Eight Nativity Myths: How the West Gets It Wrong

My children tore into the Christmas boxes yesterday, leaving books, toys, ornaments, lights and wrapping paper strewn about the living room. They arranged the Fischer Price toy manger in bizarre configurations and started in on their own versions of the Christmas story. A week ago for movie night, we watched the kids’ movie, The Star (complete with Oprah, Tyler Perry and Kelly Clarkson as voice actors) on Netflix and I wondered how much of the plot to critique with my children, age six and under.

Should I tell them there wasn’t a man in armor sent to kill Mary and Joseph—or a talking donkey? Or that Jesus wasn’t born in a barn? Should I point out that while the characters in the film looked more Middle Eastern than most adaptations of the nativity (apart from the blue-eyed Mary), their speech and mannerisms were decidedly “Western”? Was it even worth pushing against a story that has morphed into a romanticized version unlike what actually happened two thousand years ago …?

Living overseas and studying culture in graduate school taught me that I often view the world through Western lenses, forming incorrect assumptions as I read the Bible. Yes, the Reformation brought the freedom to study the Bible on our own, but with that comes the mighty weight of responsibility to research the culture behind the text. We can’t just take the Bible at face value and expect to get it right.

As I researched for my book about hospitality from a cross-cultural perspective this past year, I racked up late fines for a book I checked out of the library three times (and finally bought this week). Kenneth E. Bailey spent forty years living and teaching New Testament in Egypt, Lebanon, Jerusalem and Cyprus. The book, called Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes peels away the lenses we’ve used to read the nativity story, confronting our assumptions with truths about Eastern culture.

He says the misinterpretations of the nativity began when an anonymous Christian wrote a “novel” two hundred years after the birth of Jesus. It’s the first fictional account suggesting that Jesus’ birth occurred the very night Mary and Joseph entered Bethlehem. Bailey describes it as “full of imaginative details.” Along with this fictional account, we’ve managed to invent plenty of myths on our own. Here are some I hope to eventually debunk for my children (and myself) as we lug out our Christmas paraphernalia year after year:

Myth 1: No Room at the Inn

Our nativity stories usually involve a dejected Joseph and Mary finally bedding down in the straw of a barn because there was no room for them in the inn. But Bailey writes that “if Luke expected his readers to think Joseph was turned away from an ‘inn’ he would have used the word pandocheion, which clearly meant a commercial inn. But in Luke 2:7 it is katalyma that is crowded …literally, a katalyma is simply ‘a place to stay’… if at the end of Luke’s Gospel, the word katalyma means a guest room attached to a private home (22:11), why would it not have the same meaning near the beginning of this Gospel?”(32, 33)

Bailey points out that most Middle Eastern homes for the past 3,000 years were made of two rooms—one a guest room, and one for the family and their animals. Joseph had likely already arranged to stay at the home of a friend (he knew Mary would be giving birth around then, so of course he would plan ahead–perhaps he’s not as inept as we imagine …). Rather than a story of rejection, the birth of Jesus was, in fact, one of grand  hospitality—a family gave up their own room to make space for the holy family.

As proof that Jesus wasn’t born in squalor, Bailey points out that in the spirit of Middle Eastern hospitality, the shepherds would have whisked Mary away to their homes had their accommodations been unacceptable for a baby. As it was, they left them there, deeming the lodging fit for royalty, and raced off to spread the incredible news.

Myth 2:  Feminine Angels

 

For whatever reason, this misinterpretation of the Christmas story really irks me. In the Bible, angels were feared. They were warriors who inspired trepidation and trembling, not cuddling and cooling. Perpetuating the myth of an anemic angel lowers the bar on God’s unnerving power. Every single angel in the Bible is described as male, and most immediately say, “Fear not”—because they were terrifying.

Myth 3: White Jesus

 

Last year, I rounded up all the toys and pictures of baby Jesus I could find in my home. Most of them revealed a Caucasian, white-looking Jesus. While every culture has depictions of a Jesus who looks like they do, it’s still important to acknowledge that Jesus was born in the Middle East, therefore he most likely had brown skin, brown eyes and dark hair.

Why does this matter? In an article for Christianity Today, author and speaker Christena Cleveland writes, “Not only is white Jesus inaccurate, he also can inhibit our ability to honor the image of God in people who aren’t white.” (While you’re at it, you should follow her on Instagram because her posts lately have been amazing.) Deifying whiteness deadens the broad brush of a God who pigmented all skin and called it “good.”

Images matter. The more we surround ourselves with images of a white Jesus, the more we begin to believe that he was white. (That said, it is very difficult to find nativity sets with a brown Jesus–the Fischer price one we have has only one brown-skinned figure–the shepherd. But I have a few options at the end of this post.)

Myth 4: The Timeline

In our carved wooden nativity set, shepherds, donkeys, wise men and sheep crowd around baby Jesus. Most people know about this myth, but Richards and O’Brien in Misreading Scripture with Western Eyes note that, “When the wise men arrived, they went to a house where the toddler Jesus and his parents were living (Mt. 2:11)” (144). The visitation of the wise men occurred years after the birth of Christ, not on the night of his birth. While it’s not wrong to compress the Christmas story for the sake of a play or pageant, it still bears acknowledging that events have been tampered with in our retelling.

Myth 5: The Omission of Infanticide

Image from The Advent Book.

This isn’t so much of a misconception as an omission in the story we tell our wee ones. I’m not suggesting we go into this as we light our Advent wreathes and eat cookies as a family, but like so many of our Bible stories, I think we’re in danger of desensitizing ourselves and our little ones to violence when we gloss over murder, rape, genocide, torture, and abuse in our common Sunday School Bible stories. Amazon offers a startling disclaimer for the children’s Adventure Bible: “As with any full Bible, in the context of Scripture there is frank mention of drunkenness, nudity, and sex that parents may not expect to see in a children’s edition.”

As adults, we grow so used to the familiar tales that we forget to be shocked, horrified or to even to acknowledge the sickening violence. The story of the birth of Jesus is no different, as Herod slaughtered innocent children in his rage at the coming king. Bailey says “there appears to be a conspiracy of silence which refuses to notice the massacre. Why then does Matthew include it?” (58) He suggests that “if the Gospel can flourish in a world that produces the slaughter of the innocents and the cross, the Gospel can flourish anywhere” (59). Perhaps as adults we need to meditate on the violence and allow ourselves to absorb the horror as a way of recognizing God’s presence in suffering.

Myth 6: Mary Was an Unwed Mother

Most Americans read “betrothed” and incorrectly assume it means the same thing as “engaged.” In reality, under Jewish law, Mary and Joseph traveled to Bethlehem as fully married couple who had not yet consummated their marriage. The Middle Eastern view of betrothal bears little resemblance to our conception of engagement in the West.

Myth 7: Mary and Joseph Were All Alone

My Chinese students could never understand why I wanted to be alone–because they never were. In fact, most non-Western cultures are collectivist and can’t understand the individualism of those of us in the United States and parts of Europe. Our Saudi international student said even her 12 year old sister still slept in her parents’ room, an example that holds true in many Middle Eastern cultures. Why would Mary and Joseph have been any different?

As they were traveling back to Bethlehem to register, Bailey points out that most homes would have been available to Joseph, who was of the royal lineage of David. To reject someone of that heritage would bring shame and humiliation to the community. Mary, too, had relatives in the area and had just been visiting her cousin Elizabeth not far away in the “hill country of Judea.” Bethlehem was in the center of Judea. They were not friendless in Bethlehem.

The birth in the family room of a friend’s home would have been attended by other women and midwives as tradition dictated. Far from alone, Mary and Joseph would have been surrounded by more help than they needed. (My friend, Sarah Quezada, is sharing more about what she’s calling “the Advent caravan” the next three Sundays, you can sign up for that here.)

Myth 8: The Boot-Strapping Holy Family

In America at least, many of us love the Cinderella stories of the underdog rising to power. The United States lauds those who pull themselves up by their bootstraps, forge ahead without the blessing or need of others and make something of themselves. I wonder if this love of independence and individualism has seeped into our telling and retelling of our beloved nativity story. We love the idea that an unwed family left home and made something of themselves in spite of rejection. Not needing anyone else, they gave birth alone in a barn to the audience of only animals.

But what if we changed the narrative to reflect the culture in which it was written? A culture that valued hospitality, relationship, togetherness and family? How would this alter our tale?

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Why does all this matter? The more I learn about other cultures, the more I realize how much of my own culture I project onto my personal reading of the Bible. Understanding the nuances of stories in the Bible from the perspective of the culture in which it was written fills in the gaps of our shallow, faulty understanding.

I know there are resources out there that offer a more accurate nativity story. In our family, we use the Advent book and the Jesus Storybook Bible to share the Christmas story with our little ones, though these also fall short.

The Jesus Storybook Bible has a brown-skinned Jesus.
The Jesus Storybook Bible also has a more accurate timeline.
The Advent Book is straight from the Bible, and we open a door each night leading up to Christmas.

I want my children to peel away the heroics and white-washed Bible stories to see the God behind the myths. Mostly, I want my kids to know the many dazzling facets of God they’re missing when they settle for a Western god made in their own image.

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Resources:

The Story of Christmas (recommended by a friend of a friend)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Olive Wood Miniature Nativity Set (we have this one–it’s small and not for play, but nice!)

 

 

Nativity Sets from Peru (this site looks awesome–they have sets from all around the world!) This mini one from Peru is $16.99.

African American Nativity for $54.99

 

Bark Cloth Nativity Set for $29.99

 

 

 

Painted Peg Doll Nativity Set for $40 (Looks more Middle Eastern, but still has a female angel…)

 

 

Diverse Peg Doll Nativity Set for $142 (more money if you order the Dr. Who character!!!…???)

 

 

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For December, the theme on the blog is “The Other Side of Advent.” Let me know if you’re still interested in guest posting (I’m usually willing to extend deadlines)! Check submission guidelines here.

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I want my children to peel away the heroics and white-washed Bible stories to see the God behind the myths. #whitejesus #nativitymyth #nativitystory #advent #adventmyth #westernculture #easternculture

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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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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!

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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

Day 24: A letter to my 13-year-old Self {Guest Post for 31 Days of #WOKE}

 

By Leah Abraham | Twitter: @leahabraham9

 

Dear 13-year-old Leah,

High school is hard, isn’t it? As a freshman in high school, you are more worried about relating to your peers and your changing body than your grades.

Of course you would be. It’s not easy moving from India to America at 13. You’re trying to figure out the simple things, like navigating the grocery store and figuring out how to order coffee from Starbucks. All you want to do is fit in, belong, and not feel so lonely anymore.

But you’ll manage. You’ll figure it out piece by piece. All immigrants do eventually. You won’t call yourself an immigrant for a few years, and you won’t have the time or energy to contemplate the complex race issues of this country just yet. But you will soon.

Right now, you’re learning how to change your accent. Oh yes, it’s hard work. You’re rewiring your brain completely. You’re carefully considering each syllable before it leaves your tongue. You stand in front of the mirror, practicing your speech over and over and over and over again until you can’t remember how to pronounce “February.”

You’re exhausted and embarrassed. But don’t worry. By this time next year, no one will know that you are an immigrant. No one will know your “dirty little secret.” You’ll mask your loneliness with a newfound accent, and you’ll manage to get through high school in one piece.

You just want to fit in. You want to belong, to be loved and to be accepted.

Oh, love, there is no shame in that. You’ll still crave those things years later.

And here’s the thing — in about ten years, you’ll think about the cost of giving up your Indian accent. Remember the concept of leaving home to find home? You’ll start wondering if it’s the same with your accent.

You’ll wonder if by giving up your accent, you were really trying to give up on your people, your heritage, and a part of yourself that you were too young to love.

One day, you’ll wonder if you’ve alienated yourself from other immigrants, people you consider your people.

You see, the current administration isn’t the best. These days, the word “immigrant” bears a new connotation, one that divides and segregates and alienates, and you’ll wonder how much you’re still allowed to call yourself an immigrant.

You’ll have friends who wake up each morning, shaking in fear of being deported. You’ll have friends who feel forced to “act white” and suppress their heritage and culture. You’ll have friends who struggle with racial justice. Heck, you’ll struggle with racial justice.

You’ll be afraid to ask questions that might be “stupid” or “insensitive,” but you’ll do your best to ask them anyway, because you cannot stand the new administration and the hurt it is causing.

You’ll remember your friends who are hurting, your community who’s struggling, and your people who you’ve learned to love over the past decade.

You’ll remember their stories–especially the ones about families emptying their pockets and selling their dreams so they could build a better world for their kids.

You will refuse to look away because you want to be their hope in these dark days.

It always comes down to hope, doesn’t it? Hope for a better tomorrow. Hope for freedom. Hope for belonging and life.

You hoped to be loved and accepted when you lost your accent. When you’re 23, you’ll grieve that loss and hope to forgive yourself one day.

Hey, 13-year-old Leah, practice radical hope. Practice it, not only for yourself, but also for the people you are about to meet. Practice it for the immigrants who hustle daily. Practice it for your friends who fear deportation. Practice it for those who struggle with racial justice. Practice it for those who tire under the new administration.

Practice it until you remember that you don’t have to change yourself to be loved, to be seen or to belong. You are loved, seen and invited to belong just as you are.

 

About Leah:

Leah is a storyteller + writer + journalist + creative + empathizing romantic + pessimistic realist + ISFP + Enneagram type 2 + much more. She lives in the Seattle area where she works as an education reporter and features writer. Bonus facts: She loves the great indoors, hates to floss, and is obsessed with Korean food and her dorky, immigrant family.

Read more of Leah’s writings at SheLoves.

New to the Series? Start HERE (though you can jump in at any point!).

A 31 Day Series Exploring Whiteness and Racial Perspectives

During the month of March, 2017, I will be sharing a series called 31 Days of #Woke. I’ll be doing some personal excavating of views of race I’ve developed through being in schools that were under court order to be integrated, teaching in an all black school as well as in diverse classrooms in Chicago and my experiences of whiteness living in Uganda and China. I’ll also have some people of color share their views and experiences of race in the United States (I still have some open spots, so contact me if you are a person of color who wants to share). So check back and join in the conversation. You are welcome in this space.

Day 6: “What are you?” {Guest Post for 31 Days of #WOKE}

Day 6: "What are you?" {Guest Post for 31 Days of #WOKE}

By Vannae Savig

I am mixed, multiracial, mixed-race, or whatever the new PC term is now. I didn’t realize this until people throughout my life began to remind me of it.

I always wonder if I wouldn’t even think about being mixed as much as I do, if society didn’t remind me of it all the time. People are often curious, and ask me the dreaded question, “What are you?”

Human. I am human.

I know that’s not the answer they want. I know what they mean. Most of the time I comply, but every once in a while, I play dumb. I pretend for a second that they are looking at me for me, and not my skin or my facial features. I pretend for a moment that race isn’t the most important thing.

***

When I was 4, I was playing with my friend, Chrissy. She and I played a game we called “princesses.” The only problem was Chrissy kept telling me that I wasn’t allowed to be the princess, I had to be the maid. Of course I was upset, and reminded her that every girl is a princess, and that it was my house, my rules. “Well, it’s because you’re black. Everyone knows black people are slaves, or maids.” She replied with so much confidence, I believed her for a moment. I knew then that I was black.

In third grade there was a girl named Natalie. She forever called me names like “oreo” or “white.” She told me I thought I was better than everyone else. She said because I was mixed I couldn’t play with her and her friends, who were black. She threatened to beat me up often. Thank goodness they were empty threats. Finally, I asked her what her problem was with me. She simply replied, “You’re white. Not black.” I was shocked. I looked down at my brown skin, confused. I went home and told my parents. They told me that yes, I had European heritage. I knew then that I was white.

In elementary school we learned about Native Americans. I was so excited about this because I knew my great grandfather was from the Blackfeet tribe, and my grandmother was mixed with the Choctaw tribe. I quickly raised my hand and announced this to the class. For the rest of the day some classmates raised their hands up next to their faces and said, “HOWGH” to me. Then some of the boys even chased me around at recess calling me Pocahontas. I knew then that I was Native American.

In high school, I was a part of my church’s youth group. The kids in youth group often made fun of my Mexican heritage. One boy repeatedly said, “Vannae are you a MexiCAN or a MexiCANT?” I remember some kids asked if my grandfather “jumped the border.” Or asked me if I was a U.S citizen. I knew then that I was Mexican.

***

These stories are my reality. In America, race is important. In America, labels are important. Being able to put labels on people, being able to put people in boxes, is the American way. If a person doesn’t fit into the boxes that are created, then they have no place to fit in.

None of these labels make me who I am; I know that. But they are constant reminders of how people see me. They are a constant reminder that I belong everywhere and nowhere.

If I choose one of the things I’m mixed with, I feel like I’m forgetting the rest of me. Like I’m denying the truth. Like I’m pretending to be something that I’m not.

When I’ve answered the dreaded question of “What are you?” with “I am black,” people respond with, “Yes and what else?” People want the full story.

Or sometimes the opposite happens. Once people hear that I have African American heritage, that’s enough for them. It’s as if the “one drop” rule still exists. They only see my skin color. That’s all they see in me. 

As a multiracial woman, I am slowly but surely becoming more proud of who I am. I am becoming more and more comfortable with not fitting in a box.

I am black and white.

I am mixed and multiracial.

I am Mexican and Native American.

I am human.

I am me.

 

Day 6: "What are you?" {Guest Post for 31 Days of #WOKE}Vannae is pastor and lives with her hubby and daughter in Colorado. She is passionate about justice and loves to help the voiceless find their voice. Vannae enjoys spending her time creating, and can often be found writing, or creating new recipes in her kitchen.

 

 

New to the Series? Start HERE (though you can jump in at any point!).

A 31 Day Series Exploring Whiteness and Racial Perspectives

During the month of March, 2017, I will be sharing a series called 31 Days of #Woke. I’ll be doing some personal excavating of views of race I’ve developed through being in schools that were under court order to be integrated, teaching in an all black school as well as in diverse classrooms in Chicago and my experiences of whiteness living in Uganda and China. I’ll also have some people of color share their views and experiences of race in the United States (I still have some open spots, so contact me if you are a person of color who wants to share). So check back and join in the conversation. You are welcome in this space.

 

 

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