Change

Last week I went on a walk with my youngest. She is thirteen years old. We chatted for a bit as we walked and then both settled into the pace and the quiet.

However, after a time, she asked me, “What are you thinking about?” It’s a favourite question. I answered and then asked her. “What are you thinking about?”

13yr old: I’m wondering if the people who made that show, Raising Dion, are going to make another season.

Me: I really enjoyed that show. I think they will. What do you like about it?

13yr old: I like his super powers.

Me: Don’t you think Dion’s mother was so stressed out? Raising kids with super powers must be something parents have to worry about.

13yr old: I have super powers.

Me: Yes?

13yrd old: I can write stories.

Me: Yes you can!

I’m asking you and I ask myself, “Should I be worried?”

I do worry. But not because of her super powers, but because her skin is black and she is growing up on a continent where white racial preferences and powers so often resist full kinship and economic inclusion with people who are black. She lives in a place where engagements with white people can become authority encounters vacated of generosity and acceptance if the expected respect and deference is not forthcoming. She lives where things turn ugly if the cultural rules of whiteness are not accepted. These kinds of encounters can happen on the street, in a school, on the playground, online, in a restaurant, in a classroom, on a protest line, in a church, at a friend’s house, in the park, at work, in a board room, on the sidewalk, in a store, at a gas station, in an auditorium, in the legislature, on the bus, in the courtroom, on the beach, over coffee…

Will she be ready? Will she be fortified in heart with the courage required to exercise her super powers and not be overcome by evil? Will she know she is beloved?

I know super powers do not protect us from the violence of hate. But I hope if my 13yr old gives voice to her stories and that she will play a part in realizing Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream. It’s his birth day, 15 January; he was born in 1929 and died in the year of my birth, 1968, assassinated while I was still in my mother’s womb. I didn’t know him, but I have been shaped by the spirit and content of his powers in speech and in leadership and in his dream.

But still, I worry.

(Here’s a shout out to Harambee Cultural Society who have encouraged us to get beyond worry and do something together. Thank you!)