Katrina Poplett is a senior peace and development major at Eastern Mennonite University in Harrisonburg, Virginia. She is from Plymouth, Minnesota. This speech won third place in EMU’s C. Henry Smith oratorical contest. 

I’m going to tell you the story about my struggle with my skin color. My whiteness. My “war with myself,” as George Yancy wrote in his essay Dear White America. Maybe my story will resonate with feelings you have been experiencing. If not, maybe my story can inspire you to be at war with yourself. Let me explain.

“Jesus loves the little children all of the children of the world. Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight, Jesus loves the little children of the world.”

This song is how I learned about race. My parents would sing this to me as a child and ask for my sister and I to pick different colors for all of the verses; so it generally would go something like this– “Jesus loves the little children all the children of the world, Blue and green, lavender and turquoise, they are precious in his sight, Jesus loves the little children of the world.” I thought, even as a child, that it was natural for people to be different colors. I saw different skin colors every Sunday at my church. My church was full of people who adored me, so I saw different skin colors as people who were my extended family. I loved everyone there, no matter the color.

This bubble of thinking everyone loved everyone lasted until third grade, when a Nigerian family came to live with mine. Their daughter, Lisa, was my age and she enrolled in the same class I was in. Her skin was the most beautiful ebony and I thought she was perfect. But kids can be cruel. No one in our immediate class was rude or mean, but I remember on occasion during recess that other kids wouldn’t let Lisa play with them on the tire swing, because “she’s dark.” Eventually they would leave and we would swing and spin to our heart’s content. This treatment didn’t happen often enough that Lisa and I talked about it with our parents, but I still remember feeling confused because skin color mattered to other kids. This was my introduction to prejudice and discrimination.

People don’t like to use the word segregation, but I’ve realized it describes more situations than we would like to admit. The lunchroom at my high school is a perfect example of segregation still present in society. One table had white, upper-class hockey boys, while there was a section purely for the inner city kids who were bused in and were all African-American or Muslim.

Some argue that students sit with those that they can identify with and who have lifestyles closest to them. After all, race is considered a socially constructed concept due to the lack of biological differences. I don’t think this explanation cuts it. I think lunchroom segregation has to do with how society teaches us to view our skin color. Skin color, we are told, is a way to distinguish people and to know who is good and bad.

Race is real. Our society has made race real. We see racial divides everywhere- within neighborhoods, dorms, colleges, stores, friend groups, and churches. Everywhere you turn, some people have privilege because of their skin pigmentation.

Where does my story go next? Here at EMU, I have become repulsed with the way people carry on with life. I am learning, as a peacebuilding major, about horrible injustices and problems. But what gets me is how it seems like we all do nothing about problems we discuss and analyze in class. I am in this category too. I am complicit with the system.

In recognizing my complicity and in recognizing how much privilege I have, I have struggled with feelings of guilt, angst and frustration about my skin color and how society views me. I am at war with myself.

I know this isn’t the answer, but hear me out. I am uncomfortable in my skin sometimes because I know it symbolizes oppression and privilege. I know that my ancestors did not value different colored people as precious human lives. I know my skin allows me to benefit from poverty and from a system of discrimination. My skin represents, to an extent, “the system” that I criticize so freely. The ironic thing is, I can criticize the system because I am white. Because people don’t see my criticisms as an act of terrorism or a radical statement.

As beings of white skin, our privilege is so vastly built into our way of life and thinking that even attempting to recognize all instances of privilege due to skin color is impossible. If you share my skin color, you’re probably feeling guilty or ashamed of your color. I have struggled with this feeling because I know that I am listened to and given more opportunities than other people of color. I know that my skin is a large part of why I feel safe. My skin has shaped my entire life.

I feel guilt for how my ancestors treated people and for how whites forced the indigenous people off of their lands and into reservations. I feel guilty for benefitting from slavery. I feel guilt for not looking at each person I’ve met with equal amounts of respect and an open mind. I feel guilt for not listening more.

This guilt is not the answer though. I have spent time paralyzed with this but eventually, Katherine Turpin’s essay, Disrupting the Luxury of Despair, was able to shake this paralysis with this quote, “However, despair can become a form of luxury for privileged persons, a response that does not require risk-taking or action in the face of injustice.”

I didn’t know what to do or how to even begin to address a clearly systemic and personal problem. I’m not angry that I feel it. I’m not upset or frustrated or disheartened that I feel this guilt. Because I am at war with myself. Guilt is just a part of how I have processed my skin color. It isn’t necessary for every person, but it’s part of my story. I’m not ashamed of my skin color now. Guilt and shame are two very different things and I have come to an understanding with myself that I am not ashamed to be white.

Struggling with guilt about my skin color has lead to me intentionally pursuing conversations surrounding race with friends of color. I ask them questions about structures and their personal experiences with racism. One theme in all of these conversations has stood out to me: Listen. Listen to us. Listen to our stories. Sit with them. Do not respond to them right away. Process them. Come back to me at a later date and talk through your thoughts with me. Allow yourself to be uncomfortable. Allow yourself to be in my shoes for a day. Be at war with yourself. But above all, listen to me. Hear my story.

Jesus was called many things in his day, but among the insults was this one- you radical. Jesus was radical. He loved all. He was a servant to everyone. He defied the stereotypes and preached a message of grace and mercy and love. Jesus had no favorites, as Romans 2:11 states, “There is no favoritism with God.” He listened and heard all stories.

Where my story starts and ends for now is with Jesus. Jesus was a radical lover. His type of love is not about feeling mushy feelings for each other and singing kumbaya. His love is about truly hearing someone. Listening to their story and sitting with them as they tell you anything they want.

Love is a struggle. It makes us question what we have been taught and what we have heard and how we view the world. Loving someone as radically as Jesus loves us is the hardest thing we are asked to do. But this radical love, this radical listening, is at least a place we can start. This is where I’m starting. I’m asking questions and listening. Instead of answering, I just listen and love as much as I can, understanding that I don’t hold the answers. All I can do right now is listen to and hear someone’s story.

In listening, the activist in me has come out to play. I have started to become involved in organizations and movements that are speaking to what I have heard in these stories. And I know that my place is not to be at the front. It is to be an ally, a listening ear, a person to depend on when you need people to go to a rally, a person who will speak up if the moment is right. I am trying to be that person. I am trying to be a radical lover and listener of all God’s children, no matter their color.

I hope that I never lose the feeling of being at war with myself. By feeling uncomfortable with myself and by questioning what I know and what I am told, by reexamining my heart and mind, I am challenging the system that pushes people down. So, while I am an aspiring peacebuilder and truly do want world peace, I hope I am always uncomfortable so I can question, listen and learn. I want to always be challenged and disturbed by the injustice I see and hear. I hope I always love myself, as Jesus taught us to do, while always being at war within myself.

I hope my story has encouraged you to think deeper about the privilege we carry because of our skin. I encourage you to reflect on your life, on stories you have been privy to. Listen to those who are different from you and think about their stories. Stories come with responsibility, so be accountable for the stories you have heard. Listen to stories in love and be uncomfortable with your position in society. Challenge yourself to know more than you do about your privilege and how you can use what has been given to you. Be at war within yourself.

How can you be a radical listener and lover of all of God’s children? As the old children’s song says best, Jesus loves the little children; all the children of the world.