Today Matters. Especially now.

These are just some words on a page I couldn’t keep to myself anymore. Unedited and unadulterated, unmasked from the feelings of adequacy and politeness that keep my pen chained to my lips, where I have to give it permission to say something.

I’m tired. The levy is breaking.

I remember the first time I learned about Martin Luther King, Jr. I was in 3rd grade and we watched a movie, 20 kids crowded around a 20-inch computer screen squinting at the black and white images as they tried to teach us a history we couldn’t understand. I felt the weight of it sitting on my chest as the story progressed, recognizing the building waves of tension that swelled before my little eyes. I knew it mattered on a scale I couldn’t see yet, that something in his words had shifted the whole of America, but I couldn’t understand why.

There were only two black students in our class. I was the only white one who cried. It felt like I was watching his death live, this man I’d just fallen in love with ripped out of the world only 30 minutes after entering mine. It felt like they’d assassinated hope itself. My 8-year-old brain refused to accept that this man with his strong words and refusal to give up could somehow not be on the earth anymore, and the dream I had of joining him on his journey to justice—wherever it led—collapsed in my lap.

But the heavy reality of what I learned did not remain on me. Distracted by recess and lunch and my white life, I forgot about the unforgettable man I learned about that day. I never asked my parents why it mattered so much what he did. I did not swallow the whole truth of lynching and the KKK and police brutality and white supremacy and segregation when they taught it to me in school. I turned my eyes away from this ugly history—easy to do when it didn’t affect me. I was a college student before I remembered the heavy weight that 3rd grade video left on me a decade before, before I blinked my eyes and stared for a second at the reality of racism.

Ashamed, I admit that this year is the first year…maybe in my entire quarter-century life, that I have really thought about Martin Luther King’s day, what it means for history, what it means for the present, what it means for so many people in this country and around the world. The way it must make some grandmothers sob to remember how he had a dream, and how it seemed to be torn from them when he was killed. The way it must enrage parents to see that, despite his dream being 50 years old at this point, their children are still treated differently for the color of their skin. I cannot begin to fathom how today makes black people feel. Because me, with my white skin, I was privileged enough not to have to think about what today means for 25 years. I am privileged enough to forget what color I am when I go out into the world, because I’m the “right” color. The only experience I know is privilege, and it took me 25 years to know to call it privilege.

I went to Williamsburg, Virginia last week. At Colonial Williamsburg, I toured a house that was built in the early 1700s, owned by a man named Peyton Randolph. The tour guide, dressed in 1700s-garb, explained that while Randolph was fighting for the freedom of America, he owned close to 1,000 black people. He and his wife went so far as to have “manservants” who attended them 24 hours a day, William Henry and his wife. William and his wife slept on mats outside of the Randolph’s bedroom in case their white masters needed a drink in the middle of the night. The tour guide explained that working inside the house was actually worse than working in the fields, because you never got to rest. You never got to take the mask off. You were a slave every hour of your life, not even your sleep was your own. Do you know how we know that they had manservants, or how many slaves they owned? Because they had to mark them down as inventory. Next to how much sugar or coffee or tobacco they had, they had to write down how many people they owned. Because of the snow, we didn’t get to go into the backyard to see where the slaves slept and worked. Really, I don’t know if I could have stomached seeing it.

You learn in school about slavery, but I don’t carry around that history on my back. I carry my privilege. It is so disturbingly easy to go about your life and never think about the reality of slavery. In just 100 years after slavery was made legal in the colonies, the state of Virginia alone had over 100,000 slaves. Black people were over half of the damn population, you guys. This happened, and it didn’t even end that long ago. The Civil War was in the late 1800s! That’s how long it took us to choose human freedom over money! Walking around that house, seeing the mats they would have slept on, looking at the sitting room where Randolph discussed how to gain freedom from Britain while his manservant stood in the corner, waiting to attend to him… Suddenly, I have a glimpse of why today matters so much. Why #BlackLivesMatter matters so much. Because I cannot fathom anyone thinking less of me because of the color of my skin, and the least I can do is recognize that black people do. They do.

Racism is real. I am racist. We are all racist, whether we realize it or not. We’ve been raised on stereotypes and taught by the media to believe certain things about certain colors and have seen mostly white princesses, TV stars, movie stars, presidents, have been subconsciously made to believe that white is better. I know it’s a hard pill to swallow, but it is real, just like our white privilege is real. And we need to be able to stare in the face of this reality in order to change it. This past Sunday my preacher talked about how a white guy approached him after one of his sermons and said, “Man, when you talk about all that race stuff, it really feels like you’re white-shaming me.” And my preacher said, of course we feel shame. Because sin always leads to feelings of shame, and our treatment of blacks is DRENCHED in sin. You know why this post is probably making you feel outrageously uncomfortable, why I used to turn my eyes away from the truth of white supremacy? Because racism is real, and we feel the shame of that and we respond by either denying it or hiding from it.

I’m done hiding. I will never, ever know what the black experience is like. But I am done pretending that we’re all the same, that we all have the same opportunities, that we all treat each other the same, that there is no racism. If we’re going to make any difference at all, we need to at least be willing to recognize that Martin Luther King’s dreams HAVE NOT been realized and it is OUR JOB to make them a reality. Black and white and brown and HUMAN, together, together, recognizing the hurt that has been caused and owning up to the fact that we see color and we spread stereotypes and we are privileged and desiring to reconcile, to fight for equality, to care about our black brothers and sisters and listen to their stories, their experiences, what is offensive and what is real.

Today matters so much. Black lives matter so much.

If you’ve read this far, please, please, stop listening to this little white girl who knows nothing and read the following quotes from Black speakers and artists and actors and really feel their words. Stop for a minute and believe them, let them resonate. And let this be the beginning of listening. Because there is so, so much more that can be said on this, but we need to start somewhere.

“We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God’s children.” – Martin Luther King, Jr., I have a dream.


“We have waited for more than three hundred and forty years for our God-given and constitutional rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jetlike speed toward the goal of political independence, and we still creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward the gaining of a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. I guess it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say “wait.” But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate-filled policemen curse, kick, brutalize, and even kill your black brothers and sisters with impunity; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six-year-old daughter why she cannot go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her little eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see the depressing clouds of inferiority begin to form in her little mental sky, and see her begin to distort her little personality by unconsciously developing a bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five-year-old son asking in agonizing pathos, “Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?”; when you take a cross-country drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading “white” and “colored”; when your first name becomes “nigger” and your middle name becomes “boy” (however old you are) and your last name becomes “John,” and when your wife and mother are never given the respected title “Mrs.”; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of “nobodyness”–then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over and men are no longer willing to be plunged into an abyss of injustice where they experience the bleakness of corroding despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience.” – Martin Luther King, Jr., Letter from a Birmingham Jail


“Police brutality is all in your mind
And the tactics that they use only look worse in rewind
And people die everyday, you should get used to it
Hands behind yo’ back, face down, and still say you shootin’
Can’t breathe
Knee where your neck be like why you movin’?
Kids in your car, headed home like what you doin’?
Like why you chillin’? Fuck yo’ feelin’s
Why you smilin’ when I’m so serious?
I hate patrolling your space, like why you livin’?
Stop asking questions, why you filmin’?
You look suspicious, I think you dealin’
Step out the car, fit the description
Someone I fear, I need to kill it” – Kenneth Whalum, Might Not be OK


“We hold these truths to be self-evident
All men and women are created equal
Including black Americans
You know, you know, you know,
One way of solving a lot of problems that we’ve got is
Lettin’ a person feel that they’re somebody
And a man can’t get himself together until he knows who he is,
And be proud of what and who he is and where he come from, and where he come from” – Common, Black America Again


“In 1964, I was a little girl sitting on the linoleum floor of my mother’s house in Milwaukee watching Anne Bancroft present the Oscar for best actor at the 36th Academy Awards. She opened the envelope and said five words that literally made history: “The winner is Sidney Poitier.” Up to the stage came the most elegant man I had ever seen. I remember his tie was white, and of course his skin was black, and I had never seen a black man being celebrated like that. I tried many, many times to explain what a moment like that means to a little girl, a kid watching from the cheap seats as my mom came through the door bone tired from cleaning other people’s houses. But all I can do is quote and say that the explanation in Sidney’s performance in “Lilies of the Field”: “Amen, amen, amen, amen.”” – Oprah Winfrey, 75th Golden Globes Speech


#Write31Days – Day 9

1/9/18 – “Post-It”

Post-it note sized
reminders of why it’s good to be alive

i. the smell of the ocean
lingering on your body
salty kisses
stuck in your hair

ii. the crunch-sound leaves make
the liberating sensation as you jump in a pile
and it catches you
like your mom used to
when you were lighter

iii. fingertips sliding along your bare skin
like ice skaters
goosebumps shoot up like ice flakes
and under your skin there’s
the warmth of a fireplace

iv. the way a body curves
its hills and valleys
how skin stretches to hold us
no matter our shape

v. words and their endless material
the infinite universes out there
waiting to be created
and the gift we all possess
to make them

vi. I’m so loved;
when my phone rings because my mom is calling
when he rubs my back for no reason
when I sit across from a friend with coffee in our hands
when Jesus came and hung on a tree for me
the love swells and
no post-it note can contain it

Hi, My Name is Carla and I’m A Flesh-aholic

I’m no stranger to the Alcoholics Anonymous program. Not because of any struggle of my own, but because of the struggles of some of those whom I love. I went to meetings somewhat frequently as a teenager, to the point where I became comfortable enough to speak up and join the conversation. I used to say, “Hi, I’m Carla, and I’m not an alcoholic.” This always earned a soft tide of laughter.

addictionFor those of us who have never struggled with an addiction to something like drugs, alcohol or sex, it’s really easy to feel—consciously or subconsciously—like we’re a lot better than those who do. For those college students reading this, you look around at your fellow high school graduates and think, “Man, I may not be passing all my classes but at least I’m not passed out drunk every night like Suzy Q.” Any of the moms and dads reading this, you might find that you give yourself a little pat on the back when you find out that Richard has a drinking problem, or Zoe got addicted to the pain meds after her surgery, because at least you and your family don’t struggle with those things. I mean, let’s be honest, we think about alcoholism, drug and sex addiction as the BIG no-no’s, the taboo-iest, the dark alley that WE’D never go down. I’ve had those same thoughts myself, plenty of times. When I first became a Christian and the Holy Spirit would tap me gently on the shoulder to remind me of the guilt I felt over my own sins, I would always tell Him, “No, Spirit, it’s fine. I’m not out drinking every night, I don’t have sex with random guys…we’re good.” I wrote off my own struggles by looking back on those AA meetings and thinking, “At least I’m not that bad.”

Which brings me to my real point in this post. I may not be an alcoholic, but that response—that looking at another person as if I know their very soul and thinking, “Well, at least I’m better than they are,”—proves that I am an addict. I’m a flesh-aholic. Because only someone addicted to pacifying their fleshly desire to feel good about themselves, to feel better than others, would think such things. But we’re all flesh-aholics, aren’t we? fleshweakThe Bible says that our flesh and the Holy Spirit are at odds with one another, because they desire opposite things. Because of this, “you do not do what you want,” (Galatians 5:17). It also says that we are SLAVES to sin, which is the gratification of the flesh. Slavery sounds a lot like addiction, yeah? If you’re still not convinced you’re a flesh-aholic, consider the following verse from Galatians 5:19-21: “Now the works of the flesh are obvious: sexual immorality, moral impurity, promiscuity, idolatry, sorcery, hatreds, strife, jealousy, outbursts of anger, selfish ambitions, dissensions, factions, envy, drunkenness, carousing, and anything similar.” Now, most everyone I know has struggled with envy, anger, hatred, selfish ambition, and idolatry (Yeah, dudes, football counts—anything you place above God counts. I’m pretty sure I idolize my cat, actually…I should pray on that), so even if you somehow have managed to stay away from the sexual immorality aspect of the list, you’re still a flesh-aholic.  (The first step, in case you didn’t know, is admitting you’re a flesh-aholic. Some of us may simply need to start there.)

But I’m not saying these things to bring any of us down. Actually, my point flows back to those Alcoholics Anonymous meetings I used to go to. If you don’t know what the program is like, the gist of it is addicts coming together for hour long meetings where they share their struggles, share their lives, and encourage each other to keep fighting the good fight of sobriety. Meetings can be found around town morning, noon, and night, so depending on the difficulty of your day you could go to three or go to one. Most addicts truly dedicated to recovery go at least three times a week, but I’m pretty sure that once a day is the goal for most. The purpose of the meetings is to reset your mind, remind yourself of your goal of continued sobriety, but most importantly to remember that you are not on the journey alone.

But meetings are not where the program ends. Listening to the same people talk about their personal lives and struggles nearly every day creates some pretty significant bonds, and from that most addicts find a community, a family. They find lasting relationships that go beyond the walls of the meeting house and flood into lunches, coffee dates, desperate phone calls for encouragement…someone to sit beside when the shadows roll over and running back to the addiction feels like the best option. You get a sponsor, which is a glorified (and much more dedicated) accountability partner, who is wise in their experience battling the addiction and graciously devotes their time to helping you through the 12 Steps. The 12 Steps are all about facing the obstacles that can stand in the way of sobriety in a practical, introspective way—and, incidentally, they require the help of a Higher Power to get you through each of them. The goal is really to learn how to live your life better, with honesty and truth and freedom. Freedom from the addiction and all the tiny ways it tricked you into slavery.

meetingtogetherSo I was doing the dishes this morning, thinking about all of the different Christian study groups I have the opportunity to be a part of. I’ve just joined one on Mondays, my husband and I are hoping to begin attending one on Tuesday nights, and I have the opportunity to go to another on Thursdays. I was considering how much time this would take up, the many hours I would lose snuggling my husband while dutifully bingeing Parks and Rec, when I considered something. My mom and stepdad go together to AA meetings several nights a week, and it’s not something they consider optional. I’m sure many times they would rather be vegging in front of the TV, but they’ve learned through painful mistakes that the sacrifice is quite worth it. And this made me stop for a moment and think: how much stronger would my faith and my fellowship with other Christians be if we treated our Christianity like an Alcoholics Anonymous community? And how much better at fighting my flesh addiction would I be?

The first century Christians, I think, knew that we are all flesh-aholics. In Acts 2 we’re told that “all believers were together and held all things in common (v. 44).” In fact, “Every day they devoted themselves to meeting together in the temple complex, and broke bread from house to house. They ate their food with a joyful and humble attitude, praising God and having favor with all the people (v. 46).” They met together daily? And had all things in common? They went to each other’s homes and ate together? That sounds a lot like a community of addicts who know that they need constant encouragement, honesty, and togetherness to be able to fight against their addiction.

I’m picturing the church. It’s not a building where people come once a week to hear one person give a speech, ignore one another, and then leave and pretend it never happened (that’s called a college lecture, people). It’s individuals who know each other intimately, who are humbled by their mistakes and share everything with one another, including their struggles. It’s people who know that if they don’t sacrifice things like personal free time or personal privacy, that their addictions will win and they will lose it all—people who have the proper perspective of what is most important, because they remember their life before this change, they remember who they were and they never want to be that person again. It’s people who, when their friend starts to forget who they once were and begins giving into it again, are unafraid to step in and remind them; unselfish enough to sit beside them and fight the battle together. People that will give a huge piece of their life to a stranger who needs their help, who will choose to mentor that person through healing, understanding, and growth that only comes from God. It’s individuals who meet together often, even daily, to share life together and build each other up because they know what it looks like when they try to do it alone. And in this Godly community, the fight for sobriety somehow gets easier.

It’s a punch to the gut when you realize that the people you used to look at and say, “At least I’m not that bad,” have a more Christ-like community than your own Christian church does.

So here, allow me to start the meeting: “Hi, I’m Carla, and I’m a flesh-aholic.”