Minority Report

How do you begin a post about race relations?

Umm, you don't.  

   

Especially when you're *super* white. (Have you met Jason?)

I mean. It's safer to wear a Cowboys jersey to an Eagles game.

Dipping a toe into *this* conversation is generally ruled arrogant or suicidal.

Probably both.

But, then you wouldn't hear my story.

One I've been rightly reluctant to share.

I could pontificate all day about white privilege, systemic racism, reparations.

(You probably have a *few* thoughts about these tepid topics.)

Sure. We could deliberate, discuss, debate.

Because the theoretical is safer.

Reality is not.

That's where my hand is shown.

Rubber, meet road.

And it is happening RIGHT. NOW. in my basement.

A Nerf war of epic proportions.

So, you see, last year, we moved into a predominantly African American neighborhood, right down the street from Kevin Durant's mom.

(We're that big of fans.)

Like I am one of two white women up in here.

Living all over the world has afforded me minority status before.

However, nothing compares to this.  Nothing.

Charlottesville was ablaze just as we rolled up in our Volvo and Sperries and Fox News.

Perfect.

And we tried hard.

Dancing bears, we were, with too bright smiles and overly enthusiastic waves.

" Don't mind us white folks. We're harmless- maybe even lovable."

If Christmas cookies could reconcile the races, a Nobel Peace Prize would be ours.

Though now everyone is gluten-free. So there's that.

Look I am no hero here. Do not misread.

But- as it turns out- there is still something to old-fashioned relationships.

Which brings me to our basement.

For the first 273 days in our new home, it was friendship-Siberia for my kids.  

Strike that.

They trapped  adopted some seven frogs to whom they grew alarmingly attached.

When Fred III flew to Jesus, there were legit tears from an unnamed child.

Okay, it was Col.

Even when Jason coached our son's all black soccer team. In an all black league.

Well, friends, the going was slow. (Despite my clutch dance moves.)

And then, just when we were about to give up. And move. (like quitters). . . What began as a humble bike gang lead by my fearless daughter, blossomed into tonight's fierce Nerf gun battle in my basement.

A battle where race is blessedly irrelevant. And Nerf ammo is everything.

They eat my popsicles.

They shoot hoops in our drive.

They stay for dinner and then dessert.

They like my kids.

Every time my doorbell rings- my white kid gets a new black friend.

And. I. Love. It.

Not because we are meeting a quota.

But because real community begins over unfancy dinner tables.

And Nerf gun games.

Now,  I would be lying if I said our community has been MLK's realized dream.

There are challenges. Just as in every relationship.

It is a fallen world.

But, maybe the kids have it right. 

Maybe it's the healing magic of bike gangs, t-ball and fudgsicles.

Look, I don't know everything about this.  I only have my story.

Reserve your judginess for The Bachelorette.

Here's my (peasant-like) humble advice:

Don't discount the importance of a pizza on your patio with someone not like you.

That's basically a direct quote from MLK. Basically.

Actual photo of ER visit due to intense Nerf battle