2012 October

The Things I Didn’t Say…

October 31, 2012 By Deidra

You called me “Brave” and you typed those words that make me squirm: “…for such a time as this…” and I am grateful for your cheers and for your encouragement and I am overwhelmed because you sat at this table for 31 Days and you didn’t flinch. Not once.

You asked your tough questions. You answered with grace. And truth. You took your heart off your sleeve and laid it right there in the middle of the dining room table for everyone to see. And when you realized there were hearts on the table, you held them gently and wrapped them warmly and lifted them up to the Light and we all cried together. And we pressed on. And through.

But there was so much I didn’t say.

I didn’t talk about American politics. I tried. I talked it over with H and we tried to see if there was a way to talk about it when the season is so heavy now and how to talk without making it sound as if I think you should vote for a certain person. I voted days ago, and I have turned off the television and I’ve hidden the FB status updates, and the story of these past four years (and this particular campaign season) has bent my spirit a bit because no one wants to mention all the things that seem so clear from where I sit in this brown skin of mine. I don’t know if it was the right thing to do — remaining silent, with so many others. Only time will tell, and maybe I’ll talk about it later; after the deed is done.

I didn’t talk about the way my children have a different viewpoint and they think I make too big a deal of race and church and culture and all of that and how sometimes I wonder if they’re right and maybe it would help if we’d all stop asking these questions and just live as if we’ve already figured out all of that stuff.

I didn’t talk about how I sometimes wonder if some of the wonderful opportunities I’ve been experiencing (and here, I don’t want to take anything away from God, but I have to admit, I wonder) are the result of what some people call “tokenism” and, even though my writing would have to be halfway decent to even get a hearing, what if I was invited because I can write and because they realized they needed to have at least one person of color on the roster and without my brown skin, I may never have made it on their radar.

Who knows?

There’s a chance this conversation will continue beyond these 31 Days. The door has been opened, the table is set, and a place has been reserved just for you. I think we’ve done well, here. I’ve been so proud to point people to the comments you’ve left and the many ways you’ve embodied grace. I’m indebted to Rachel, Jennifer, Kendra, Michelle, and Grace for adding their words and their hearts to the conversation. I’m humbled by those of you who told me you’ve wrestled with these words at your own dining room tables with people you love and who love you back.

Thank you.

I’m convinced God is up to something. Let’s keep talking, okay?

Inspired? Questions? Hopes and dreams? If you’ve written a post in response to these 31 days, please feel free to link it up here. Yes, let’s keep talking…

55 Comments Filed Under: 31 Days: Going There

In My Brown Mind, In My Light Skin

October 30, 2012 By Deidra

I met Grace online. Grace’s blog, Gabbing With Grace, was one of the sites recommended back when I asked, “Where IS Everyone?” (thank you, Sandy!). Grace is fun and smart and beautiful. Today, she’s writing from her heart to ours. I’m honored to host her here…

Growing up in my light skin, which is practically as light as Wonder Bread, I fielded a lot of questions:

“What are you?”

“Yo. What color is you?”

“So. Like, what’s your -like- race or whatever?”

I hoped – secretly wished- my future children would bear far more melanin than me. Like most carefully laid plans by 12 year olds, it didn’t happen. When I made the choice to marry a white man I did so knowing my future children would have a destiny much different from mine.

My two precious sons -beautiful as they are- are even more pale skinned than me. While one has the hair texture of your average white kid, the other has thicker, curlier hair like mine but still looks like any other white kid. Slightly ethnic at best.

When the boys are out with Daddy no one ever questions him, looks at him sideways or gives him any grief. When they are with me people ask if they’re mine, if they’re adopted, if they’re Jewish, if they’re Latino and yes, if I’m the babysitter. The babysitter. Seriously, I’d like to ask all the nosy-Nancy’s if they’d like to give me a paper cut and pour lemon juice in it.

It’s difficult to write about this with feeling like an arse. I hate that someone may wonder if I do or do not love my kids based on their skin colors. If you would extend some trust here while I explain, man I would appreciate it.

As a kid, with a white Ma and a black Dad I began to identify as African-American very early on. My strong leanings towards choosing “my black side” was born out of a hideous amount of racism. Everything from my crazy white step-brother who openly pitied my blackness to my overtly racist Christian school and all white Church who refused to baptize me for “being half black.”

The black kids in my neighborhood insisted that if I had one drop of black blood I was black. While my white friends and even relatives made it explicitly clear I was not one of them, my black friends and family members adamantly and consistently welcomed me in. Besides all of that, the black dudes I grew up with were all doped on my “light skin, long hair” mixed girl persona while the white boys treated me like a greasy-headed freak. That about sealed the deal, I knew my fate was all wrapped with blacks, a black husband and by God, black(er) children than me!

When my white hubby came along he affirmed and loved my blackness, had no inclination to change me and desired to include my African-American-ness into our home and family culture. Here was a white man who had intentionally displaced himself among blacks even though he grew up in Whitey-Whiteville, had read widely, understood white privilege and was actively working against it instead of taking advantage of it out of ignorance. I loved him and he loved me. First came love, then came marriage, then came the babies in the baby carriage.

The white babies in the baby carriage.

Let me reiterate: before I married white I had chosen to deal with the “consequences” of having white(r) children. I asked myself, “who better than me to raise my white children?” The thing is, I was young and in love and I had no concept of how painful it would be to essentially lose my culture, my heritage through children I gave birth to. It was, has been and remains to be painful.

Obviously, I don’t welcome the dissonance, but the truth is there often bearing down on me, the overwhelm, the discombobulation the glaring reality: I have given birth to two white men.

I try to tell myself that my feelings of shame and disappointment, fear or sadness are perfectly normal for anyone who has endured years of painful racism from a certain ethnic group only to one day give birth to sons of that same ethnic group. That would throw anyone would it not? I hope so. Because really, I’m just your ordinary biracial, African-American woman married to a white man trying to navigate my own racial baggage and teach my precious little white(r) sons how to love themselves and others around them.

Because in my skin, here is what I know to be true:

~ I know I’ll need to teach them what to do when someone asks them, “is THAT your Mom?!?!”

~ As white looking kids with a biracial mother, a black grandfather & black cousins I know they’ll be conflicted when they hear white kids talking badly about blacks.

~ I know how left out they will feel if they ever identify as African-American yet aren’t identifiable as having any “black in them.”

~ I know they will benefit from white privilege as white looking boys with white looking skin and white looking hair and a white father.

~ I know we will need to teach them what that means and how not to step on others on their way up.

~ I know it’s best not to ignore the trials my boys will face with the skin they’re in.

~ I know with certainty who ignored and despised my skin growing up. I know who made life a lot more painful to find my way in the confusing racial terrain that is America. I know the ones who tried to ignore my racial differences were white, and I know the self-hate that taught me.

~ I know the onus is on the hubs and me to steward our little boys into the full knowledge of the God who loves them exactly as they are, and the God who saw fit to give them a white father and a racially mixed, ethnically identifying black Mama.

In my skin, I love them with all of me. And we are all old enough to know love often comes with pain, but the journey is every bit as worth it.

And I wouldn’t rather be on this journey with anyone else.

~~~

Grace is a passionate, big-dreaming storyteller, writing about the hope she’s found in Jesus. Grace is married to Dave, and the mother of two little boys, and therefore, working hard to memorize Thomas the Tank Engine’s vast friendship base. Grace likes to think she’s Joyce Meyer meets Halle Berry meets Anne Lammott…but she also knows she shouldn’t think more highly of herself than she ought. Grace works as a program coordinator for a Foundation serving high school students in NYC & Kalamazoo, MI. Grace is an essayist in the upcoming anthology, I Speak for Myself: 40 American Christian Women Under 40 addressing the topic of taboo. (White Cloud Press, 2013). Also, she’s working on her first book, Detroit’s Daughter, a memoir about surviving her father, her brother, abuse, racism, Christians, boys, and poverty, while growing up in inner-city Detroit. She loves social networking, photography, fashion & swiss cake rolls. She hates horcruxes and human trafficking. You can follow her adventures in trying to lead a purposeful, grace-filled, beautiful life on her blog, Gabbing With Grace, or on Twitter.

1,133 Comments Filed Under: 31 Days: Going There Tagged With: Grace Biskie

Booked

October 29, 2012 By Deidra

Six years ago, I enrolled in a class at a local university. I was looking for the answers to my questions about race and church. Unfortunately, I didn’t find the answers I was looking for. The truth is, I was looking in the wrong place. I honestly belive we’ve made a lot of progress right here, over the course of the past 31 (ish) days. Thank you for hanging out here and adding your voice to the conversation.

On Wednesday, I’ll be adding a linky to my post. I know some of you have already written your own posts about race, and others of you might like to write something to share. I hope you’ll stop by to link up your posts here. It can be an archive of sorts.

When I took that course six years ago, I didn’t get my questions answered, but I did find some resources that pointed me in the right direction. I thought you might be interested in some of the books I read that year, and that helped to shape some of my thoughts about race, grace, church, and faith:

People of the Dream: Multiracial Congregations in the United States - Michael O. Emerson has written a lot of books. Most of them are about multiracial congregations. He’s a college professor, and he likes research. (The 80% I mentioned in an earlier post is Emerson’s suggestion.) This book is the result of case studies of various multiracial religious congregations in America.

Gracism: The Art of Inclusion - It’s amazing how the letter “G” changes everything, huh? David A. Anderson begins this book with his first day as an intern at Willow Creek Community Church. That day, he was stopped by a police officer for what many of us would term “Driving While Black.” Anderson was stopped twice. On the same day. Despite his bad day, Anderson writes about grace, and encourages us all to press past what we see to realize what God has in store for the Body of Christ.

Building a Healthy Multi-ethnic Church: Mandate, Commitments and Practices of a Diverse Congregation (Jossey-Bass Leadership Network Series) - H and I have this book on our bookshelf, but we haven’t read it, yet. However, no matter where I bring up the topic of multi-ethnic churches, someone inevitably mentions Mark DeYmaz and The Mosiac Church of Central Arkansas. The church itself is just about six hours south of my front door. One day, I plan to spend a Sunday morning there. Here’s a endorsement from the book jacket: “Mark DeYmaz has provided the body of Christ with the answer to one of its most embarrassing dilemmas: Sunday segregation. Building a Healthy Multi-Ethnic Church is a very biblical plan for church leaders committed to building a church that looks like the world in which they minister.” (Miles McPherson, senior pastor, The Rock Church, San Diego, CA)

The Yada Yada Prayer Group (The Yada Yada Prayer Group, Book 1) - Okay, so this isn’t just one book. This is a series of novels, and one of the best words to describe the series is “delightful.” I hardly ever use that word. One thing I’ve noticed about the vast majority of books in this world is that the main character (and all of his or her acquaintances) is assumed to be white. When I started reading The Yada Yada Prayer Group, I was delighted (there it is again) to find a surprisingly diverse cast of characters. And not a caricature among them! Neta Jackson has been called to write these books for such a time as this. She’s a friend of mine, and I wish you could meet her. The books are fun to read and they deal with tough issues. But be warned, once you get started, it’s difficult to stop.

Letters Across the Divide: Two Friends Explore Racism, Friendship, and Faith - David Anderson, author of Gracism, and his friend Brent Zuercher, a businessman, write letters to one another in which they speak honestly about race. It’s a lot like what we’ve been doing right here at JumpingTandem. They stay at the table, ask and answer tough questions, and hope the best in all things. (We have this book somewhere, but I couldn’t find it to add it to the photo for today’s post.)

Our conversations here over the past few weeks have been beautiful. They’re the beginning of something big God is doing. If you’re interested in finding out more about where He might be trying to take us, consider reading one of these books.

Can you recommend any other books? (Don’t forget the linky this Wednesday!)

(Yep. I’m still reading. Find out more, here.)

32 Comments Filed Under: 31 Days: Going There, The List Tagged With: books, Brent Zuercher, David Anderson, Mark DeYmaz, Michael O. Emerson, Neta Jackson

Sunday

October 27, 2012 By Deidra

“The Messiah has made things up between us so that we’re now together on this, both non-Jewish outsiders and Jewish insiders. He tore down the wall we used to keep each other at a distance. He repealed the law code that had become so clogged with fine print and footnotes that it hindered more than it helped. Then he started over. Instead of continuing with two groups of people separated by centuries of animosity and suspicion, he created a new kind of human being, a fresh start for everybody.”

~Ephesians 2:14-15 (MSG)

~~~

Welcome to The Sunday Community. Link up with a photo and just a few, brief words of inspiration – a favorite quote, a favorite line of words from the bible, a short poem, a small thought.

Not many words at all.

Then, extend a bit of hospitality to the others here. Take some time to visit with one another and share a bit of grace. Please grab the Sunday button from the link at the top of the page to post at your place, so others know where to find us.

1,080 Comments Filed Under: The Sunday Community Tagged With: Ephesians 2:14-15

I Assumed

October 26, 2012 By Deidra

You know Michelle, right? Michelle and I met online first. We knew we lived in the same town, but even so, we were both surprised when we ran into each other one night in a coffee shop around the corner from our homes. Turns out, Michelle and I live just about two miles from each other. One day last summer, Michelle and I went to lunch together. We rode our bikes in the sweltering heat and shared spectacular food at my favorite restaurant. When we finished our meals and stood outside near our bicycles, Michelle said she had something to tell me. Today, she’s sharing that story with you:

~~~

So you might think it’s a little odd that I’m going to tell you a story about Deidra – a wacky, kind-of-uncomfortable story – right here at her very own place. But yeah, that’s what I’m going to do…so here it goes…

Deidra and I met online first, even though we actually live in the same town, less than two miles from one another. One day, a few weeks into our online friendship, I popped over to her place and saw a photograph, beneath which was a caption identifying the women as her mother and her sister.

I looked at the photo. And then I read the caption again. Her mother and sister? Her family? These women were African-American. How could Deidra’s sister and mother be black, when she was white?

The answer – the one you already know, of course – is that Deidra is not white. She’s black, just like her mother and sister in the picture.

In all the weeks I’d known Deidra, I’d simply assumed she was white.

Italian, to be specific. I’d assumed Deidra was Italian. In her blog picture – the tiny profile shot she used to have up there in the corner of her sitting on a brick wall in a summery dress – she looked Italian to me, with sun-kissed skin and a vibrant smile.

A panicky monologue ran through my head as I stared at the picture of Deidra’s family on my computer screen. Oh my sweet heaven I’m a racist…I don’t want to be a racist…Oh please tell me this doesn’t mean I’m a racist…This can’t possibly mean I’m a racist, right? Right?

For more than two years I felt guilty about the assumption I’d made, long after Deidra and I met in person and became real-life, in-the-flesh friends. Long after we’d shared a conference hotel room and she’d seen me in my ratty pajamas and we’d set our toothbrushes next to the hotel sink. Long after I’d met her husband and she’d met mine and we’d sat at the dining room table and held hands over grace.

Finally, this past summer, I told Deidra my story. I guess you could say I confessed. As we leaned our bikes against the brick wall outside the sandwich shop, I looked at the ground, scuffed my sandal in the dirt and told Deidra that I had something to tell her, something I’d wanted to tell her for a long time.

“The kind of story where we hug at the end?” she asked, laughing. And I laughed, too, but shrilly, afraid that maybe she wouldn’t want to hug me when I finished my story, when I told her I’d been surprised to realize she was black.

She didn’t even blink, of course. Deidra was gracious and loving, just like she always is. She smiled and laughed her wind-chiming laugh as we talked a little bit about the kinds of assumptions we make and the expectations and notions we bring to relationships, both new and old. And then we strapped on our helmets and pedaled home through the Nebraska heat.

I still think a lot about the conversation Deidra and I had outside the sandwich shop that day. And I still worry a little bit. Because the fact is, the assumption I made about Deidra two years ago? It’s not an isolated incident. I make assumptions about people I know well, and about people I don’t know at all, every single day. I carry my history, culture and environment in my heart, in my mind and in my back pocket, and, for good or bad, this contributes to who I am, how I live in the world and how I interact with others in my community.

The key, I think (and believe me, I’m still trying to learn this as I go along), is to recognize and acknowledge these assumptions when they occur and to define them as such: as assumptions – not fact, usually fiction, a product of my own “stuff.” And to know and believe, too, that just as my assumptions don’t define someone else, they don’t define me either.

So…can you think of a time when you assumed something about someone else that turned out to be untrue? Did you learn anything? What did that tell you about yourself?

A Massachusetts native, Michelle DeRusha moved to Nebraska a decade ago, where she discovered the Great Plains, grasshoppers the size of chickens…and God. She writes about finding and keeping faith in the everyday at her blog, Graceful, as well as a monthly religion and spirituality column for the Lincoln Journal Star and for a variety of online publications, including The High Calling. She’s mom to two rambunctious, bug-loving boys, Noah and Rowan, and wife to Brad, an English professor. You can also connect with Michelle on Twitter and Facebook. Michelle will also be speaking at JumpingTandem: The Retreat.

87 Comments Filed Under: 31 Days: Going There Tagged With: Michelle DeRusha

When I Was Two…

October 24, 2012 By Deidra

Over the past two days, I’ve spent a long time reading and responding to your comments about race and church. You gave me hope. Thank you. Thank you for staying at the table, and for extending amazing amounts of incredible grace to one another. Thank you for giving each other — for giving me — space to ask the tough questions, and to test the waters in a brand new sea.

Thank you for sharing your stories. Thank you for reading each other’s stories. Thank you for hitting “publish” on comments that may have scared you to death. It has been a humbling experience to see you offer up such sacred words in this space.

For all these decades, I’ve wondered why I can’t shake these questions I have, especially when it comes to the church. And then, last night, I wrote this in response to a comment from Christina M:

When I was two years old, my parents were looking for a new church. They found a church in the Yellow Pages (remember those?) and we went one Sunday morning. My parents opened the door to the sanctuary, did “the sweep”, and realized there was only one other black family in the congregation. In that instant, they decided to leave, but by then, I had already toddled halfway down the aisle. They had no choice but to go in and find a seat, and we remained at that church for the next eight years until my dad was transferred to a different state. Crazy, huh?

I wrote that. And then I read it. I read it over and over and I wondered if, perhaps, God knew, even when I was two years old, that we would be having this conversation this month? I wondered if He knew that you would be the people who could have this conversation without stomping out of the room, or pointing fingers, or drawing a line in the sand and refusing to budge? I wonder what He’s up to?

You too?

38 Comments Filed Under: 31 Days: Going There

So, About Church…

October 22, 2012 By Deidra

This whole thing started because, for decades, I’ve been bugging God with all of the questions I’ve been sharing here this month. Where IS everybody, God? Are other people wondering the same things I’m wondering? Why doesn’t anyone talk about these things? I kept bugging Him, telling Him He should get someone out there to talk about it. Someone who could provide a safe place, where people could ask their questions without feeling shamed or embarrassed or judged.

I drummed my fingers on tabletops, fidgeted in my seat, clicked through blog posts, waiting to see that God had answered my prayers.

Nothing.

Nada.

At least not in the places I was looking.

Then, one evening, while I was driving down the highway and the sun was melting into the horizon, and I was —yet again — pestering God with my race questions, I realized I needed to stop waiting for Him to pick someone else. Apparently, the job was mine, even though I hadn’t applied.

Gulp.

I tried to write 31 Dreamy Days, all about chasing your God-sized dream, and hoping I could promote the retreat in April. But, each time I tried that tactic, the door gently closed in my face. Door locked. Lights out. No go.

So, after hitting “publish” on the very first post in this series, I wanted to disappear into the center of the earth. Instead, I released the whole thing to God and, as it turns out, He knew what He was doing.

As usual.

Throughout all of these decades, my biggest question has remained the same: Why is the American church divided so clearly along racial lines? Of all the organizations, institutions, communities, and movements on earth, you would think the Christian church would have this one figured out, right? I can’t figure out why we can’t do better.

It’s true there are some churches out there who seem to be doing it. But not without struggle. Not without pain. And, often, while congregations may look racially, ethnically, and/or culturally mixed, the leadership remains homogenous.

I’ve been trying to figure it out, and it seems there are many layers. Many obstacles. Many roadblocks to overcome. But I am not without hope. Some people say it’s not worth it. They say we’ve come so far already, and this just is what it is. Let’s live with it and be happy, they say.

I’m not convinced. I believe we can do better.

Over the next two days, let’s talk about some of the things that stand in our way. Today, to get us started, I’m wondering if you could do me a favor? If you know of, or if you attend a church in which one racial, ethnic, or cultural group does not make up more than 80% of the congregation, please leave a link to that church’s website or, if the church doesn’t have a website, please leave the name of the church in the comments.

And tell me what you think. Can we do better, or is this as good as it gets?

1,103 Comments Filed Under: 31 Days: Going There

Sunday

October 20, 2012 By Deidra

But he’s already made it plain how to live, what to do, what GOD is looking for in men and women. It’s quite simple: Do what is fair and just to your neighbor, be compassionate and loyal in your love, And don’t take yourself too seriously— take God seriously.

~Micah 6:8 (MSG)

~~~

Welcome to The Sunday Community. Link up with a photo and just a few, brief words of inspiration – a favorite quote, a favorite line of words from the bible, a short poem, a small thought.

Not many words at all.

1,114 Comments Filed Under: The Sunday Community Tagged With: Micah 6:8

Not Just Hands And Feet

October 20, 2012 By Deidra

I don’t usually write on Saturdays but people, I need to talk to you about Haiti! It’s a break from the 31 Days series, and it’s over at (in)courage. Will you stop by and visit me there today?

13 Comments Filed Under: (in)courage, Haiti, Help One Now, Pure Charity

Segregate

October 19, 2012 By Deidra

Next week, we’ll talk about race and church. You know. The fact that the American church still remains divided among racial lines. It’s a topic I’ve wondered about for a very long time. Today, Kendra Tillman introduces the topic with her perspective. (Tomorrow, I’ll be at incourage.me, talking about the trip I took to Haiti with Help One Now, and Pure Charity.)

I truly can’t ever remember a time when race hasn’t been ingrained in my world view. And I don’t know how it’s possible to go through life and never think about race. I do know the season of life when my world view started to shift.

My husband and I were married on a warm Saturday morning in Louisiana and we moved to Arizona the following Monday. It was our Abrahamic experience (as I like to think of it), moving 1200 miles away from our family and friends to a land where we knew NO one, except the people at work. As I reflect on this time in my life, I can see God had plans to transform and renew my mind about many areas of my life. My closest and dearest friends have been my examples and mentors to me.

Ericka and I have been friends since 1998, the year she got married and moved to Arizona where I was already living as a newlywed. Our friendship and those with my other Arizona friends are the longest friendships I’ve had. Even though we didn’t meet until we were adults, like most people who share a common culture we had some similar childhood experiences. We both can recall the weekend hair rituals that we endured as young girls. The ritual of getting your hair washed, air dried, combed out, pressed or braided could take an entire weekend. When you were “tender-headed” you dreaded the weekends when you would “get your hair done”. We remember being squeezed between our mom or aunts or grandmothers legs and getting “popped” in the head with a big black comb, if you couldn’t keep still. Nostalgia overtakes us and we laugh when we tell our stories to uninterested, restless daughters who just want us to finish their hair.

One of the qualities I’ve admired most about Ericka is her seemingly effortless ability (and willingness) to establish a close circle of friends who don’t all look like her. Last year, however, God moved them from Arizona to Indianapolis. My friend, the one who entered married life a year after me, moved.

Ericka had made a life in Arizona for 14 years and the transition hasn’t been easy. They’ve made friends, been welcomed with open arms by their community and, as I would expect, they’ve made friends with a diverse mix of people. But something happens on Sunday mornings.

For both our families we aren’t just members of our church. Our church is an extension of our family. It’s a place for God to develop our gifts, our talents and a passion to serve Him in the church and in the world. For a family who was plugged in, rooted in to our church, moving and finding a church home has been one of the biggest hurdles Ericka and her family have faced. The quote, “the most segregated hour in America is Sunday morning” has become her experience as her family looks for a new church home. Why is this?

We tend to gravitate to sameness, to look for people or environments to identify with. Different challenges us. It makes us uncomfortable. Unless we’ve been in the minority in some area of our life, we aren’t sensitive or conscious of the isolation that being different—one of a few who look, think or believe like you do—can cause.

Segregation is not an option for the believer. I know that word can feel loaded. It feels loaded to me. But we need to face the truth, head on.

As Christians we are all tied, connected, united through the blood that was shed for us. Segregation separates, isolates and disunites us. When we live lives where our circles or spheres of influence are segregated, we send the wrong message. This message disunites us as a body, the body of Christ.

Our words may say we don’t agree with segregated proms, churches, and schools, but do our lives reflect something different?

Have you heard of Lecrae? He’s a Christian hip hop artist (a poet, in my opinion). This song captures the heart of this post.

They like me forget about the color I might be

It’s likely they just like me

We different but the same we covered by the blood of the King

They like me they like me they like me

They say we shouldn’t get along cause our different skin tones

But I promise you they oh so wrong oh so wrong

They like me

What recent experience have you had as the minority? How has it changed your perception of what it may be like to experience it on a daily basis?

~~~

Kendra Tillman is the creator of The Savvy WAHM blog and the WAHM’s biggest cheerleader. She provides life and business strategies for work at home mom entrepreneurs on her weekly radio show, WAHM Success Radio. She’s a wife, mom of 3, daughter, friend, runner/athlete, writer, entrepreneur, radio show host, world traveler, adventure seeker, disciple of Christ, and a dangerous dreamer. She makes her home in Chandler, AZ with her 4 favorite people in the world: her husband and their 3 children. Follow Kendra on Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest.