Bruised, Battered, and Beloved

I can't stop the tears from coming. How could I possibly describe for you the two worlds I lived in when I was growing up? Words could never convey the deepest and darkest of emotions. My art could never capture the truth, so glaring and angry, of both worlds. My story is in chains.

If you have never lived with fear as your constant roommate and companion, you may not be able to follow me where I am going. This fear is what defined me as a child. I stood out from the rest of my family -- with my dreams, thoughts, and worries. From an early age, I remember walking around my front yard and wondering why we had a locked gate. From age 5 and on, it was a regular occurence for me to wake in the middle of the night because search helicopters were shining their lights on our property. At age 10, I was the last person up so that I could make sure our alarm system was armed. I cannot remember how many times I would jerkily awake when that system would start ringing in the middle of the night, or how hard I would pray when Dad would throw open the back door to see what was outside.

If you have never had to duck behind furniture because bullets are hitting your house, you may think that I was just a nervous child. The day that the bullets hit the window right behind my Mom, I understood that very little is guaranteed to us in this world. The bad dreams began and did not stop until I was well into my 20s. Always the intruders would be right outside, armed and violent, intent on hurting and destroying. Tums were part of my daily diet as I had horrible stomach aches every day. Finally, my Mom started coming into my room at bedtime and would pray out loud with me that I would not have a spirit of fear. Cars were stolen, our property broken into, our possessions damaged...my Dad was shot at several times from 15 feet away in front of the church I attended for most of my life. His truck was riddled with those bullet holes...but he was unscathed!!

There is no such thing as reverse racism. Racism is racism, whether it's white against black, asian against black, or black against white. The results are always the same: an impoverished mindset, anger, hatred, and pain. I can remember so many different conversations I heard growing up; I could never wrap my mind around them. I wanted to know how a skin color could predict a person's attitude and behavior. It worried me. I was the whitest person I had ever seen...did that make me evil and elitist? The many angry retorts I heard on the news about entitlement and the raw anger I saw in so many people's eyes made me nervous. I can remember telling the kids at school who claimed that my family had been slave owners that it was not possible. I tried to explain to them that my parents came to this country from Norway, a place that did not have African slaves. More than anything, I remember feeling that I was the one on the outside...like I did not, could not belong. I longed for peace and harmony with those children and the adults around me. Like a typical child, I kept my eyes and ears open, and my mouth tightly shut. As I grew older, a different type of attention followed me. Suddenly the men in my community felt that they had the right to say whatever they wanted to me. I was a stranger that they felt they were entitled to say vulgar obscenities to, the next moment to shout strings of curses and insults. I did not like going to the gas station because I hated how scared I felt and how rude I had to be (not make eye contact, ignore any man that tried to get my attention). When I washed my car out on the street, I kept our Rottweiler on a leash right beside me. Cars would come to a stop when they saw me and speed off as soon as they saw the dog.

That was one of the worlds I lived in. The other world is the one that negates that other world for most people. Many have joked with me that I grew up under a rock in Oakland. I laugh and offhandedly agree with them. I was not allowed to play on my street. I attended a private Lutheran elementary school until I was homeschooled from 6th grade and beyond. I had very little to do with the community existing outside of my front gate. People have said, "sure you're from Oakland. But you're not REALLY from Oakland. Come on, Shannon." They are correct. Though I experienced quite a bit more than the average little girl growing up, I did not have to endure even a fraction of the things that are common in Oakland. I never lost a family member to gang violence. I did not see a policeman abuse someone I loved. A bullet never took a family member. My father, though often not at home, was never in jail a day in his life. I was never stopped by authorities because I was the wrong color for that side of town. I was not physically or sexually abused. My parents were married until I was 20 years old. I never knew much want or hunger.

Why do the tears roll down my face? I don't live in Oakland anymore...so why am I thinking about this? Why does this still effect me to this day?

Today I ran across a brand new ministry set in the heart of Oakland. Shalom of Oakland. As I read about that ministry, my heart began to ache. The voices of the children, the eyes of the old...they all cried out to me. They need people to pray, to donate, to help, to volunteer, and to love all of the people in the communities within Oakland. I am a weak vessel. Even as my spirit jumps in agreement with this ministry, my body trembles with palpable fear. The four policemen that were shot and killed earlier this year were shot not even a mile away from the house that I grew up in.

How do I walk in the Spirit? When hatred looks at me in the face through another person, how do I refute it with Christ's pure love? How do I let go of my preconceived notions? How do I suspend my expectations and allow others to accept me just as I am? How can you heal the wounds inflicted on a group of people that are so deep?

I am a weak vessel. Jesus, come fill me.