Rev. McKinley L. Sims, M.Div.

From a friend: “I encourage anyone else who feels like getting involved to do share what they feel comfortable sharing, either in the form of comments or your own posts. Even (read: ESPECIALLY) if you’re not black , your interactions with black culture (or lack thereof) are important for everyone to hear about. If Black History Month became an annual time to convene on social media and in person to discuss our own honest view of black culture, history, and race relations, THAT would be a Black History Month I could stand behind. Let’s light up our news feeds with honest discussions and real emotions and see what comes of it, shall we?”
#bumpingintoblackness vol. 1

The way I remember it, my little part of Lubbock was full of kids with different skin colors. My school had families who were stationed at Reese Air Force Base who came from all over the country to live in West Texas. I’m probably over-remembering how many kids of color there were, but I’m fairly sure that I recognized early on that there were not only light-skinned white folks in the world. I knew that we looked different, but I didn’t recognize that we might be treated differently by society. I didn’t know that the Lubbock school district’s decision to bus kids around to better integrate schools was slammed as the wrong choice by good-hearted parents. I didn’t know that Tim Cole had been wrongfully accused and imprisoned a few years before I was born for a violent, sexual crime that he didn’t commit. I didn’t know that the stereotype of the inherently dangerous black man preying on innocent white women was one that had been spouted for centuries in this country as a means of justifying slavery, segregation, Jim Crow laws, prison policies, and ghost stories. I didn’t know that the kind of systemic racism that can’t help but exist in a country that has never come to grips with its dark history of colonialism, racism, and marginalization of “the other.”

I just knew that I had a crush on the most beautiful woman in the world. She was from Houston, and was the lead singer of Destiny’s Child. Their album, The Writing’s on the Wall, was among my first CD purchases. I had a 5th Grade crush on Beyonce Knowles, and I didn’t know that there might be anything weird about that.

I think we’re a little bit luckier than older generations because even though we lived in predominantly white West Texas, we got to see people of color doing everyday things on TV. I watched the Fresh Prince, Family Matters, anything on UPN. Most of my sports heroes growing up were Black or brown-skinned: Mark Mclemore, Pudge Rodriguez, Pele, Muhammad Ali, Will Flemons, Jason Sasser, Darvin Ham, Tony Battie, Rayford Young, Jackie-Joyner Kersee, Alicia Thompson, Zebbie Lethridge, Emmitt Smith, Felix “El Gato” Salvador, Vince Carter, Tiger Woods…and on and on and on.

They were my heroes, and I knew these people had different skin-tones than me. I had no idea they might be treated differently than me because of it. I didn’t know “blackness,” “otherness,” and “whiteness” were things. I didn’t think anything about wearing my #22 jersey and pretending to be Emmitt. I didn’t think anything about wanting to watch Jaleel White after watching Happy Days.

I didn’t know until I professed my love (courageously, if memory serves) for Beyonce Knowles in the back of the bus on a football trip. I remember getting confused stares. I thought they didn’t know who Beyonce was, but that wasn’t the confusing thing. The confusing thing was why a scrawny white kid thought a black woman was the most beautiful woman in the world, as opposed to Cindy Crawford or Rebecca Romijn.

I finally tapped into all the social cues that were all around me, but I was unaware. It was weird for a white person to see a black person as more beautiful than another white person.

I don’t blame my friends in the back of the bus. None of us was prepared to fight against centuries of ingrained cultural programming. If you grow up in a world where every subconscious and overt message is that there is something different about people with different skin tones, how could you not react that way? If you grow up living and breathing in those messages, how could you expect anything different?

I don’t know if that’s the moment that put me on the path to where I am today or not. I don’t know if that’s why I love Common and J. Cole and the Baja Men (say something, go ahead). I don’t know if that’s why I see things differently than some members of my family or not. Maybe I was just born wired differently, or maybe we all are.

What I do know is that, despite my love for Beyonce (which still continues- Bey…you know that he’s no good for you. I will raise those twins if Jay provides the cash!), I used to think that we didn’t need a Black History Month. I used to think it was maybe a little racist that black people had their own month of history, and there wasn’t a White History Month. I couldn’t fight off all the subliminal messaging of our American experiment. But I know better now, so I try to do better now. I know that oppression doesn’t flow up-hill and that when you’re used to privilege, equality can feel like oppression.

I know that to be white in America is to be a participant in racism, try as hard as you might to fend it off, run away, or not think about it. It’s not my fault, it’s not your fault, it’s no single person’s fault. But we are all complicit, and the only way to break out is to dive into the dark depths of our own soul and our nation’s collective one. A starting point is to tell stories of my own bumping into Black History, or at least bumping into the history of Blackness. Everyday, I’m trying to work it through and take baby steps. And maybe one day….