I look up to the mountains--
does my help come from there?
My help comes from the Lord,
who made the heavens and the earth
He will not let me stumble and fall;
the one who watches over me will not sleep
Indeed, he who watches over me never tires and never sleeps
The Lord Himself watches over me
The Lord stands beside me as my protective shade
The sun will not hurt me by day,
nor the moon by night
The Lord keeps me from all evil and preserves my life
The Lord keeps watch over me
as I come and go,
both now and forever
Amen
--Psalm 121
Friday, March 27, 2009
The Question
"I can't be a pessimist because I'm alive. The future of the Negro in this country is precisely as bright or as dark as the future of this country. White people have to try to find out in their own hearts why it was necessary to have a nigger in the first place. Because I'm not a nigger. I'm a man. But if you think I'm a nigger, it means you need it. And white people have to ask themselves why they need it. The future of our country depends on that." --James Baldwin
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Acknowledging Privilege
In response to the "Making Whiteness Visible" video that I posted on my facebook profile a couple of days ago, a former white classmate responded by sending me the following antagonistic message:
"So ______ sent me that youtube video that you had posted to your profile. the white becoming visible part 1...are you kidding me Amanda?
I can understand about being angry and enraged about the past...but you HAVE to be kidding me saying that EVERYONE is a racist STILL. It really bothers me and makes me angry, because last time I checked I can't get a scholarship for school because of the color of my skin.
I don't know if you've actually looked recently but there aren't white ONLY colleges or Hispanic ONLY colleges... Now isn't that an interesting twist in pointing fingers at Racists? I sure as heck think so. You want to talk about oppression, how about my family AMERICAN INDIANS the very first people that F'ed over in this country. But did you know the only way I can get help for college is if I can actually PROVE what tribe and family name I came from... Would you have to do that? Do you think that in order to get help from UNCF (United Negro College Fund) you'd have to PROVE that you came from a slave family? hmm... didn't think so. "Minorites", I use that loosly because white are becoming the minority, are given GREAT opportunities that I'll never even see. I just really wish that they'd see that, before pulling the race card. OH and before you even get the idea about calling ME a racist...remember what church I grew up in...I WAS THE MINORITY."
"So ______ sent me that youtube video that you had posted to your profile. the white becoming visible part 1...are you kidding me Amanda?
I can understand about being angry and enraged about the past...but you HAVE to be kidding me saying that EVERYONE is a racist STILL. It really bothers me and makes me angry, because last time I checked I can't get a scholarship for school because of the color of my skin.
I don't know if you've actually looked recently but there aren't white ONLY colleges or Hispanic ONLY colleges... Now isn't that an interesting twist in pointing fingers at Racists? I sure as heck think so. You want to talk about oppression, how about my family AMERICAN INDIANS the very first people that F'ed over in this country. But did you know the only way I can get help for college is if I can actually PROVE what tribe and family name I came from... Would you have to do that? Do you think that in order to get help from UNCF (United Negro College Fund) you'd have to PROVE that you came from a slave family? hmm... didn't think so. "Minorites", I use that loosly because white are becoming the minority, are given GREAT opportunities that I'll never even see. I just really wish that they'd see that, before pulling the race card. OH and before you even get the idea about calling ME a racist...remember what church I grew up in...I WAS THE MINORITY."
Thursday, March 19, 2009
"ATL"
I flew into Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson airport on Friday afternoon, June 13th. I rode M.A.R.T.A. from the airport to downtown Atlanta where I was scheduled to meet up with Jamie Sadler, a twenty-one year old Emory Law student who would host me throughout the weekend. I stood on the escalator that would carry me up to the main street with my oversized black suitcase, my purse, and my laptop bag.
"Hey, hey, hey, how you doin' purty lady?" The man taking the escalator down into the subway across from mine spoke with a heavy southern drawl that was exacerbated by enormous, gold-capped teeth that protruded from his mouth. He grinned and leaned across the escalator, staring at me through mischievous eyes.
"I'm well, thanks" I said, smiling as I pulled out my phone and texted Jamie to let her know that I had arrived. The darkness swallowed him as he disappeared down into the subway. Meanwhile, I emerged onto the street and into the sweltering Georgia sun.
**
I found a sunny spot on the sidewalk where I decided to wait for Jamie to arrive. Feeling my skin becoming clammy from the heat, I peeled my hoodie from my body and tied it around my waist. Wearing my favorite black-and-white striped tank-top, I rolled up my Old Navy boot-cut jeans and took a seat on top of my suitcase. I took my cell phone out of my bag and dialed Dad's cell.
"Hey Manda!" Dad answered energetically. "I'm here with your Mom, and we're heading to the office." Dad and Mom sounded cheery, as they often did when gallivanting with each other.
"Oh, okay" I replied. "I just wanted to call you guys to let you know that I arrived safely."
"Manda," Mom piped up from the background, "you have to read Stolen Legacy by George G.M. James." She continued, "There's no such thing as 'Greek philosophy.'" My mom, a bibliophile who had done enough reading to have earned herself a PhD three times over, possessed a love for history that rivaled even my own.
"Who's it by again mom?" I asked, pulling a receipt out of my pocket and turning it over to write the name down on the back. "George G.M. James," Mom repeated. "He talks about how the Greeks were originally educated in Egypt. After the invasion of Alexander the Great, Egypt's libraries were pillaged and Aristotle converted it into a research center."
"Are you serious?" I replied, my interest genuinely peaked.
"Yes!" Mom continued. "Many of the books that historians currently attribute to Aristotle came from Egypt's libraries."
"That makes sense," I replied, "because even experts can't seem to explain how Aristotle supposedly managed to author so many books and across so many disciplines throughout his lifetime."
A gray sedan pulled up to the curb in front of where I sat and a tall, thin, woman with a pallid complexion emerged. Her large, curly hair was dyed jet-black and she sported a mini skirt, platform thongs, and a black tank top.
"Yo," she began, "Amanda?" She stared at me skeptically through dark-rimmed sunglasses.
"Yep," I said, looking up at her from where I sat comfortably on the sidewalk.
"Hey, I'm Jamie." She stuck out her hand to complete the introduction.
"Hey mom, can I call you back?" I said into the phone.
"Oh, no problem" Mom replied. "I'll talk to you later. I love you!"
By now Jamie stood behind her car with the trunk open.
"Okay, I'll call soon" I said. "I love you guys too."
"Hey, hey, hey, how you doin' purty lady?" The man taking the escalator down into the subway across from mine spoke with a heavy southern drawl that was exacerbated by enormous, gold-capped teeth that protruded from his mouth. He grinned and leaned across the escalator, staring at me through mischievous eyes.
"I'm well, thanks" I said, smiling as I pulled out my phone and texted Jamie to let her know that I had arrived. The darkness swallowed him as he disappeared down into the subway. Meanwhile, I emerged onto the street and into the sweltering Georgia sun.
**
I found a sunny spot on the sidewalk where I decided to wait for Jamie to arrive. Feeling my skin becoming clammy from the heat, I peeled my hoodie from my body and tied it around my waist. Wearing my favorite black-and-white striped tank-top, I rolled up my Old Navy boot-cut jeans and took a seat on top of my suitcase. I took my cell phone out of my bag and dialed Dad's cell.
"Hey Manda!" Dad answered energetically. "I'm here with your Mom, and we're heading to the office." Dad and Mom sounded cheery, as they often did when gallivanting with each other.
"Oh, okay" I replied. "I just wanted to call you guys to let you know that I arrived safely."
"Manda," Mom piped up from the background, "you have to read Stolen Legacy by George G.M. James." She continued, "There's no such thing as 'Greek philosophy.'" My mom, a bibliophile who had done enough reading to have earned herself a PhD three times over, possessed a love for history that rivaled even my own.
"Who's it by again mom?" I asked, pulling a receipt out of my pocket and turning it over to write the name down on the back. "George G.M. James," Mom repeated. "He talks about how the Greeks were originally educated in Egypt. After the invasion of Alexander the Great, Egypt's libraries were pillaged and Aristotle converted it into a research center."
"Are you serious?" I replied, my interest genuinely peaked.
"Yes!" Mom continued. "Many of the books that historians currently attribute to Aristotle came from Egypt's libraries."
"That makes sense," I replied, "because even experts can't seem to explain how Aristotle supposedly managed to author so many books and across so many disciplines throughout his lifetime."
A gray sedan pulled up to the curb in front of where I sat and a tall, thin, woman with a pallid complexion emerged. Her large, curly hair was dyed jet-black and she sported a mini skirt, platform thongs, and a black tank top.
"Yo," she began, "Amanda?" She stared at me skeptically through dark-rimmed sunglasses.
"Yep," I said, looking up at her from where I sat comfortably on the sidewalk.
"Hey, I'm Jamie." She stuck out her hand to complete the introduction.
"Hey mom, can I call you back?" I said into the phone.
"Oh, no problem" Mom replied. "I'll talk to you later. I love you!"
By now Jamie stood behind her car with the trunk open.
"Okay, I'll call soon" I said. "I love you guys too."
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Georgia on my Mind
September 9, 2008
I must confess that when I initially applied to volunteer with the Obama campaign here in Georgia, I could not have anticipated that it would lead me down the road which I am now traveling. Originally, I came to Georgia because I saw the enormity of the need here: there are close to one million unregistered voters in this state alone, over six hundred thousand of whom are black. Since working here in Macon, I've come to learn how the voter registration laws here have been crafted in a manner that deliberately makes it difficult for working people and for poor folks to vote. The Bibb County Board of Elections is the only place in Bibb County where people here can procure a free voter I.D. It's tucked away off of a remote road twenty minutes north of downtown, just out of the jurisdiction of the local bus routes, and is only open from 8:30am to 5:30pm Monday through Friday. No nights. No weekends. As you can probably imagine, people who work from 9am to 5pm, are in some cases taking public transportation, have children and so many other obligations have a difficult time making it there within operating hours to register. As such, many of them don't. For those that are lucky enough to reach the Board of Elections, the law requires them to show proof of birth, residence, utility bills, and a number of other documents that have successfully discouraged many people from going through the trouble. And yet, when one registers for either hunting or fishing licenses in the state of Georgia they are automatically registered to vote. You can see, probably all-too clearly, what we're up against.
But Senator Obama is right when he says that what is happening right now across America is not about him; every day I begin to realize this more and more. It isn't about Senator Obama, rather it's about Rosa Watkins, a woman who has raised a daughter and who is now raising a granddaughter, yet who comes to the office every day at 8:30pm, after having helped her grandbaby with her homework, to make phone calls; it's about Ms. Juanita, who ruins her freshly manicured, lime-green fingernails by spending four hours ripping off labels on old manila folders so that we can make up voter registration walk packets; it's about Mr. Ford who, when I come home from the office at 1am, I see sitting on the edge of his bed in his boxers and a t-shirt, writing the return addresses on voter registration forms from the day before so that we can mail them out the next morning; it's about Drew Benbow, Ashley Diaz, and Brooke Obie, Mercer University Law Students who, after exams and hours of studying, still find time to come out to the clubs with me until 2am or later to register voters as they wait in line; it's about Mrs. Arthena Caston, a working mom who, after working a ten hour shift at Geico, comes by the office to help us enter data; it's about Mrs. Beverly Ford who stays up until 2am printing off lists of housing projects that we still need to canvass; it's about Gwen Lipford who, though working a long day at Forsyth Prison, still comes to an organizational meeting in the basement of a church to turn in eleven voter registration forms that she was able to get filled out over the past week; it's about Ms. Montgomery, an elderly woman who walks a mile and a half from the bus depot to the campaign headquarters downtown twice a week in the sweltering heat to make I.D. calls; and it's about Tedra and Brett Hobson, two amazing individuals who saved up money so that they could work for the campaign for free. These are the unsung heroes who are the feet of this movement; these are the individuals who are the heart and soul of what has become much more than simply a campaign. It's a revolution. So many of us are tires of the same kind of politics; I'm tired of watching the same individuals overlooked, marginalized, underrepresented, and left without a voice.
I find that many people look back upon the Civil Rights era with nostalgia. They talk about what an awesome time it was to be alive, for black people had a cause that was worth living and dying for. And yet, it is easy to forget that not everyone was marching with Medgar Evars, who for a time was the Civil Rights Movement in Mississippi; not everyone participated in the Montgomery Bus Boycotts or in the Freedom Rides or in the Greensboro sit-ins. There are people who tell me every day that what we are trying to do here is impossible. And yet, I've seen people inspired and lives transformed before my eyes, including my own.
Even as I type these words I'm sitting in my car, with my computer on my lap, in the parking lot of a church where in minutes, I will be talking to congregation about the importance of working towards the change that this state, that this country, and that we all so desperately need. This movement has taught many of us to hope as we have never dared to hope before, that America, and that each of us, can be better. This is the change that we are all working for; this is the change that I feel so blessed to be a part of.
I'll write more when I can.
Amanda
I must confess that when I initially applied to volunteer with the Obama campaign here in Georgia, I could not have anticipated that it would lead me down the road which I am now traveling. Originally, I came to Georgia because I saw the enormity of the need here: there are close to one million unregistered voters in this state alone, over six hundred thousand of whom are black. Since working here in Macon, I've come to learn how the voter registration laws here have been crafted in a manner that deliberately makes it difficult for working people and for poor folks to vote. The Bibb County Board of Elections is the only place in Bibb County where people here can procure a free voter I.D. It's tucked away off of a remote road twenty minutes north of downtown, just out of the jurisdiction of the local bus routes, and is only open from 8:30am to 5:30pm Monday through Friday. No nights. No weekends. As you can probably imagine, people who work from 9am to 5pm, are in some cases taking public transportation, have children and so many other obligations have a difficult time making it there within operating hours to register. As such, many of them don't. For those that are lucky enough to reach the Board of Elections, the law requires them to show proof of birth, residence, utility bills, and a number of other documents that have successfully discouraged many people from going through the trouble. And yet, when one registers for either hunting or fishing licenses in the state of Georgia they are automatically registered to vote. You can see, probably all-too clearly, what we're up against.
But Senator Obama is right when he says that what is happening right now across America is not about him; every day I begin to realize this more and more. It isn't about Senator Obama, rather it's about Rosa Watkins, a woman who has raised a daughter and who is now raising a granddaughter, yet who comes to the office every day at 8:30pm, after having helped her grandbaby with her homework, to make phone calls; it's about Ms. Juanita, who ruins her freshly manicured, lime-green fingernails by spending four hours ripping off labels on old manila folders so that we can make up voter registration walk packets; it's about Mr. Ford who, when I come home from the office at 1am, I see sitting on the edge of his bed in his boxers and a t-shirt, writing the return addresses on voter registration forms from the day before so that we can mail them out the next morning; it's about Drew Benbow, Ashley Diaz, and Brooke Obie, Mercer University Law Students who, after exams and hours of studying, still find time to come out to the clubs with me until 2am or later to register voters as they wait in line; it's about Mrs. Arthena Caston, a working mom who, after working a ten hour shift at Geico, comes by the office to help us enter data; it's about Mrs. Beverly Ford who stays up until 2am printing off lists of housing projects that we still need to canvass; it's about Gwen Lipford who, though working a long day at Forsyth Prison, still comes to an organizational meeting in the basement of a church to turn in eleven voter registration forms that she was able to get filled out over the past week; it's about Ms. Montgomery, an elderly woman who walks a mile and a half from the bus depot to the campaign headquarters downtown twice a week in the sweltering heat to make I.D. calls; and it's about Tedra and Brett Hobson, two amazing individuals who saved up money so that they could work for the campaign for free. These are the unsung heroes who are the feet of this movement; these are the individuals who are the heart and soul of what has become much more than simply a campaign. It's a revolution. So many of us are tires of the same kind of politics; I'm tired of watching the same individuals overlooked, marginalized, underrepresented, and left without a voice.
I find that many people look back upon the Civil Rights era with nostalgia. They talk about what an awesome time it was to be alive, for black people had a cause that was worth living and dying for. And yet, it is easy to forget that not everyone was marching with Medgar Evars, who for a time was the Civil Rights Movement in Mississippi; not everyone participated in the Montgomery Bus Boycotts or in the Freedom Rides or in the Greensboro sit-ins. There are people who tell me every day that what we are trying to do here is impossible. And yet, I've seen people inspired and lives transformed before my eyes, including my own.
Even as I type these words I'm sitting in my car, with my computer on my lap, in the parking lot of a church where in minutes, I will be talking to congregation about the importance of working towards the change that this state, that this country, and that we all so desperately need. This movement has taught many of us to hope as we have never dared to hope before, that America, and that each of us, can be better. This is the change that we are all working for; this is the change that I feel so blessed to be a part of.
I'll write more when I can.
Amanda
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