Our family moved from the inner city five years ago. I could no longer tolerate the crush of humanity 24/7. We knew that moving outside of Rt. 128 (Boston’s loop) would most likely mean that our community would be less diverse. Diversity is not a stat that most school districts keep – or if they do, they don’t offer it to prospective families. Maybe we just didn’t ask the right questions.
We planted ourselves in a small, farming community, a mere 25 miles from downtown Boston. We love the space, parking spots near our errand destinations, and the relaxed pace of life. What we lack is diversity. Not that there is anything wrong with whites, mind you. When we have to check boxes about ethnicity, white is the square we fill in. Despite our “majority” status, throughout our lives, both Christopher and I have felt a pull to communities (actual geographic places as well as churches and other sub-groups) which welcome many nationalities.
And just being in the room together is not enough. We see diversity as honoring the other as well as sharing power and access. When we communicate that others outside of our frame of reference matter, when we say, “Come! Sit at our table!” we must learn to share. Everything. From power, to access, to our knives and forks. This is painfully difficult to pull off.
The first component of diversity is noticing and inviting others in. This has always been the easy part for my husband and me. We tend to be watchers and thus we see what others often miss. Recently, we attended our son’s football banquet. Because we are relatively new in the community, we often find ourselves sitting alone at such functions. It’s not so much that the folks here are hostile, but I think we are to them as those annoying little black floaters which come into my field of vision every once in a while. I know if I blink long enough, they will go away. Let’s just say there’s a lot of blinking when a Greco enters the room.
Anyway, true to form, Christopher, his brother, who was visiting from Spain, and I were sitting at a table for 10, in the back. At the next table, sat a woman. Alone. Knowing I had nothing to loose, I ambled over, introduced myself and invited her to join us. Once she got over her shock, I think she figured, “Why not?” gathered her purse and plate and sat at our still too large table. We had a delightful evening. She hailed from Spain herself so she and my brother in law had a great time speaking in her native tongue. In the course of sharing much pasta, the likes of which one can only encounter at such potlucks, she admitted that in the four years her son had been at Littleton, no one had ever extended such a simple gesture of hospitality. How sad. Really, noticing and inviting are pretty simple.
What’s truly difficult is stepping aside, being willing to allow someone who is different from me to do things their way or influence my biases.
I wish I understood why this is so difficult to pull off. When I’m really honest, I can admit that giving someone this much space makes me nervous. I worry that things won’t work out how I imagine or need them to work out. I worry that I won’t look good or that, gasp, they might actually do things better than me which might, in the long run, threaten my status.
Though Christopher and I share the same basic ethnic status, our families of origin are exceedingly other. This plays out in the kitchen. We both are fairly competent at cooking – provided that speed is not one of the measurable components of competency. My start to table time is generally 35-45 minutes. If Christopher dons the chef’s hat, he needs to begin prepping 2 hours before we need to sit down. This works if I’m out of the house. But when I’m present, I can barely contain my impulse to hover, hurry him along, or “help” him chop, mix, or sauté. He then feels devalued and I miss the gift of having a night off from cooking.
Whenever we value efficiency and speed over inclusivity, diversity looses out. When we value others, we must slow down, endeavor to listen, and even allow ourselves to stop evaluating based on how quickly something happens. I wonder if I too am guilty of this.
In the 15 years that Christopher and I have been leading teams of volunteers at our church, we normally have 90% white team members, 5% Asian and 5% Latino or African American. This percentage does not represent our church. And it certainly does not represent our city.
I have intentionally and repeatedly sought out minority team members. Normally, they say no. Sometimes, someone agrees to be part of the team, but they seldom stay for more than a year. This grieves me. I have asked them to tell me how I can improve. I made allowances for differing temperaments and hopefully extended myself so that they know I really want to hear their voices. Yet, at least in part, they must experience me as a clueless white woman. This is perhaps my greatest fear and one of the barriers that keeps me from trying as hard as I might. It presses my all too familiar button of incompetence. The discomfort that I experience when I am struggling to understand, struggling to give up control, is no less real than their frustration at not being understood or fully trusted.
Our son recently made a striking comment while we were cleaning up dinner, “Have you noticed that most inventors are white?” I shuddered, mistakenly believing that he had been negatively influenced by the white townies. But before I could go down that road he added, “Just think of all the inventions we’re missing out on because so many kids in Africa don’t have the same opportunities that we have!” Perhaps this generation will be able to press into issues of diversity that we have dreamed of but failed to accomplish.
Not that I’m giving up. I truly long to see our churches, governments, and towns reflect the diversity that I believe God embodies. There’s room at our table. Anyone want to join us?