Posts tagged racism

Christmas : When You Realize Love Is Already Here

Dec 24, 2014 5 Comments ~ Written by Lisha Epperson

We watch and do wait Lord we anticipate…the moment, you choose to appear.

We worship we praise until there’s no debate, and we recognize you’re already here.

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hal-le-lu-jah – Brian Courtney Wilson

We talked about racism after breakfast this morning. Over pancakes LiChai told me about a situation he encountered in class a few weeks ago. He and a few friends were discussing the “N” word. He also wanted to know why racism only involved African-Americans and whites. Why not Mexicans or Asians? I told him about Chris Rocks brilliant piece in the Hollywood Reporter. I reminded him of the shameful past we’re fighting to break free from, the wounds…that just won’t heal. I gave him the breakdown on the complexities of our love hate relationship with THAT word.

In all my dreams of motherhood and parenting I never imagined conversations like this would take up so much of our time. I think I dreamed the dream my parents probably had for me. I dreamed the dream of a better world. He’s 13. Still a little green and super geeky. He likes manga comics and still leans way in when I read to him. He’s old enough to know that the love-filled multi-cultural world of family and friends we created for him isn’t what he’ll always experience when he leaves the nest.

And so the questions, the conversations continue…

Trading the kitchen for the family room Ila opens up with how she overheard two lighter skinned girls call a darker skinned girl ugly. Specifically pointing out skin tone as the reason for her poor looks. Chailah and Ade’ floated in and out of the room dressed up as ninjas while we talked Disney and Barak Obama, the doll test and Native Americans.

We talked a river of words. It couldn’t be stopped. The volatile virus of earthly angst that’s permeated the city all but robbed us of a season of joyful expectancy. But we still want to believe. By His grace we’re a family that knows love wins.

The time is right for Christmas. This world needs the undeniable truth of an unbelievably scandalous birth to remind us that God is here.

So we pick out and put up trees. We read the Christmas story and endure the labor of advent. We bake cookies and hang stockings. We buy presents and plan celebrations – because we still believe. We have to.

The atmosphere is littered with stories of hate, the threat of war and rampant disease. Racism, the dirty laundry of our American family drama is splayed across our collective consciousness. It is the current cloud that covers the story of love we cling to. But there is love. And love wins. I tell myself over and over – Love wins.

How I got over
How did I make it over
You know my soul look back and wonder
How did I make it over
How I made it over
Going on over all these years
You know my soul look back and wonder
How did I make it over – Mahalia Jackson

I watched Alex Haley’s Roots when I was 11 years old. And The Butler at 46. Huddled together around our floor model tv we watched the evil of slavery come to life on the big screen. Despite claims that Haley’s work is fiction it still exposed the horrors of slavery. Do you remember the whipping of Kunta Kinte or Mariah Carey as Hattie Pearl when the slave owner said he “needed her help in the shed”? The look on her face stays with me. And too, that of her emasculated husband. My children are a little embarrassed by slavery. They see themselves the way God sees them and resist a connection to anything less. They want it to be over and feel uncomfortable seeing images of people that look like them treated so unfairly. So do I. But I want them to know the beautiful history of a people that survived. I re-frame every conversation with “how we got over”.

I grew up with a father whose views were what you might call militant. From my mother, I learned the religion of love. I mourn the tragic loss of any life but I do stand with those who protest police brutality and racism. My faith is big enough to do both. But right now all I feel is peace. I’m quieted by a rumbling urgent wave of silence. God says hush. Growing up, my mother seemed unbearably passive but I see, especially now, the power in her quiet stance. Sometimes love is the only answer to live with. Sometimes love doesn’t say a word. And lately, prayer-filled silence is all I can offer.

The worst thing that could happen in response to repeated cries for justice happened three days ago. Innocent police officers, serving their community were killed by a lone gunman. This man also took his own life.

Peace, like a river, come quick.

We should mourn with those who mourn and in this God simply asks for our silence. No words. No debate. It’s the resolved silence, the very voice of death that shifts the paradigm of this battle. May this be the tipping point, where the crux of the message is driven home. Would that it could be finished.

Brian and Mahalia and Stevie are the balm for my soul today. My advent song has no words today. And that’s okay. My praise and worship is a lifting of hands to a holy God who simply says surrender. Maybe I’ll do this until I mean it. Maybe I’ll sit with love until I feel it.

I keep looking for the sweet softness of love swaddled as a baby in a manger. But Jesus isn’t a baby anymore. He’s all grown up. His love eclipses the facts of a familiar birth story. His love is truth. What we experienced as love come down in a manger has exploded – showering the world with fiery sparks. If we pay attention we’ll find burning bushes every where.

When Jesus returns He’ll look like Michael Jordan. Or Chris Martin from Coldplay. Or maybe like Malala Yousafzai. Maybe Jesus comes now in the rocking chair wisdom of a grandmother when she admonishes us to remember that “two wrongs don’t make a right”. Maybe Jesus huddles with the hobos under the Metro North Tunnel at 106th Street. Maybe we can see Jesus in the tears of the mother of that gunman, as she laments her sons wrong choices and repeated cries for help. Maybe we’ll be about the business of kingdom living instead of creating our own. Maybe Jesus is on Facebook every now and then…disguised as hopeful status update. You know, that message that suggests we simply love one another. Maybe Jesus is in and about everything and if we could see him in all he’d actually be the all that we need.

Maybe..

Maybe Jesus comes as the Eric Garners of the world. Martyred for a movement…a moment in His story.

We are a community of people groaning towards heaven. We are the weary who grope in the dark of night for a star. We are souls crying out for the union of our disjointed spirits. We crave a communal redemption. If we are not all saved then none of us are. None of us are.

And all I hear is praise. Because if we won’t do it the rocks will..they’ll cry out and sing a heavenly praise and redemption song. His word is for the fallen, the broken, the lame and the sick. His word is the gospel. His word is for the sinner. And that’s all of us. His word picks us up and puts us back together again. All of us.

He’s already here. Jesus is in the middle of the rally. He sits in the tension filled moments when we wonder what’s next. He is the thrill of hope for a jaded world. He is the peaceful resolution to this revolution. He is Jesus.

And He’s already here. He’s in the middle of every choice we make. This Christmas might we choose Him. Before we speak a word, write a post, unfriend a follower. May we not miss him in the middle of the madness.

Love’s in need of love today
Don’t delay
Send yours in right away
Hate’s goin’ round
Breaking many hearts
Stop it please
Before it’s gone too far – Stevie Wonder

Posted in Advent in the City, christianity, faith, life, parenting, uncategorized - Tagged #TellHisStory, Advent, Brian Courtney Wilson, children, Christmas, dream, God, grace, Jesus, love, Mahalia Jackson, Motherhood, Stevie Wonder

Five Minute Friday : Change {Going There in Ferguson}

Aug 22, 2014 47 Comments ~ Written by Lisha Epperson

When I found Deidra Riggs online I froze. Silenced in the stillness of joy, I caught my breath – in awe of her gift. It’s a gift you know, to gracefully challenge people towards change. Without saying a word, she encouraged me to write about racism. She left room for my words and a safe space to “go there” in discussions surrounding diversity and reconciliation.

God’s called me to the conversation surrounding race and the church. I’m sure of it. And so I write. I engage. I listen. And now, I go.

On Friday I’ll leave the Lovelies and Big Daddy to board a flight bound for Ferguson, Missouri. I’ll have the opportunity to serve a community by listening to and prayerfully, telling their stories.

In the past weeks, after years of city and system wide inequalities, Ferguson erupted. The frustration of the people mirrors a nations cry to end the division and centuries long pain of Gods people based on color. Traveling to the city of Ferguson feels like walking into a war zone and I have no idea what I’m doing but I’m praying for change. Last Sunday I prayed this “Give me grace to listen. To engage my senses for the cause of Christ. To discern your truth, taste and see that You are good – lend and lift my voice to speak when called.” When Deidra asked, I knew my yes would be an offering and part of the grace message I live, my prayer for change.

I’m not a reporter. Or popular blogger. I’m a wife and mother, daughter of a king answering a call to serve. And in saying yes, I’ve never felt more inadequate to fulfill a task and powerless to bring about change. Never felt more like I’m stepping into a pair of shoes two sizes too big.

So I withdrew. The enormity of the task, the life legacy of a family – make this thinker quiet. I withdraw to grow small. Because we spend our days online thinking about numbers and influence and how to grow bigger and now, right now, my words are but illegible markings in the sand. I can’t decipher their meaning and know the tide will soon wash them away. Those words wouldn’t matter anyway. What remains will be His. I’ll grow quiet knowing every scratch of it is linked to the only story that matters. Spirit washed and carved on tablets of stone, that story must be told. That truth transforms. That truth heals. I will tell it.

I’m going there. I’m taking my mother heart, a prayer for peace, my passion for justice…my faith in God and I’m going. In Ferguson I’ll join Deidra, Jennifer, Preston and Nish – believing God we’ll form a five fold ministry of grace, of whatever’s needed for such a time as this. We want to hear.

We’ll follow His lead.

Pray that I listen for His heart and words as I offer my vessel. Pray He pours words of meaning and hope…and grace. That I hear. Pray His riches and glory, that my feet spiritually fill the shoes before me. That the stories held are freely shared and that most of all, the words point back to Him. Pray for change.

an offering to the community at Five Minute Friday

Posted in blogging, christianity, faith, life, uncategorized - Tagged change, Deidra Riggs, Ferguson, five minute friday, God, Going There, prayer, write

Five Minute Friday : Tell

Aug 15, 2014 55 Comments ~ Written by Lisha Epperson

photo : suzan mikiel
The Heavens tell the story – God you are Greater

Twice on Wednesday, I almost cried.
Imagined the salty taste of tears pooling in the corner of my eyes
Choked, a little, on the lump in my throat.

The first time it happened, my almost 4-year-old son wanted my help. He loves the carousel but needs the extra support of my arms encircling him to really feel free. His perfect little boy body, his delight in the blue bird he’d chosen to ride…it was a simple mother and son moment. And just as the ride began, Katie Perry’s “Roar” on blast, I glanced out over the pier and watched the waves have their way with a few docked sailboats. Dark and thick, the Hudson River threatened to eat me alive.

If I didn’t pull myself together.

Later, I traced the tips of my fingers along the edge of the bench we sat on. I wondered if Hurricane Sandy was responsible for the water washed look of the wood. If it mirrored my fatigue. Lately I’ve felt so tired.

Maybe it’s the rivers fault. As much as I’ve loved having my coffee here for the past few days, the waters done a number on me. The ebb and flow of the tide rocks my emotions. Hormones fluctuate, answering the moons call. It’s healing and hydro therapeutic but it’s also nauseating. And, like I said, it brought me to tears. Almost.

I have to tell you something.

I wrote this a year ago….I wrote it in frustration. A call to the Christian community I know Gods placed me in to speak up…to acknowledge the death of a 17-year-old boy. At the time my Twitter and Facebook feeds made plain the troubled times we live in. The white Christian world on social media seemed to ignore the death of Trayvon Martin. It wasn’t happening in their world.

I was confused and heartbroken. Because I believe our Christianity demands we take part in these conversations. That we figure out a way to peacefully engage each other about what it’s like to live with the implied truths of a post racial society.

I have to tell you, racism is real.

I have to tell you my family lost a son like this, on the streets of Chicago. Over 35 years ago. Jo Lee was 16 and visiting from Alabama. Unarmed. He met the description of a robbery suspect in the area. Black male.

I have to tell you that I am the mother of 3 African-American sons. Each fits the description of America’s most wanted, the same description Jo Lee fit that night. Black male.

I have to tell you about that because you may not know the challenges black parents face, in raising sons. The stories we’re forced to telI. The fear, the prayers.

Mother, mother
There’s too many of you crying
Brother, brother, brother
There’s far too many of you dying
You know we’ve got to find a way
To bring some lovin’ here today, yeah – Marvin Gaye

Can I tell you something? I don’t want to offend you. That’s why I haven’t written. I hurt a friend last year with online words and the friendship has not healed. I’m sorry for that. And I’m learning.

The tension is palpable. Right now it feels like we’re living in the Wild West. The Hatfields, the McCoys, the haves, the have-nots, the police dept, every black male in America. It’s a holy hot mess out here.
And I’m tired.

I wanted to write but I didn’t want to offend you. My truth is tangled with soul memories from darker days. Two skips and a hop back in time and I’d have been a slave, maybe your families domestic worker, your sons blacker berry. This ugly chapter is embedded in our American history. Our DNA. My story is not like yours. And I’m still unsure how to deliver the message …to tell the story, without hurting you.

But I want you to hear it. And I want to hear yours. I know, you’re hurt too. But we can’t heal what we don’t acknowledge as hurt. And the silence is deafening.

Now, baptized in spirit, because of Christ alone – we’re walking toward each other. Slowly. So slowly.

And I don’t want to write about it, but I BELEIVE as Christians, we’re called to tell the stories. To go there for social justice. Because it’s true.

No Justice. No Peace.

And never more so than shown by the tear bombs and wooden pellets unleashed on law-abiding citizens standing peacefully in protest of a community member shot and left for dead in the middle of the street. It’s devastating and disgusting. The images of snipers positioned on rooftops to shoot civilians gives me nightmares. Has Ferguson turned into a police state?

I don’t want to carry these stories alone. I won’t be the midwife of all this pain, the treasurer of all these tears. We can’t only “go there”, when it’s convenient. We have to do the work even if we’re tired. Even when we’re scared. We have to do better. We have to be about, be FOR, reconciliation – every day.

It’s been a year.

I wondered why you didn’t write about it. Why you chose not to share this burden. Tell your story. And perhaps wrongly assumed your apathy.

I view every incident like this from a racially charged filter. I do. Black men have the monopoly on unarmed civilian murder by an officer of the law. It’s a fact. As a Christian, I look to my community to share the burden, the questions surrounding racism in America and how we can move forward. I’m trying to navigate this without being written off as another angry black woman. And I don’t want to be quietly spiritually shunned from all the online communities I love, for saying what you have to already know.

I don’t have to tell you, do I? – Racism is real.

And my shoulders are heavy and hunched over from too many days spent feeling closed in on myself and you and God because silence isn’t always peaceful. And I should have peace. Shouldn’t I? And now it’s morphing into frustration and anger and holy hot tears because I feel helpless and a centuries old fatigue has crept under my skin and if I didn’t know better I’d say I’m being haunted. By Trayvon, and Jordan and Mike and my uncle, Jo Lee.

My quiet isn’t peaceful. My quiet is not surrender. My quiet is tension filled, the calm before the storm, the lone cry of a lark ascending, a hawk circling. I stayed silent, singing softly in my head – out of feigned obedience.

God you are greater, greater…

I sang softly, swaying back and forth wringing my hands. Eyes closed. And at the chorus I let my voice rise and screamed

“took the keys from death and hell.”

and felt my spirit release, freed from a quiet that was killing me. Because I knew God wasn’t upset with me for being angry. And He hadn’t asked me to be quiet. He took those keys with Holy Spirit force. Sometimes that’s what it takes.

Please understand.

Being Christian doesn’t exclude us from the conversation. We have to speak up. To be clear, I understand we aren’t all called to every conversation and maybe you won’t write about it, but standing in solidarity with a hashtag or sharing posts you’ve read that resonate with the spirit of Christ and reconciliation could be a beginning.

And then the stories trickled in…

And a year later, my thanks to Esther Marie Emery, Sarah Bessey, Preston Yancey, Adriel Booker, Kathi Denfeld, Marcy Hanson, Beth Morey, Abby Norman, Kelly Greer, and Kris Camealy and others for writing, reading and being present with snippets of conversation as we all strive for peace.

We’re all quick to highlight each other’s short comings. Today I want to say I’m happy for the heart connections, steadily taking root, binding us in the real life work of reconciliation. We’re doing it. It’s slow, it’s hard but we’re doing it. We’re “going there”.

Today I watched the waves respond rhythmically to earths gravitational pull and I felt the omnipresence of an all-powerful God anchoring me. I’m not afraid of going under. Today I’ll ride the wave.

#TrayvonMartin #wakeupchurch #goingthere #ayearlater #MikeBrown

History despite its wrenching pain cannot be unlived but, if faced with courage, need not be lived again. – Maya Angelou

an offering to the community at Five Minute Friday

Posted in christianity, faith, life, relationships, uncategorized - Tagged #goingthere, #mikebrown, black male, five minute friday, God, tell

Bring Back Our Girls : Why We Can’t Be Silent

May 06, 2014 38 Comments ~ Written by Lisha Epperson

For the Mothers of the 276 girls abducted in Nigeria

#BringBackOurGirls

Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. – Martin Luther King Jr.

Bring Back Our Girls

I’m struggling with allowing my 11 year old daughter to travel alone in New York City.

That would be Ila, my tween girl. My lovely Lilli Bee. My mighty princess. I trust her to travel alone. I do. She’s capable and savvy. At her age I’d already clocked in my share of hours on the downtown Brooklyn bus. I travelled with friends mostly, sometimes alone. But I did it and felt safe enough in my world…maybe blinded by the ignorance of youth…but I felt safe. My mother felt confident sending me out in a world that would protect me in her absence…value my life enough to cry foul if anyone intended harm. It’s the only way any mother sends her child out into the world.

I’m sure the mothers of the 276 girls abducted in Nigeria felt confident too. And if not confident, perhaps settled enough through a covering of prayer. The kind we whisper under our breaths. Its part of the mama mantra – part prayer , part breathing exercise. In, 2,3,4 Jesus out, 2,3,4. Pay attention next time… this prayer keeps your mama heart alive. It’s part of your DNA…birthed at conception. From womb to world, mamas pray for the safety of their children. The universal cry, of every mother, goes a little something like this… “Lord please keep my child safe”.

I believe the mothers of the abducted girls prayed. Attending school, aspiring an education was risky business in this part of the world. Hard to imagine right? But it makes me think of children crossing segregation lines in the south. The not too long ago history of this country, when people of color had to risk their lives for the opportunity to attend school. Would you send your child to school under those circumstances? Change doesn’t happen without risk, without sometimes putting your life on the line. Change doesn’t happen without bloodshed…ask Jesus.

Last week I attended the annual gala for my daughters’ skating team. It’s a dress your best, rock your red carpet finest kind of event in celebration of the girls accomplishments. This year we graduated 5 seniors. 5 young women of excellence. Each accepted to institutions of higher learning…ready to make their mark on the world. We heard speeches from girls as young as 6 years old…each taking the opportunity to be platformed in stride. These girls are vocal and vibrant. Each told her story, shared her years of experience with such poise. Surrounded by family and friends in a love-filled room. Wrapped tight, secure in a blanket of familial grace. The night, the room was thick with potential. You could feel it in the air. Thick and heavy like honey.

In a room like that I couldn’t help but think of the 276 girls who were abducted from their school in Nigeria on April 14, 2014. I couldn’t help thinking about their mothers. The families they represent. The catastrophic holes left in their communities by their absence. In that room I felt their absence.

But I felt their presence too. The girls walked the stage alongside my daughter and her friends. I felt them. In the pretty in pink smiles and laughter. In the hot combed, braided and natural hair styles the girls wore, in every shade of black beauty represented. I felt them in the glory that is a young woman on the verge….of greatness…of a shopping trip, a load of laundry , a plane ride to Paris, a physics exam, a rendezvous-vous with a lover, a young woman on the verge of whatever the next thing is based on her choice…her liberty…her freedom.

I felt them.

I felt the pride and pain of their mothers. I felt the glorious optimism of bright futures filled with families and careers. I felt the sacrifice of each mother as she prayed and prepared for her daughters departure from the nest. I felt their mothers tears.

Because every girl has to leave home. Someday.

We expect to send our children to school or practice under the authority of trusted teachers and leaders. We expect them to come home. We imagine we live in a world where each life is equally valued. And if something like this happened at my daughters school the alarm would have sounded. There would be no sleep in this nation if an abduction like this had taken place in a school of 276 American girls. International alerts would have hit every news channel. This story would be news worthy. Had it happened anywhere else in the world… it would have.

But the tired narrative told of needy Africa…and needy Africans helps to perpetuate the problem. Could it be that world wide, people have had enough of Africa’s needs. The kidnapping of these girls just another problem in this troublesome place? This pit of hell hole known as the cradle of civilization? I have to admit, I wonder.

And who wants to “go there” but sometimes you have to. It seems something about the color of these girls’ skin makes this story unrelatable to the typical American family, therefore not newsworthy. That disgusts me. We’re already picking sides in this drama by only listing the names of the girls who are Christians.

Yes George Orwell…some people still seem to be more equal than others.

And by saying nothing we sanction it. We tell the world it’s ok. In our silence we give our blessing for this to happen again.

“Attacking and abducting young women simply for going to school is despicable and must never be tolerated,” Sen. Barbara Boxer, a California Democrat, said in a statement. “The international community must make clear that all children deserve the chance to pursue an education without fear and that those responsible for these heinous crimes will be held accountable.”

I recognize this story has so many variables..so many paths one could wander down but this is the path I see from a Christian perspective and as a woman living in this world with brown skin. So I won’t give in. I won’t shut up. I won’t censor the truths about injustice and racism when things like this continue to happen. And you shouldn’t either. We’re commanded to tell the truth in love. But tell it we must. This is an attack on humanity. On every girl. On education. On opportunity. On freedom.

olushola aromokun – Lagos Sky

53 girls have escaped.
All hope is not lost….

my prayer…

Take me to the King
I don’t have much to bring
My heart is torn in pieces
It’s my offering
Take me to the King

Truth is I’m tired
Options are few
I’m trying to pray
But where are you?
I’m all churched out
Hurt and abused
I can’t fake
What’s left to do?

Truth is I’m weak
No strength to fly
No tears to cry
Even if I tried
But still my soul
Refuses to die
One touch will change my life

Take me to the King
I don’t have much to bring
My heart’s torn in pieces
It’s my offering

Lay me at the throne
Leave me there alone
To gaze upon Your glory
And sing to You this song
Please take me to the King – Tamela Mann

Bring back our girls.
Bring back our girls.
Bring back our girls.

photo : L.Epperson

…#bringbackourgirls

All hope is not lost….grant peace, set the captives free, show the way, undeserved grace and so much favor. NO FEAR. Amen.

And until they come home stay engaged. Click here for a link to a petition to sign and a “how-to” on drafting a letter to your elected official.

This post is an offering to the community at #TellHisStory…

Posted in christianity, faith, life, motherhood, uncategorized - Tagged #bringbackourgirls, #TellHisStory, bring back our girls, freedom, girls, God, injustice, mothers, Nigeria, prayer, silent

Why Josh Didn’t Get the Part on the CW’s Reality Show About Ballet: A heart-Breaking Pointe- Part 2

Sep 02, 2013 16 Comments ~ Written by Lisha Epperson

Joshua Whitehead god-given talent is undeniable photo: beau johnson

Joshua Whitehead
imagine the life of a male African-American ballet dancer
lets go Behind the Scenephoto: beau pearson

Last week I wrote a piece in response to the happenings on a reality show about ballet called Breaking Pointe. You can read that here. We covered a lot on the history on African-Americans in ballet. We back-tracked to truthfully explore the original question. So, why didn’t Josh get the part?

I watched the show and questioned whether this episode might have been engineered…reality shows have a way of doing that. I’m not sure I’m past that possibility but I was disheartened by the reason given by the artistic director. In the end Josh was told he wasn’t given the part because “they didn’t want to make a joke of the only African – American male dancer in the company.”

Josh didn’t get the part because he’s black. Different shadings and glossings, a fresh spin you might say, on the same old drama, but the reason is the same. Josh missed an opportunity to display his talents in a role he was prepared to perform. He was overlooked because off his color and the job was given to a less experienced white dancer. Tears aside, it seems the artistic director made a decision for his company above any feelings he had for this young man. Hey, ballet is a business. Right? But lets for a moment consider who funds the majority of ballet companies…who sits on the board and writes the checks. Every decision from casting to curtain call is made by this select few. This decision was presented to the powers that be and a choice was made that favored old regimes and played out attitudes. This is hard stuff.

Are we still there? Initially I struggled with the reality of the directors answer. I want terribly for us to move past this. However, in reviewing the history I chronicled last week and watching Lee Daniels’ The Butler ,which beautifully time lines the complicated story of racism and the fight for civil rights in America, I am resigned to the truth. We aren’t there yet We aren’t there because the story is still relatively new. Wounds are healing. Fragile beginnings of tender scars have formed, that when touched, call forth the memory of pain. Pain – even the memory of it is hard to ignore. We’re still wincing and flinching at the idea of true equality. All of us.

Yet by the grace of God I am hopeful. And I’ll tell you why. Josh said it best as he echoed the feelings of the many dancers that came before him. He wants to be considered for roles based on his ability as a dancer and performer. Period. “Are we still going to be talking about this in 50 years?” he asked. Josh just wants to dance. He doesn’t see why this should be an issue. Shouldn’t he just be a dancer, working in a company?

It made me wonder? Would it have been different if Josh worked as a dancer in a company of his peers, controlled, headed and underwritten by members of his generation? Would this even be a question then? They seem to have a grasp on race much different from generations past. Still, it’s terribly tricky because at the top of the show you hear Josh lament the fact that he is the sole African-American male in the company. He shares he feels pressure to prove himself because of it. Should this be so? His generation wants to move forward but is held back as it bumps heads with remnants from the previous one – mine/ours.

My children glide through the subtleties of this topic in a way I may never. They have friends of all races and really respond to each other with no filter. I admire them and recognize the blessing in this. The dream voiced by Martin Luther King Jr. 50 years ago IS being realized. We’re creeping and crawling toward it but it is coming true.

How do we advance his dream, this concept of true equality in the ballet world? I posed this question to ballet teacher and choreographer Ron Alexander. “The reality, and the remedy to this on going situation is the recruitment and hiring of dancers of color–having at least 10-15% of this American ballet company representative of the country’s African-American population. There are plenty of African-Americans who are easily qualified to dance in white ballet companies. It is happening but at a snail’s pace– far too slowly–that is the REALITY!”

So there you have it. A little behind the scenes in the ballet world. If you or someone you know has influence in this area raise your voice and request the hiring of dancers of color and support companies like Dance Theatre of Harlem when they visit your town.

I’ll leave you with this…Misty Copeland, the first African-American ballerina hired by the American Ballet Theatre in 20 years!

Thanks for reading such a lengthy post. I have a few questions for you. Have you ever attended a ballet performance and noticed there were dancers of other races? particularly African-American. What ballet company was that? What were your thoughts?

another Behind the Scenes post with Crystal Stine!

Posted in christianity, faith, life, relationships, uncategorized - Tagged African-Americans, ballet, behind the scenes, breaking pointe, Lee Daniels the Butler

Why Josh Didn’t Get the Part on the CW’s Reality Show About Ballet: A heart-Breaking Pointe- Part 1

Aug 27, 2013 23 Comments ~ Written by Lisha Epperson

Whitney Huell – Ballet West
talent is God-given and undeniable

Last week I read a post by Deidra Riggs. I was drawn to the posts picture. A court dance scene from a ballet. I love ballet! Of course I was all over it. And the featured dancer was a young African-American man! A rare treat. So I read on. Deidras’ post highlighted an episode on the reality show Breaking Pointe, where the only African-American male dancer in the company was trying out for a role in their upcoming production of Cinderella. The role was that of a clown or jester. A slap-stick character called “Napoleon”, the brunt of all the jokes. A mid-level company member, will Josh get the role?

Deidra did a fabulous job in giving us the run down of what happened on the actual show. You can read that here…

So I’ll dig into this and join the discussion with a few remarks and since the show aired weeks ago and everyone knows by now, I’ll let you know why Josh didn’t get the role. I hope you won’t mind the diversion and pray there’s a little something here that’ll cause us to stretch and grow.

God delights in our differences…. of this I’m sure. So let’s do this…

Arthur Mitchell broke ground and made history as the first African American dancer hired by the New York City Ballet in 1955, rising to principal in 1956. Josh joins him as one of the few men who have been able to break barriers in the world of classical dance. Progress for women of color has been much slower. It wasn’t until 1990 that Lauren Anderson of Houston Ballet made history as the first African-American principal dancer in a major (read : white) dance company.

Here’s a hard truth: our country holds tight to the idea of “the princess” remaining white. Old ideas and images die hard. I watched season 1 of Breaking Pointe in 2011 hoping they would highlight Katlyn Addison and Whitney Huell, the two brown ballerinas in the studio scenes. To tell their stories. They never did. So I’ll talk here about the black girls and about the absence of black dancers in ballet in general.

Snow Flakes – The Nutcracker
that’s me on the right

I was one of the millions of little girls who dreamt of becoming a ballerina. I was one of the very few who go on to actually get paid to wear pointe shoes. By Gods grace I had the opportunity to work professionally with the internationally acclaimed Dance Theatre of Harlem. I worked with smaller regional companies as well.

Traditionally our world views a ballerina in pink. From head to toe she is swathed in pink. Leotard, tights, tutu and toe shoes….pink. She is also defined, perhaps not in word but in deed as being white. I grew up in the early 70’s and was blessed with teachers and role models who were discovering and embracing their blackness. My teachers wore dashikis and Afros and taught me about James Baldwin and Maya Angelou. I grew up with a certain sense of my self as a black woman. I know this was a blessing. Not all African-American children grow up this way.

But even then, marinated in all this positive thinking and self-love, ballerinas to me were white. Until I saw a performance by the Dance Theatre of Harlem. I was 15. A community program I participated in hosted a trip to see the company at City Center. And every dancer on the stage was brown. The girls wore pointe shoes. Graceful. Elegant. Proud. I’d never seen anything like it and my world changed. I’d always wanted to be a ballerina. Was self-taught largely through library books until then. But that night I knew it was possible. Suddenly, it was real.

I’d taken ballet classes before this. Although my parents couldn’t afford it, I found ways to dance. Community programs sponsored through the library were, back then, a haven for the arts. I’d scour the monthly calendar of free events and beg my mom to take me. I was always the only black student. I had a good time in class and teachers were mostly welcoming but a few tried to convince me to study tap or jazz. This was the late 70’s. Roughly 20 years earlier, African-Americans were sitting at the back of the bus, unable to use a library card, being hosed and inevitably – staging boycotts. As a country, we were just beginning to heal from the wounds fear, ignorance and injustice caused. Dance Theatre of Harlem made their company début in 1971 and originated as a creative response to the hatred of that time.

So the concept of African-Americans participating in the beauty of ballet was still new. Steeped in European traditions and presented as an art form for the élite – ballet and the African-American community were just being introduced. Arthur Mitchell’s is the story that made the headlines. But there were others. There were other dancers who assisted in the tearing down of these creatively restrictive walls. Doris Jones and Claire H. Haywood founded their school in 1941 and the New York Negro Ballet was founded in 1954. In church basements and community centers all over the country ballet was happening and it was happening in the ‘hood. Step by step…progress was being made.

I had to give you the history – which made this, to me, a perfect behind the scenes post. We can talk more about Josh next week and why although he didn’t get the part we can remain hopeful.

Stay tuned for part 2 of this discussion…at next weeks Behind the Scenes link-up.

Did you ever study ballet? What are your first memories? Was there a lone black girl in your class? Was that girl, you? I hope you’ll join me in the comments section below.

Posted in christianity, faith, life, relationships, uncategorized - Tagged ballet, behind the scenes, black ballerinas, breaking pointe

Racism in America : Ignorance is Bliss But It’s No Longer an Excuse

Jul 18, 2013 16 Comments ~ Written by Lisha Epperson

racism ends when we say so…
photo: flickr by OZinOH

I wrote a piece about racism and my feelings after the Zimmerman verdict was released. I was hurt …bewildered but I’m guessing like most of you…not surprised. The blanket of ignorant bliss that covers this country was pulled back. The still raw and very deep gash created by racial division, again…exposed.

I pressed send and waited for the peaceful dialogue to begin…I trolled Twitter and Facebook. Looking for words of wisdom, another point of view, angry and annoyed outbursts. What I discovered was two different worlds. My FB and Twitter accounts are worlds apart..populated by Americans living and experiencing vastly different realities based on skin color. The disparity was alarming.

My Facebook page is comprised of mostly African-American women. Many are personal friends that have migrated from my personal page to talk motherhood, infertility, adoption and relationships. My Twitter followers are largely not my in real life friends. They are women and a sprinkling of men who have connected with me as an infertility survivor, adoption advocate and follower of Christ.

My Facebook friends were outraged. Every other post screamed the injustice felt. I’ve searched on Twitter the past few days for reaction on the verdict from a mostly Christian community and by and large found nothing. I got 2 retweets on my blogpost and 1 on the call to conversation. I found a beautiful post from Deidre Riggs…she blogs at Jumping Tandem and as a contibutor for Allume and InCourage. I was delighted to read the comments on her post and will check back for more. Denene Millner of My Brown Baby and Darcel from The MahoganyWay also expressed their frustrations in thought provoking blog posts. I retweeted all of them. I commented. These were all black women who for the most part shared my pain. But I wanted to hear the other side. I asked questions in hopes of getting the conversation started on the other end, but….nothing.

I received only one comment on my blog that expressed an opinion very different from my own. I am grateful to Vanessa at Hearts on Guard for sharing her views. I appreciated the opportunity to hear and be heard by a fellow believer who sees this story from a different angle.

So the question I’m asking is why not? Have we all entered that space where we collectively sigh over tragedy and proceed with business as usual because we’re all too numb. This type of injustice…our new normal? Or is it that the veil of privilege covers the eyes of its constituents…keeping them blind to the alternate reality of the African- American in America. Our Christian community is staying silent and I don’t know why. Are we hiding the very real fact of racism under the prayer cloth as a way to avoid the communication we fear. Needing to go there, we choose instead to pray it away.

Brothers and sisters in Christ – your African-American family is hurting over this and your silence is adding salt to a long standing wound.

Some church leaders made blanket statements. Refusing to say any names, they tweeted glib comments about “these hard times”. They failed us. In skirting the issue they displayed cowardice and flaunted the worst kind of weakness. The church refused to take a stand and its lack of conviction creates a culture of complacency. It is powerless and fickle. It is unproductive.

The church should be at the center of all community building efforts and that can’t happen if we aren’t talking. We’ll have to walk this road together…hand in hand or not at all. Christ connects us but we are clearly living in different worlds. My friends…racism is real…and we’ve got to deal with it. The bridge building will have to be done by us.

photo: flickr by uusc4all

Since the verdict I realize that most of us (Christians) aren’t talking about it because we didn’t follow this case. It wasn’t, isn’t important enough and doesn’t register in our world. God is love. I get it. But wow! What an aha! moment. What a terribly sad moment of revelation. As Christians, how do we travel across the globe desperate to meet the needs of Africans ,Haitians..the sick,the lost…and then choose to remain blind to a very real problem of racism in our own backyard? Our hearts bleeding and filled with compassion for “those” people, those situations. The thing about integration in the church is that it hasn’t really happened. We remain segregated. The black church, the white church with so little room for Jesus, who should be the center of it all. Church, I know we can do better.

I talked yesterday with a friend about the verdict and how it’s been so difficult to process. She is a white woman and openly shared her experiences as a child. She told of racist family members and the perpetuation of the black boogey man in every scary story. She admitted her fear of running into a black man when she moved from middle America to NYC. She held back tears as I told her about my deep, core shaking sigh upon hearing the first child I would raise was a boy. It’s true….black mothers pray special prayers over their sons – and no one teaches this. It’s in our DNA…a mournful lullaby from long ago prayed, whispered, breathed over every male child born into a family. She confessed that never has she had an experience that would validate all she’d been taught to fear about about black men – subliminally or otherwise. We went there and I was grateful for it.

I kept glancing at our boys. They talked and laughed as we shared this moment of confidence and complete trust. They’ve loved each other a long time…bonding over Minecraft, email, face-time and Legos. But this weekend, their worlds parted. While her son played baseball and enjoyed the usual weekend flow – I had to talk to my son about how to behave if approached by an officer of the law. How he should not make any false moves, maintain a submissive stance , not reach into his back pack. For anything. My boy participated in a centuries old, depressingly sad rite of passage this weekend. He’s 12 and to me ..still ripe with the innocence of boyhood. But on Saturday…after the verdict…he became a black man and with that, not so green anymore.

Friends in Christ the floor is open…

what are your thoughts, how are you making sense of this tragedy? are you one of very few African-Americans in your community of believers? are you white with very little interaction with people of color? Do you attend a primarily white or black church? Did your pastor speak on this topic last Sunday? what did they say? what…are your thoughts?

and again…the floor is open…

Posted in christianity, faith, infertility, motherhood, parenting, relationships, uncategorized - Tagged America, Facebook, Life, Twitter, verdict

Posts tagged racism

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I have to tell you something.

History despite its wrenching pain cannot be unlived but, if faced with courage, need not be lived again. – Maya Angelou

Bring Back Our Girls : Why We Can’t Be Silent

Why Josh Didn’t Get the Part on the CW’s Reality Show About Ballet: A heart-Breaking Pointe- Part 2

Why Josh Didn’t Get the Part on the CW’s Reality Show About Ballet: A heart-Breaking Pointe- Part 1

Racism in America : Ignorance is Bliss But It’s No Longer an Excuse

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