cast and pointing out the strengths of each performance, so let me just say that the charisma and talent of this cast is stunning.

Of course, it is impossible to miss the statement this film is making with its cast and director. This is a major Hollywood Disney movie written and directed by an African American filmmaker, starring an African American actor, and featuring a cast of African descent.

Director of Black Panther, Ryan Coogler
Director of Black Panther, Ryan Coogler

Making a statement is nothing new for comic books. The early comic book creators had strong social justice points of view. Comic books came of age as Hitler unleashed fascism and anti-semitism on the world and comic book creators responded by having their characters take him on. The very first issue of Captain America featured the character punching Hitler in the face on the cover.

It is from this tradition of social justice that Black Panther was created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby in 1966. The legendary comic book duo intentionally wanted to make a statement by not only creating the first mainstream black superhero, but by also making him, strong, smart, wealthy, and the king of a country.

A day after watching Black Panther I was still unpacking the layers of social and political commentary. The film does not hit you over the head with these themes, but it also doesn’t flinch from them either. In Ryan Coogler’s hands all these threads are effortlessly woven together for a deeply entertaining and exceptional film.

About Jake:

Jake VanKersenJake VanKersen is a Chicago-based Video Producer and graduate of Columbia College Chicago. He also has an encyclopedic knowledge of movie, Star Wars, and comic book trivia. Visit him at www.jakevankersen.com.

 

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How is God calling you to enter the race conversation? 

This month we’re discussing racism, privilege and bridge building. If you’d like to guest post on this topic, please email me at scrapingraisins(dot)gmail(dot)com. Yes, this is awkward and fraught with the potential for missteps, blunders and embarrassing moments, but it’s necessary. Join me?

I’ll go first.

(Consider joining the Facebook group Be the Bridge to Racial Unity to learn more about how God is moving in this sphere.)

If you are a writer, consider using the hashtag #WOCwithpens to showcase the writing of our black and brown sisters of faith every Wednesday specifically, but anytime as well! You can find the explanation for the hashtag here.

If you’re a white person who’s new to all of this, I compiled some resources to start you on your journey (because I’m not much farther ahead):

70+ Race Resources for White People

80+ MORE Race Resources for White people

**Contains Amazon affiliate links

Weak is the “New” Strong {Guest Post}

By Nicole Woo

My best friend’s daughter hates her middle name. As a parent, how do you not take that one personally? After all, most of us spend about nine months contemplating, debating, and often agonizing over the matter. We sift through the millions of options, scrutinizing name meanings with a fine-toothed comb. We do the nickname test with first, middle, and last names to ensure survival through middle school, and then veto all options that remind us of mean people from childhood.

Some of us are so weighted down by this heavy responsibility that we are still deliberating on our drive to the hospital. (This happened to my grandparents, who succumbed to the stress by drawing names out of a hat. Thankfully, my uncle was named “George” instead of “Machine Washable.”) Somehow, we all arrive at the “perfect” name. Nailed it!

At least my friend thought so.

10 years later …

Daughter: “Ewe!!!! You named me after a ewe, as in ‘a female sheep’?” she recently lamented in tween dialect. So now she uses just her middle initial on official forms. Although it feels a bit to her parents like a slap in the face, I’m starting to see her point.

After all, the tide has turned in American culture. Who wants to be named after a female sheep when “strong” and “woman” may now proudly exist, side-by-side? This dynamic message is in plain view, everywhere: “Strong is the New Pretty” has replaced “Daddy’s Little Princess” on t-shirts, while Wonder Woman is smashing box office records. (Yeah, you get it.)

This “Strong Girl” movement is fascinating to observe. I sprouted up in the 80’s when playing football at recess and collecting GI Joe’s often earned me “weird girl” status. But now being strong, aggressive and independent is celebrated, embraced and even expected. Pop culture is riding this wave, so shouldn’t we too? It’s easy for me to get swept up in the excitement of it all, and what it might mean for this generation of girls. Lately, though, a few questions are nudging me to proceed with caution:

Is this celebrated version of “strong” the one that’s best for us to hear?

Is weakness really such a bad thing?

Are they mutually exclusive?

Last night I made a mental list of the strongest women I know personally. Honestly, I was pretty surprised at the names claiming the top spots.

My Strong “Girl” List:

• A mentor, in the throes of cancer, thanking God for the captive audience of clinicians who regularly drained fluid from her lungs: she boasted of His faithfulness and goodness at each appointment.

• A loved one, who rises each day resolved to forgive the man who blind-sided her, abruptly ending their long marriage.

• A friend, who recently endured the most complicated and high-risk pregnancy I’ve ever seen. Despite her pain, she selflessly and sleeplessly drags herself out of bed when her needy newborn cries.

Not the top three I imagined.

I thought it would include women like Jessie Graff, acclaimed Ninja Warrior and celebrated stunt double for Super Girl. (Disclaimer: I don’t really know her, but I did get my picture taken with her, so I’m counting it.) I recently saw Jessie complete a Ninja course on one leg, due to a knee injury. That was after she climbed a 40 foot rope, using mostly arm strength. No sweat.

But physical strength was not the defining trait I linked to “strong.” Nor were a slew of other qualities we often associate with the “Strong Girl” movement, like “confident,” “independent,” “leader,” “bold,” and “outspoken.” I am not editorializing these traits; in fact the women on my list have many of them. Rather, it was their entanglement with weakness – their faceoff with uninvited adversity – that spelled STRONG to me. It was their weakness that gave birth to strength.

I’m imagining it now: A rack of sparkling t-shirts at Target proudly proclaiming, “Weak is the NEW Strong.” I know. It’s not like we would just veer our carts over and grab one for those special girls in our lives, right?
(It’s funny how the truth is so often counterintuitive.)

These portraits of weakness, strength, and adversity reminded me of someone else’s. Maybe this “New Strong” is not so new.

The Apostle Paul’s first century resume included blindness, shipwrecks, beatings, imprisonments, and a slew of other undesirable hardships. I’m not an expert in ancient rhetorical criticism, but I think Plato would agree with me that you’d want to hide these red flags for credibility’s sake. But this man, in his relentless pursuit of Christ, did just the opposite. In one letter, we find him celebrating debilitation:

“… I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” –2 Corinthians 12:10

Forget personal image and self-promotion. Strength yielded from weakness was Paul’s M.O. throughout his tumultuous life. (We see this repeatedly in his other letters.) The result: A flame, igniting a radical message – a new way of living – that still burns today.

This ancient antithesis didn’t just start with Paul. It’s a marvelous and mysterious undercurrent throughout the Hebrew Scriptures. We find it running through the stories of people like Ruth, David, Joseph, Rahab, Ester, and Daniel.

This theme flows through the New Testament, too, with no one embodying it more than Christ Himself. Here we find the power Source, and it’s not from ourselves. Paul unabashedly names it in the midst of his own oppressing frailties:

“Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” –2 Corinthians 12:8-9

Christ’s power. This is the catalyst that sweeps us beyond “the triumph of the human spirit” as we lock horns with adversity. I’ll freely admit: this is a mystery I’ve experienced, but still can’t understand. This is the same power I see carrying the strongest women in my life. It’s the power I want my friend’s daughter to see and embrace as she witness Christ’s strength in others, and discovers it in the inevitable hardships she will face herself. Because someday her own strength will not be enough, and she’ll be stuck on a 40 foot rope that she cannot possibly climb.

Do I want to see a generation of strong daughters?

Absolutely.

But the Source of strength we can point them to eclipses anything a t-shirt or even a movement can offer: When it begins with weakness, it can end extraordinarily with Christ’s power. It’s then that we, and our beloved daughters, are truly strong.

Maybe even strong enough to embrace a middle name.

As Christ followers,

How can we underscore this message of “strength in weakness” to the girls and women in our lives?

Can we inject this truth into conversations within the “Strong Girl/Strong Woman” movement? What would that look like?

About Nicole:

Despite a deep desire to belong, Nicole Woo often finds life nudging her to the margins. She’s been the only girl on the team, the only public speaking teacher afraid of public speaking, the only Caucasian in the extended family photo, and the only mom who lets her kids drink Fanta. She calls the Rockies home, often pretending to be a Colorado native in spite of her flatland origins.

GIVEAWAY:

A Book Review of A VOICE BECOMING {plus, A GIVEAWAY!} If you share my last post and tag me in it on Instagram, Facebook or Twitter, I’ll enter you to win either a copy of A Voice Becoming (see my review here) or the first edition of a fantastic new magazine for girls called Bravery. The giveaway will end on January 31, 2018. Sorry, I can only mail to U.S. residents!

 

 

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Response to “The Peril of Princesses” by the Mom of a Preteen {Guest Post}

By Lydia Rueger | Twitter: @larueger

I recently read Leslie Verner’s blog post, The Peril of Princesses & ‘Passion and Purity,’ and though I’ve never read Passion and Purity, as a mom of a 12-year-old girl, I have some thoughts on the princess part.

Verner writes, “I don’t want her (my daughter) to worship Falling in Love, but I don’t want her to fear it, either. Instead, I hope she will know she is special, adored and valuable because she is made in the image of God.”

Me, too, for my daughter.

She also writes, “I also want to avoid being duped by the media and marketers targeting my three year old girl.”

Me, too, when my girl was three, and also now.

But I think she’s giving too much long-term credit to movie makers, marketers, and media, and not enough credit to the growing minds of little girls themselves, their hard-working moms, and other strong female influences in their lives.

As my daughter has grown up a bit, the things she likes and watches have become both more complicated and interesting than the love stories surrounding Disney princesses. Post-princess-era, my daughter met Hermione Granger from the Harry Potter series, who, in both book and movie form, is a girl who is best friends with two boys, and known for her intelligence and love of study.

And Ginny Weasley, thought to be “too popular for her own good,” by Ron and Harry in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, is a quick-witted Quidditch player with mad wand skills.

And most recently, my daughter discovered the female characters Eleven and Max from the Stranger Things series—brave girls who overcome difficult circumstances and who were friends with the boys first. These four girl characters all grow to like certain boys in their worlds over time, but  their feelings for these boys are secondary to their strength, and to other things they have going on.

Another thing I’ve realized is that what I focus on in a certain movie is often not what my daughter will remember or even care about. I was a bit of a boy-crazy kid, so I understand what Verner means when she says she doesn’t want falling in love to be her daughter’s sole focus. But who’s to say that it will be, because it was for our generation?

I asked my own daughter recently who her favorite Disney princess was. I predicted she’d say Ariel. “No, she’s dumb,” she said. “Why?” I asked. “Because she just signs a contract without reading it first.” My daughter chose Belle, but not for the love story or her smarts: “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I just like her songs better.”

Often, for my girl, it’s the characters themselves and things they do that she likes most. Will this change? Most likely. But perhaps the good thing about today’s culture in which our daughters are bombarded with media messages is that they will need to be discerning enough to reject the messages that are not true, whether from Disney or elsewhere.

My prayer is that, with the help of God, me, her dad, and the other role models in her life, the positive messages will scream louder than the false ones, and she will choose honorably. And if she doesn’t, I pray she knows she is loved much more by God and by her family than messages from the world would have her believe.

***

About Lydia:

Lydia Rueger is a mom of two, writer and editor for Colorado Parent (www.coloradoparent.com) magazine, and picture book writer pursuing publication. She’s other things, too. Learn more at www.lydiarueger.com

**This post includes Amazon Affiliate links.

***

Thank you, Lydia, for sharing on Scraping Raisins today! Head over to her site to check out her writing!

Join me this month as we explore the theme of raising strong girls. I have way too many ideas and not enough time, but my goal is to post on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays this month. Shoot me an email at scrapingraisins (dot) gmail (dot) com if you’d like to guest post on this topic.

As it’s sex trafficking awareness month, I’ll also be sharing some resources on that topic. Sign up for my mid-month digest and end-of-month secret newsletter to stay updated on all the posts as well as to get links to interesting books, podcasts, recipes and articles I’ve come across this month.

Sign up for my Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

 

Great Expectations {guest post by Nikki Wuu}

By Nikki Wuu

It happens every December 25th. The buildup, the anticipation, the climax. The disappointment. I wish I were talking about something else–like a vacation, my birthday, (I’m NOT talking about sex) or even the sugar cookies I always burn. Because you’d think I should know better. (Yeah, about the cookies–parchment paper …)

But at the end of the day, every ounce of adrenaline that surged through my veins the past four weeks has completely dried up and is replaced by dirty dishes, shredded wrapping paper, and an empty feeling in the pit of my soul. Once again, I realize nothing about Christmas has exceeded, or even met, my expectations. Disappointment sets in, so I reach for another burnt cookie.

It’s taken me nearly 40 years to realize the problem lies with my expectations. Stay with me while I go deeper.

Starting November 1st, Hallmark Channel Christmas movies are my default. My husband thinks I’ve gone to the dark side. He smirks every time he catches me in the act. He wonders what I see in their formulaic plots that go something like this:

  • Opening: Upbeat Christmas music, with (usually New York) city skyline.
  • Main Character: Good-looking, likable, but overworked person, who has forgotten what Christmas is all about.
  • Plot thickens: Protagonist somehow finds self transported to a rural setting, complete with small-town charms and fake snow. There is some important task to accomplish here. All the while, our hero encounters townspeople who have chosen the tranquil, meaningful life over big city buzz.
  • Protagonist gets reluctantly paired with a charming counterpart of the opposite sex, where there is simultaneously relationship chemistry AND animosity. This counterpart is ALWAYS involved in helping underprivileged children in the community.
  • The two, despite their differences, manage to get coffee, fall in love, and complete the important task (that usually involves the children mentioned above) in 10-12 minutes.
  • Next, an old flame–a lesser romantic interest with flawed character traits, usually materialism– surfaces, because, there isn’t enough Christmas drama yet, but …
  • True love eventually prevails, and all of the deep, previously unmet Christmas dreams are realized, as the smiling, needy children exclaim, “This is the greatest Christmas ever!”
  • Cue digital snow and a winking, bell-ringing Santa.

Christmas, happily ever after, with only a few incontinence commercials thrown in.

I think I’ve figured it out. I crave these movies because of their predictably happy endings: all hopes realized, all dreams fulfilled. The best, most beautiful Christmas ever. And shouldn’t it always be that way?

After all, wasn’t this how it happened that first night? Beautiful angels, dazzling the skies, with shepherds and sheep marveling. A star, camel-riding kings from the East bearing the first extravagant Christmas gifts. A stable, snug and warm with accommodating animals gently looking on, as a baby is born “silently” because “no crying He makes”. Joseph huddles around Mary as she holds a glowing child, possibly with a halo. “All is calm, all is bright.” Unsurpassable beauty is the backdrop to tranquility, warmth, and deep, personal fulfillment.

That’s how I’ve always pictured it.

But as I crack open my Bible this December, I am experiencing some cognitive dissonance. Here, I see brutal reality, pain, confusion, and a million untied loose ends:

  • Terrified shepherds are paid a visit. (Think powerful, mighty messengers of God instead of winged ballerinas with tights.) (Luke 2:9)
  • Ancient astrologers, tracking a star they hoped would lead them to the political King of the Jews. This is no easy journey, with no certain destination. Along the way, they meet, and later avert, a power-hungry, murderous king. (Luke 2:1-12)
  • A previously disgraced, single mom gives birth to a baby, and lays him in a feeding trough. (Luke 2:7). It’s not written here, but I’m just guessing (and any mom who’s delivered can confirm) this birth was NOT “silent.” And since He was born alive, we can safely conclude, some “crying He makes.” No halo on record.

It turns out a King did come that day. But it wasn’t the arrival anyone expected.

Maybe it’s just years and years of staring at elegant nativity sets and beautifully illustrated picture books. Or my viewing of countless, adorable Christmas pageants. Or maybe it’s just something inside of me wants my expectations met. I want beautiful predictability, not this story. THIS story makes me uneasy.  I’ll take the Hallmark version instead.

I was born into a “my” society. So were you, if you are alive right now, and are a card-carrying member of the American middle-class. This is NOT to say that life is easy. I’m just saying that by growing up here, you inherit a me-centric, consumer- driven mentality. It’s almost unavoidable.

Have you noticed that, here in America, we’ve made just about every calendar holiday about us? (Ok, maybe not Arbor Day, not yet.)

This is especially true of me at Christmas. Somewhere, among all of those Christmas’s past, I’ve managed to turn a celebration of the “Dawn of Redeeming Grace” into, well, my own birthday, because Christmas morning I still wake up wondering, “Where are my presents, my celebratory decorations, my delicious desserts?”

My.

And even if my (poor husband) manages to nail it, and get exactly what my heart desires, I’m good for about an hour. Because almost everything about “my” is temporary. It is, at best, a bottomless pit that I unsuccessfully try to fill. And I can’t. No matter how I try, I fall short.

I’m learning that “expectations” are not the problem. It’s when I add the “my” in front (literally and figuratively).

But what if I inserted “Great” here, instead?

As in “His Greatness,” realizing that this definition defies almost anything my 21st century, western paradigm can imagine.

Great exchanged the glories of heaven to become the dust of earth. Great emptied Himself, so we could be filled. Great chose death on a cross to give us life. Great failed to meet human expectations, but instead redeemed humanity.

This is infinitely greater than my version of great.

Embracing this great means shedding all of my preconceived notions about what great really is. It’s trusting them instead to the Great One, because in all of His greatness, He still chose to come near.

About Nikki:

Despite a deep desire to belong, Nikki Woo often finds life nudging her to the margins. She’s been the only girl on the team, the only public speaking teacher afraid of public speaking, the only Caucasian in the extended family photo, and the only mom who lets her kids drink Fanta. She calls the Rockies home, often pretending to be a Colorado native in spite of her flatland origins.

Subscribe to my monthly-ish newsletter and I’ll send you the first chapter of my book Invited: The Power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness for FREE!

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