on being 'othered'

Yesterday evening, I returned to Greenville after a 3-day retreat in the Charleston/Folly Beach area. After a great workweek at the Sterling Center simultaneously juxtaposed with a faith-stretching week in my SC living situation, I woke up Friday morning slightly less-than enthused. I am in the midst of a self-imposed, Spirit-led spiritual detox (which I will discuss in detail in a later post) whose timing has been a bit 'interesting' with my trip here, and it has me, as the saying goes, 'in my head' a LOT. When I'm 'on' at work, I'm completely engrossed in the task at hand and loving every minute of it, however, at the end of the day, I had wanted to be mostly just with myself--relaxing, reflecting, reading, writing, just decompressing--and I had not been effectively able to achieve that without getting some flak from my living companion. By Friday, my nerves were completely shot and I had pretty much shut down--so much for a nice trip the beach, right? But, off I went to uncharted waters, hoping to see what I might learn about myself and about the others who would be joining me.

I knew that the weekend was going to be interesting very soon after I arrived. I was staying with the Sister who is housing me while I am here, and seven of her friends who are all lay men and women, studying to be Associates to the Franciscans. This group was all Caucasian, Catholic, and 60+ years old--some widowers, some divorced, and one married couple attended. The demographics of the group didn't make me feel uncomfortable as I have friends of all races, ages and denominations (and I attend a Jesuit seminary!), but the feeling of being 'othered' from the moment I walked in the door did not make for a pleasant experience.

The owner of the house, a white woman, was funny, smart, and absolutely hospitable and the epitome of southern gentility. However, every conversation she initiated with me throughout the weekend began from a place of race. It started with her finding out I was from Chicago and asking me if I knew the Obamas, telling me that I resembled Michelle (which I don't), and it continued further. If I was already involved in a group conversation, this didn't become an issue, but if she and I just happened to chat, she'd strike up a conversation with the first sentence sounding something like this:

'Do you know the artist Jonathan Greene? He's a black artist from this area and he paints all of these wonderful pictures.'

'I recently went to the Black Madonna exhibit at the art museum.'

'You know, Black churches sure do support women preachers.' (this was after I was asked what 'religion' I was by another attendee, and they found out I was not only NOT a Catholic, but also a seminarian).

'I love going to the fruit stands and buying all of the fresh, local produce from the Black ladies who sell it.'

'Black women and their parasols, they sure are smarter than us about keeping the sun off of them.'

Now, remember, these were not comments made in the context of an already active conversation--no, these were supposed to be conversation starters, as if she could find nothing else to talk about with me or that we had in common, other than to qualify it by it being somehow related to my race.

Suffice it to say, I already don't like the South, not even to visit. I don't like seeing Confederate flags hanging on houses and cars casually (which I saw on more than one home on the street that the beachhouse was on). I don't like to be anywhere where visiting plantations is an acceptable tourist attraction. I don't care for all of the blatantly racist political ads that I've seen on TV regarding 'illegal' immigrants since I've been here (the state primary election is tomorrow), and I am bothered everytime that I think about the fact that the Sterling Center is built on the ruins of Greenville's 'black' high school which was burned down in the late 60s, with arsonists who were never brought to justice. We have race issues everywhere, this I know, but something about being in the South makes me extremely uncomfortable. The beachhouse incidents confirmed that for me.

Even though I am currently a ministry student at a Jesuit institution, I have never attended a Catholic Mass. I have staunch oppositional opinions to the idea of a closed Eucharist, so because I believe that all should be able to receive of the Lord's Table, I only attend churches who share in that philosophy. On Saturday evening, one of our activities was to attend Mass at one of the local Catholic churches in Folly Beach. Despite my reservations, I decided to be a good sport and go along (we also had dinner plans afterwards and had I not attended church, I would not have had a ride to the restaurant). In being a good sport, I had hopes that my spirit would be filled by the beautiful liturgy, that my mind would be renewed with a fresh Word, and that the Eucharist issue wouldn't bother me so much.

Unfortunately, that didn't happen. Everything at Saturday's Mass revolved around the Eucharist, including the sermon. Not being able to partake of it in good conscience (this was neither the time nor the place for me to make a political statement and just 'do it anyway') was disconcerting. Coupled with all that had been going on at the house and leading up to the trip, I was tapped out, however, I didn't quite know what to call that feeling until further reflection last night.

Some of you reading this may be wondering what, if anything, I said to the beachhouse owner about her conversation starters. The truthful answer is not much. I engaged the conversations from an extremely surface-level and kept it moving. To be honest, going through this difficult period of detox had shown me that, atleast at that time, I was completely drained of the desire for teachable moments/come-to-Jesus convos with people who could likely care less. Being someone who internally grieves almost to the point of obsession when I hurt or offend someone (even if not immediately expressed), I had grown weary of the lack of reciprocity when the roles were reversed...so, I decided to chose my battles and cut my losses at Folly Beach. I knew that there was a teachable moment in all of this for me, and I got the revelation upon my return to Greenville.

Last night, I thought about the concept of 'othering' and how I had been 'othered' all weekend in the scenario at the beach. It occured to me as I reflected on my work here in SC, everytime I've been introduced to a group that I am working with, Sister has made emphasis that I am here to do volunteer work with the poor. One day last week after having had a number of conversations with the seniors at the center, I realized an important fact: many are poor, but some are not...and at the end of the day, I wondered if those that were poor appreciated being reminded of that fact everytime a volunteer showed up. It felt to me very much like 'othering,' and I was extremely convicted about that--I want the focus of my time here to be service to all and for me to learn. I feel that I have very little to teach them, while I have much, much more to learn, as I sit at their feet and they share with me, day in and day out.

This weekend, I was 'othered,'--I was constantly reminded of my Blackness (of which I am very proud) in a group of the Majority, when instead I would have preferred to just be accepted as part of the whole. I, a baptized Christian, was 'othered' in a church that proclaims to love and serve the same Lord that I do. Ultimately, I am satisfied with my response--one of introspection vs. confrontation--which caused me to evaluate and to correct the 'othering' that I may participate in in my own life.

For that, I am most grateful.