Ferguson: A tale of tears and dirt clods

Tears streamed down the face of the African American woman in response to my gently spoken comment. It was the first night after the looting and torching of over a dozen Ferguson buildings.

The riots were in response to the grand jury decision not to indict Officer Darren Wilson for the shooting death of Michael Brown. With ruins smoldering and angry protesters assembled up the street, an interracial group of about thirty met just beyond downtown Ferguson. We broke into groups of six. Intense shock, anger and grief were expressed on all sides.

After significant discussion, I responded to a black lady who was critical of the grand jury decision. Turning toward her I said, “Given the fact there was a struggle and discharging of the officer’s gun in the police car, some think the jury had to decide as they did. But it seems if someone feels that way, you take it very personally.”

That’s when tears began to flood the anguished expression of the attractive, educated professional in her early 30s. “It just seems like we don’t matter,” she said mournfully. The middle aged African American woman next to her also began to weep, quietly nodding in agreement.

Momentary silence.

I fought the unhelpful impulse to try to “fix” them by saying something like, “Oh, but you do matter. Can’t you see the jury decision is not about you?” But I was there to listen and learn as much as to convey my own feelings.

We’ve all seen numerous images of protestors chanting or bearing signs with the message, “Black Lives Matter,” mirroring the young woman’s woeful complaint. I fear that to many whites who are resentful and who see an aggressive Michael Brown as an inappropriate symbol for a poorly defined cause, the phrase can seem like the cry of an over extended tantrum.

But what haunts me is that it wasn’t an angry protestor sitting in tears with me. What I experienced was a wounded human being in the grip of a stinging sense of personal rejection—a sense that, in spite of her youthfulness, has clearly been generations in the making.

Since that first night, I have joined others in subsequent interracial group discussions in Ferguson. I’ve also sought frank conversation with a few African American friends. These have been honest explorations into complex issues.

In such talks I find myself challenged by a variety of biblical principles. “Be quick to listen, slow to speak,” counsels the New Testament or, as the best-selling book Seven Habits of Highly Effective People  translates it, “seek first to understand, then to be understood”.

To be productive, such conversations must go in two directions. “Speak the truth in love,” scripture reminds us. We all have our “truth”-- our opinion. Many of us have difficulty expressing it kindly, with respect.

In most controversies there’s an elusive middle ground between contrasting perspectives. To get to that balanced middle it’s essential that we are willing to really hear, and be influenced by, those who differ. “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another,” says Proverbs.

Unfortunately, as to participating in direct, productive communication, some of either race seem not up to it. Immediately in the aftermath of the shooting of Michael Brown it was easy to observe a host of polarizing us-them comments on social media, radio call-in shows, and in conversation. The most notable feature of these comments is that they have been uttered at a distance. It has been talk about, not to, those on the other side of the racial divide.

It all reminds me of what I and my friends used to do as kids.

I grew up next to Ferguson in the sixties, one block from the poor African American community of Kinloch. My best friend was Larry whose backyard bordered that humble village. Larry’s backyard, like all the white-owned yards on the street that bordered Kinloch, had exceedingly high hedges that cut off visibility and connection to the mysterious “other world”.

There were occasions when we and the black kids would engage in lobbing dirt clods, like lofted mortar rounds, over the hedges at each other. We couldn’t see the kids beyond the verdant barrier and they couldn’t see us. We didn’t know anything about each other—just that they were “them” and we were “us”. It was more play & sport than anger—sort of an illusory, fantasy battle with no real purpose or effect.

Rarely, I and my friends would muster the courage to traverse the hedges and go exploring the forbidden region beyond. I remember being impacted by the sight of exceedingly humble homes dotting the rustic landscape of fields and woods. I still smell the smoke of burning logs emanating from chimneys as fireplaces labored to heat the stark, tiny houses on gray winter days.

These infrequent journeys were very thrilling--the adventure of exploring an utterly unfamiliar world, one we simply didn’t understand. By crossing beyond the boundary we were violating the unspoken norm that each group stay away, on ‘our own side’. That only added to the adventure.

Unfortunately, we never directly engaged the black kids while exploring that other side. Maybe it’s not too late.

In face-to-face, interracial conversation, I’ve heard unsettling things—things that, seen through the lens of my own experience, I barely understand. I’ve also said challenging things. If we are to get beyond defensive racial polarization, it seems more of us of differing race need to find ways to talk directly about issues of conflicting perspective. When pursued in a spirit of humility among those of goodwill, it can be done.

It’s being done. Many church, neighborhood and civic interracial groups in Ferguson and beyond are quietly setting the pace. Among area high schools are interracial groups of young student leaders dedicated to engaging in meaningful dialogue.

Such rigorous, face-to-face communication is not for everyone. Only people of humility, honesty, and perhaps a little taste for adventure, need apply. But it’s more purposeful--and exhilarating--than staying cloistered behind the hedges, lobbing dirt clods in the direction of those you cannot see.

James 1:19; Ephesians 4:15: Prov. 27:17

Bob Levin can be reached at bob_levin@sbcglobal.net