I’ve written this blog about 4 times. Yet each time at its end, I hit the delete button. It was too honest. It was too raw. Most of all, for a piece on race and the church, it was waaaay to militant. And if I learned anything in my entire integrated life, nothing makes white folks more nervous than a militant black person, especially when its one of those potentially angry black women.
I can’t lie. My emotions got the best of me as I contemplated the hypocrisy of another Black History Month. Frankly, I have stopped overtly celebrating it. After all, confining my reverence and appreciation for those who have given so much for my success and access to rights that I now enjoy to a 28 day month seems as short-sighted as it is ungrateful. Nope, every time I walk into my well appointed office on campus, I am aware of the great cloud of witnesses who shed their blood and tears to enable me to write this blog from behind my beautiful desk. I bow my head daily to the fact that they never bowed their spirit to crushing odds and soul crushing oppression.
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