When I visit UU websites, when I attend UU services, and when I participate in UU conversations, I see evidence of deep concern,

compassion, and love. For democracy. For the environment. For our global siblings in the Middle East. In Eastern Europe. For people seeking refuge and opportunity in our country. For people seeking to be their true nonbinary selves. I do not wish to imply that these concerns are unimportant, that they are not matters of life and death. Of course, they are. And I am so grateful to all of us who champion these causes. It seems to me, however, that there is one concern that routinely takes backstage, glaringly, painfully, unjustly so: racial equity in America.

Does it take global witness of a Black person’s murder for us to focus on these matters? Is this the only way we can see? Is this the only way we can feel comfortable taking a public stance for incorporating racial equity topics into our services, our conversations, and our prayers? Do we have finite capacity for our desire for justice? Do we think because we begrudgingly stood up loudly and frequently in the summer of 2020 to object to the tragedy of George Floyd that, we somehow have met our moral obligation to uphold the quest for justice for African Americans? And now, do we think that if we all stand up to elect a woman of color to lead our country this is enough?

It is not.

From the first day, we call the United States home, we all participate in and benefit from an economy built over time in large part on the proverbial, if not the literal, backs of African Americans and their ancestors. The most recognizable symbols of our country – the White House, the Capitol Building, the Washington Monument – all rest on foundations forged by enslaved persons. I am not telling you something new. I am confident that, as UUs, you are exposed to this history. Yet, for some reason, it seems easy for these facts to fade from our conscience.

I do not exclude myself here. 

My husband, who is African American, a direct descendent of Mississippi enslaved persons, recently spit in a vial and received the results of his DNA analysis. It confirmed what we knew – that he was African. Eight-six percent sub-Saharan African, a nearly equal mix of Ghanian and Nigerian. His emotional response was initially of excitement, as the tests revealed distant relatives with whom he plans to connect. He was then overcome with great sadness as he imagined his not-so-distant ancestors chased, kidnapped, shipped, dehumanized, sold. I, too, was overwhelmed as I was reminded amid doing dishes and folding laundry that torture, rape, and murder are how my husband is even here in America. How my own children and grandchildren are here, living in America. There should be no minute of any day that I should not remember this. 

There should be no minute of any day that we, collectively, should not remember the wrongs upon which our country was built and continues to flourish.

The people who conceived of the country in which we live(whether they are your relatives or not) directly or indirectly committed unspeakable crimes against humanity from which we all benefit to this day. What do we do to thank and care for the offspring of those who suffered deeply because of this? What do we do – as a country – to honor them, to uphold them, to cherish them? 

Here is our attempt. We dedicated our shortest month to honor their countless accomplishments. We created a new federal holiday to celebrate that we emancipated the enslaved. We honor Dr. King. That is 28 days+1+1. Should we pause to consider our moral debt exceeds thirty performative days? This is not enough. 

Statistically, the descendants of the people who built our country and the economy in which we prosper are born into inequitable circumstances – in health care, education, wealth, incarceration rates – the list goes on. There is no data suggesting otherwise. The idea that we live in a post-racial world is nonsense. There is no evidence to support this. That one man, one man out of forty-four over two hundred years, who happens to be partially African, made it into the U.S. presidency does not refute the countless data revealing that the average African American fights against a strong undercurrent of inequity and a shadow of threat every single day of their lives. Even if Kamala Harris accomplishes the same – that is still less than 5% of our presidential legacy.

What is perhaps more painful is that our government has summarily weakened the modest steps we have taken to address these disparities – voting rights, affirmative action, corporate DEI, women’s reproductive rights, etc.

If justice is the crux of our faith, what can we, as UUs, do?

It is a complex question, and there are no straightforward answers. There is, however, a path to resolution out there, well laid: H.R. 40, requesting a commission to study and develop reparation proposals “to address the fundamental injustice, cruelty, brutality, and inhumanity of slavery in the United States and the 13 American colonies between 1619 and 1865 and to establish a commission to study and consider a national apology and proposal for reparations for the institution of slavery, its subsequent de jure and de facto racial and economic discrimination against African Americans, and the impact of these forces on living African Americans, to make recommendations to the Congress on appropriate remedies, and for other purposes.” You can read the complete text here. (You can support H.R. 40 with UUSJ.) 

Yet this bill languishes, gathering dust on the House floor, barely recognizable to most of us. We have failed to hold up this call for justice, this commission, which is not reparations themselves but a necessary study to uncover what reparations could look like.

In recent days, my capacity for hope for H.R. 40 has vacillated to the extreme. Our beloved sponsor, Sheila Jackson Lee, passed away, and in less than a week, the prospect of a woman of color leading our country as president became very real. But even if Kamala Harris wins the presidency, is it up to her to revive H.R. 40? Why do we need people of color to redirect our attention? Allies are the ones who should be looking, asking: what can we do to make this right? 

Yet we do not. I think, because we do not have to. Because we are white. Knowing that UUs are compassionate, justice-minded people, I wonder if part of the reason we can so easily look away is because we cannot really see the problem in the first place. If we truly saw the problem, I am positive we would take every step needed to create equity for African Americans, beginning with ensuring the passage of H.R. 40. I acknowledge, however, that this problem is not that easy to see if you do not live it.

I am in the unique position as a white privileged woman to bear witness – up close and personal – to these inequities every day. One of the first times happened soon after I married my husband. I was blessed with two bonus children as part of this marriage. My stepson, Junior, was a fun-loving, adventurous 10-year-old, always out racing his bicycle around, playing basketball at the playground, keeping an eye on his younger sister, and enjoying tween life on Chicago’s north-side lakefront. The rule was to come in when the streetlights went on. One day, he did not come in. His sister did but just shrugged when asked where her brother was. 

As a new stepmom, I panicked quickly. I searched all the playgrounds, went to his friends’ homes, and combed the streets in my car. By 10 p.m. I was hysterical. My husband thought Junior had run away to his bio mother’s house, but she had not seen him. I agonized that this was my fault; divorce, remarriage, and blended families are always tough on kids.

We called the police and tried to report him missing, but they would not take a report, saying he (a 10-year-old) had not been missing long enough. We’ll keep an eye out, they said.

Junior came home around 3 a.m., bruised, tearful, and tired. He had been in a paddy wagon after a “sweep” the previous afternoon when there had been a corner store robbery, and the suspect was a “Black male.” The very police department that had refused to take our missing person’s report had conducted the sweep. I made multiple complaints up the chain of command and consulted an attorney. They told me nothing could be – or needed to be – done. The police were just “doing their job.” I had never heard of or seen anything like this. I remain convinced that police would not have traumatized a white child in that manner, and certainly not without repercussions. 

Not everyone can go marry into an African American family to see what is going on, nor should they need to. Many of us believe we are all interconnected, different parts of a whole, living seemingly separate lives. If so, be reminded that in standing up with and for, African Americans, we are standing up for ourselves for humanity at large. 

I ask us Unitarian Universalists to be intentional and vigilant as we go about our everyday lives; do not look away. Remind our legislators, our congregations, and each other of H.R. 40’s critical role in the path toward reparative justice.

Open your eyes and see. Do not look askance. We must do whatever we need to do to see clearly. And if we still cannot see, we must shift our position.

Kim Rebecca-Murray

UUSJ Trustee
Parker, Colorado, Prairie Unitarian Universalist Church

 

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Raised in Chicago, Kim Rebecca-Murray graduated from the University of Illinois and earned a Master of Fine Arts from Miami University of Ohio. Kim served in the Peace Corps in Honduras, where she taught fish farming to small, isolated, impoverished mountain communities to help increase protein intake in the local diet. Active in social justice since the age of nine, Kim was present during demonstrations in Skokie, IL (protesting Nazis); she built and lived in anti-apartheid “shanty towns” at the University of IL; she was first employed as a legal advocate for survivors of domestic violence; she taught composition, ESL, and literature at inner city colleges in Louisiana and Chicago as an adjunct professor; and much more. 

See Kim’s full bio here.