I'm Sorry

Melissa’s head spun with the memory of what she had seen this morning. She couldn’t get it out of her mind. 

“Did you watch the video?” her best friend, Lindsey, had texted. 

“Yes. I have no words,” was Melissa’s reply. 

She closed her eyes, willing the image away. The scene of the innocent black man being choked to death. By a protector of the peace no less. Someone who was supposed to be good, supposed to be trusted. She shook her head slowly, remembering the horrible act. The worst was hearing the black man’s desperate cries for air. And the times he called out “Mama!” 

Melissa had never watched a video capturing a scene like that one. She had carefully avoided each one of them. She told herself that she didn’t watch them because of the violent content. But really it was because she didn’t want to see and she didn’t want to know. 

This morning had been different. Somehow she had decided to view the video. She had to look away a few times. It was too much. Chills had run up and down her body at the sight of a police officer rigid as an immovable pole. Heartlessly crushing the very life of another person. In. broad. daylight. How was it possible? 

Melissa’s phone dinged and she shot open her eyes. Another text from Lindsey: “I can’t stop thinking about it. You?” Melissa breathed out all her confusion. “Yeah. I don’t know what to think or what to do, It seems so hopeless.” The reply: “Maybe you should try to write.” 

Melissa held down the like button as a lone tear ran down her white cheek. Yes. She would write. Writing was her lifeline. It was the way she thought about her world. The way she learned about herself. The way she unraveled her thoughts. 

She grabbed her journal and pen as she headed to the back deck. She glanced out across her neighborhood. Neat rows of houses, homes to white people. It was a quiet neighborhood stuck in a small town. Did our mostly white town even care about the atrocities happening in the streets to black people? Or did it not matter because it didn’t affect us? Turning her attention to the journal splayed open on her lap, Melissa sighed as she penned her first words.       

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the terrible and inhumane ways you’ve been treated. I’m sorry that my people, white people, have caused you to suffer, grieve, fear, and endure countless wrongs. And I’m sorry that this is not a new thing. That it’s embedded in our history. From the very first time we forced you from your home country to come serve us in this country. Without pay, without choice. Despicable. 

Melissa put down her pen. But slavery is over now, she heard a voice in her head. She rubbed her brow and said out loud “So what!” Somehow she and other white people had been led to believe that racism died when slaves were free. Not so. But that’s what the authors of history books wanted us to believe. No, she thought. Racism continues today, no matter that slavery is illegal. 

She continued writing. I’m sorry that you have suffered as you have. And at our hands. I’m sorry that a lot of us don’t care. We may think we care, but we don’t. We may think we’re not racist but we’re doing nothing. It’s not enough to say we love you and we’re not going to do violent acts against you. We are responsible to help you and to educate our own people. And to boldly stand against those who would exert power over you just because of the color of your skin. 

“Mommy?” A little voice interrupted her thoughts being spilled out on paper. Melissa breathed in deeply and replied, “Yes, sweetheart?” She turned to see her daughter’s five-year-old face poking through a small opening of the sliding glass door. “Can I have a snack?” was the plea. “Sure, honey. Go ask Daddy to get it. He’s in the basement,” Melissa said absently. As the girl went skipping away, Melissa couldn’t help but think of her innocent daughter’s white face. White. Not black. Privileged. Not underprivileged. Protected. Not oppressed. Seen as pure. Not viewed as a threat. What did her daughter know of any of this? What did she know? Melissa was only beginning to understand how little she knew. How little she understood.

As she took up her pen again, she breathed a prayer. For peace. For comfort for the mourning. And for eyes to be opened. Beginning with hers.

I’m sorry I’ve been blind to your suffering. I’m sorry I haven’t tried to understand. I’m sorry I’ve turned a deaf ear to your cries for help, for someone to advocate for you. I don’t know how to fix it. This systemic racism seems hopeless to disassemble. The pervasive thought that white people are better and are entitled to hold all the power and resources seems impossible to change. But it must. And it can. I vow to listen. If I don’t understand, I will listen more. I promise to not shy away from the stark reality of what it means for you to be black and what it means for me to be white. I commit to learning and acting on your behalf. I will fight for you. I will speak in defense of you. I will stand in solidarity with you. I don't do this out of guilt or pity. But out of love and a compassion that is being birthed in me that is not my own.

Melissa glanced heavenward and knew her next words were about to morph into a prayer. Eyes watery again she wrote: Jesus, come quickly. Heal our land by your Word that is true and right and good. May your church rise up to be peacemakers. May we stand with our brothers and sisters. May we show our love and respect for them in tangible ways. Take away our blindness. Fill us with your love and compassion. May we see what is real and may we strive for what is right. Help us to live justly, to love mercy, and walk humbly with you. Humbly with others. Putting their needs above our own. May we see. And may we act.