Confessions from a Southerner

Not many days ago, I bought sand, candles, and nine small glass vases for our worship service, to mark the murders at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina. We spoke their names, prayed for the church, lit the candles. Since then, I've prayed and I hope others have as well. Our denominational leaders in the Carolinas issued a letter, calling for prayer during the week following the murders, especially for how we address racism.

I'm proud to say that in my predominantly white congregation, we can talk about racism and how deeply it's entrenched. I, and we, hope to be allies. I know we could do more.

As I sit in Arizona, most of a continent away from Charleston, I'm also haunted by my own demons. You see, I'm a Southerner. Yes, I'm a border state Southerner, young enough that I've rarely heard the Civil War referred to as the War of Northern Aggression, but still a Southerner. The killer who walked into Emanuel AME Church, who prayed among people who became his victims, is a little too familiar for comfort.

I choose not to know if people I went to high school with have joined white supremacist groups, but I'm certain some have. Culturally, it's not a very far leap.

Students went hunting before school; guns were just part of life, as was carrying a pocketknife to school for that matter. If I remember correctly, there was a 2.5" blade limit. Confederate flags were common. One of the cooler guys had the same horn on his truck as the General Lee on the Dukes of Hazzard. If you're not familiar, it's "Dixie." Yes, "Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten," Dixie.

There were lots of poor white people and almost no people who weren't white. Still, I've heard the question, "Do you really think they're like us?" Everyone remembered that the original version of the state song for Kentucky has the word "darkeys" in it. Students scoffed that didn't attend school on Martin Luther King Day. Looking back, the epithets used for the day are appalling. If I misbehaved, my grandfather told me he'd have to go buy a little girl to replace me. You can guess the color of that imaginary child's skin.

All of that is the surface version of racism that is so deeply entrenched that white supremacists with plenty of guns are more common than most people would like to admit. And yes, all of that is deeply tied to being Southern. I've seen my share of "Heritage, not Hate" Confederate flag memorabilia. I know all the words to Hank Williams Jr.'s "If the South Woulda Won." For better or worse, Southern is part of who I am, even if my accent has long faded.

This picture was taken in worship this past Sunday, July 21. It shook me in a different way. The little girl's dress looks suspiciously like the dresses I wore to church most Sundays when I was her age. I don't know if she wore a scratchy slip underneath to add volume to her skirt, but I sure did. The immaculate dress of the man holding the door open, that's familiar, too. So's the paneling in the background, the bulletin board. The door is larger and grander than any church I attended as a child, but the other things are weirdly, remarkably the same. These are all the markings of Sunday in the South. There's a country song or two about that.

Roots run deep. So does fear. Fear that tells us who we are involves guns and a flag and General Lee. Fear that tells us skin color does matter. Perhaps the deepest, most haunting fear of all: it could be my brother, or cousin, or high school prom date pulling the trigger against innocent people. As a result, we end up clinging to relics, shouting at anyone who would dare say they're a problem.

God and Google know how many blog posts and articles you could find on combatting systemic racism. Read them. Practice the things that are suggested. This very pale Southerner has confessed what she can.

God help us to do better.