raising girls amongst karens

Recently, one of my friends of a different race and generation posted a question on social media asking, “What’s a Karen?” He received good responses, mostly copied and pasted from google. I think the tidiest definition for me was:

A Karen is a white woman who feels entitled enough to weaponize her skin color particularly against black men.  

Yup.

Feeling cheeky, I added my own definition, writing, “my face, less woke.” 

Seeing my extra pale skin in the little photo next to the comment I sighed – it’s sad, but true. 

Despite knowing several perfectly wonderful women named Karen, the stereotyped “Karen” as a racist icon has become the meme du jour. They are the wives of Chad, the mothers of Brad and the best friend to Brenda and Becky. All of these people are dangerous but Karen is basically the matriarch of the pro-white movement, so I don’t mind letting her take the fall for the whole lot. 

I was born of white women. Raised by white women. Surrounded almost exclusively by white women. Some turned out to be Karens, others not. Now, having lived a third of my life in Africa, where the white women I interact with are actually one in a million, Karen has its own meaning for me. Here, Karen isn’t going to call 911 for feeling threatened by a black man in a hoodie, but colonialist Karen and white-savior Karen have their own ways of oozing superiority. All that to say, my minority status here doesn’t give me a pass. There’s not a single white woman on the planet who doesn’t need to do business with her inner Karen. Such is the world we live in, and the world we are raising our daughters in too. 

When our first two children came out female and blonde headed, our circle of anti-colonialist, anti-racist, anti-Karen work expanded. “Privilege” in the village takes on specific form, so we started with the basics: you’re not as special as people think you are. We taught them that when they are given free stuff in stores, they don’t deserve it and it must be shared equally with their friends. When an adult takes something out of their child’s hand to give it to the white girls, our kids are obligated to hand it back to the original child. When an adult is displaced in order to put their white butt in a seat, the girls must decline and sit on the floor. These are some of the house rules on par with “chew with your mouth closed” and “say please and thank you.” 

They aren’t perfect. We still have to interrupt their play time to coach them towards kindness. Nine times out of ten they don’t even realize what’s happening when others defer to them. I don’t think your friend is feeling loved, we reflect out loud. Oh, they say, and make a change. The relationship practice gives meaning to the rules. Our goal is to instill habits and attitudes that will support healthy relationships for the long haul. If the rules don’t play out on the playground, they won’t play out in adulthood. There are plenty of right thinking, poorly behaving adults in America right now who know the good they ought to do and are not doing it because theory never became practice. The exercise of relationship hasn’t taken place. 

This is the essence of the Karens who are championing All Lives Matter. They are operating out of a philosophical framework in which “liberty and justice for all” is scrawled across the placards of their lives but for some reason, saying Black Lives Matter strikes a chord. Why? My observation, as I hear their arguments on social media, is that their response is entirely cerebral. I’m not hearing any empathy or connection, and as proof of the absence of relationship bubbles to the top like sulfur, I think about my own girls again.

A few months ago, we were reading for homeschool about Vasco de Gama’s voyages around the horn of Africa during which the slave trade expanded greatly. As I read about Africans being tied up and shipped off as slaves, I could feel the wave of emotion rising in my 8-year-old sitting next to me. As I read on, her gaze lowered, and her brow furrowed. Her fists clenched and she stiffened her whole body until she cut me off with a guttural roar. I stopped reading, knowing that my girl and her big feels was going to need a moment to work through this one. I know her heart and had seen it coming. She sputtered for a moment, the rage flooding faster than her brain could find words for and finally she screamed at de Gama and his crew, “THAT WAS TIMO!!!” (her best friend) “Those are my people! Those are my friends!” And her face fell into her hands and her body flopped on my lap and we sobbed together for a long, long time.

Day to day life for our very white daughters involves constant interaction with people who do not look like them. Their friends are exclusively black. The people they admire are exclusively black. The sources of their greatest joys and most favorite memories are all black. While America is at war with itself over its ingrained fear of black men, our two little white girls are absolutely enamored with a whole community of black men who are not only trusted, but also adored. Through repeated exposure, their brains have been wired to perceive black men as protectors and not threats. So while Karen is calling the police because she’s six feet away from a black man minding his own business, our girls are running straight into the arms of black men whom they love. The idea of black people – their friends – being mistreated is intolerable. And it’s not because our girls are better people, or we’re better parents – it’s simply because they’ve had the right kinds of experience. 

That day, as we read about the start of the slave trade, my daughter got her first taste of dehumanization. By entering into the gallows of the slave ship, she felt helpless and betrayed by her own skinfolk, overwhelmed by 500 years of evil that she couldn’t undo and didn’t know how to make right. I wasn’t going to talk her out of her grief. I’m glad she felt it. The ability to lament deeply the wrongs of people who look like us is a necessary part of growing up un-Karen. 

I’ve been watching the dumpster fire of social media interaction the last few weeks as black folks are BEGGING to be heard and white America is doing a barely mediocre job of listening. The BLM allies are growing increasingly frustrated because they are working overtime in the education department – trying to drop knowledge on every single Karen who is crying taupe tears because her soul is wounded by the idea that anyone else’s life should matter too. I see it. The precious few woke white women are on the verge of hysterics wondering why Karen just doesn’t get it. And of course, Brad, Chad, Brenda and Becky are showing up to add their piece too and the air smells rancid like white supremacy. The riots are visible symbols of invisible pain and moment by moment it's ambiguous whether this is moving forward or backward. 

But none of this should be surprising. Ultimately, America needs to experience healing, and that will never happen if people are not in relationship. What separates the Karens from the people trying to rein them in is that the white people who “get it” all have significant relationships within the black community. 

I’m not talking about “token black friends,” I mean these bridge builders are IN COMMUNITY with people who don’t look like them. They spend considerable time in each other’s homes. Their children are best friends. They share values and a vision for their neighborhood. They break bread. They like each other. They love each other. And the depth of the relational bond is significant enough that when one hurts, the other hurts. Of course their black friends’ lives matter. And it is for these white folks that “dismantling systemic racism” is not an intellectual exercise – it's personal. 

Right now, I’m seeing a lot of resources circling about books to read and conversations to have and that’s awesome, but it isn’t relational enough. Studying black history is essential, but distantly academic. Karens aren’t dumb, they are disconnected – from black pain, from the consequences of their privilege, from reality. I’m pretty sure Karens have google. What they don’t have are black friends. Even if it’s in their heads, it’s not in their hearts, and it’s not in their hearts, because it’s not in their homes. The bridge between knowledge and action is the motivation to care, and that only comes from meaningful relationship. 

Last night Bronwyn was curled up on the couch reading the children’s book Beatrice’s Goat about a little girl in Africa whose family receives a goat from an NGO. Reaching the end, she hopped off the couch and said, “Hey, it says Beatrice lives in a small African village! Do you know where we can find a small African village?” Jeremy and I just looked at each other, and then at her and we both laughed, “Bronwyn, you literally live in a small African village. We literally run a program to manage livestock for 300 families just like Beatrice…” And she just looked at us and was like, Oh. I guess you’re right! Despite the fact that this book was describing the backdrop of her life, it was a story to her and therefore looked new and unfamiliar. Beatrice’s life wasn’t something she was living, it was something she was reading. Text is… textual. But her friends whom she throws her arms around and feels in the flesh – that’s what’s real. 

Children need black hands to shake and hi-five and hold. They need black friends, black teachers, black doctors, and black pastors to admire. Our black son needs to see faces who look like him and our white girls need to see faces who don’t. The key to breaking the Karen cycle is to provide our girls with repeated experiences of sustained, positive interaction with black people – in particular black men – over the course of their growing up years. I don’t believe there is any substitute for this.

I can hear Karen’s brain processing: Not all of us live in Africa, Bethany. Finding this in the middle of Whitesville, USA is hard. There aren’t many black people here.

Good observation Karen! Fostering meaningful relationships might mean changing schools, or changing churches, changing doctor’s offices or neighborhoods or even towns. 

We know families who have uprooted themselves in search of diversity, and I applaud them for that. It may sound radical, but I wouldn’t even be throwing it out for consideration if I wasn’t 110% convinced that it’s worth it. Racial reconciliation requires relationship. Full stop. 

I appreciate that not every family is in a position to actually MOVE, so it does beg the question, how far should the pursuit of racial diversity go? That’s up to you – how much do you want your heart to grow?

Our family would be willing to go pretty darn far. Because we know from experience that it’s not a sacrifice. It’s a gift. To us, and to the Karens who need someone to bear witness to uncommon love.  

words are hard

Words are hard… as is life, I realize. I feel as though my family is constantly battling language. Which English words to describe what we do, which Bemba words to make all of life work. Which mixture of both languages to do justice to who and where we are.

The language thing has been a near constant clash for Bronwyn. We messed up. We did. I see it clear as day now that we never should have allowed her to be out of Bemba land for as long as we did and now we're fighting scrappy to make up for it. As playful and outgoing as our girl is, these past few months have given her a run for her money and homegirl is struggin'.

We almost could have missed the boat on this one since she’s rarely alone. But then she started to get really clingy and whiney and regressing in ways that made is tune in and take note. Something was not right, and it took a week or so of watching closely to figure out that it's Bemba that is kicking her butt. 

The child is savvy, I'll give her that. She's done well at seeking out "safe" people and "safe" places. She doesn't know that these are the people who have been there from her infancy, and while that beauty is lost on her, I ooze indebtedness for the handful who have always been there for her in her time of need. 

Timo is her loyal side-kick and these two do almost everything together. The thing is, Timo is both the quietest and the most agreeable kid on the planet. Bronwyn talks at him in English and he says virtually nothing in Bemba and for some strange reason they both love this arrangement and have the grandest of times together.

they are such a pair.

For the times when Timo’s not around, the good Lord has sent us Mulenga. This kid. Mulenga is not actually a real person, I’ve determined. He’s some form of soccer playing, galavanting, 12 year old boy-angel. Mulenga has spent years hanging around our family and he is welcome at our home at any time, and as such, we do end up sharing a lot of meals and life and whatnot together. He’s one of the few kids in the village who is genuinely entertained by Bronwyn despite her lack of Bemba and I love him to the moon and back for that. 

I mean, they are just the most lovable people together.

Because honestly, most kids are not angels. They are normal humans, and normal humans have a low threshold for doing hard things, and playing with a foreign kid who doesn’t look or sound like you is a hard thing in the book of most kiddos.

Nowhere has the humanity of short people reared its head more brazenly than at preschool. Preschool this past term was like crawling into the trenches of a social development war-zone. I made Bronwyn go, despite her blaring “I’m-not-ready-ness” because I desperately wanted to immerse her in something other than "mute Timo" and "way-too-kind Mulenga" land. For three months she went, and for three months minus the last few days (glory), she wailed (W A I L E D) at the beginning of every day. The chorus of "I want to go home" with snot faced accompaniment began about 200 yards from the classroom door as I begged her to pull it together so her friends wouldn't find her any more madcap than they already did. I peeled her off my leg as she howled for me to stay, and E.V.E.R.Y. DAY, teacher Timothy saved us all from our pitiful fate. 

Sweet man of mercy, Timothy was the reason why, after the daily wail sesh, Bronwyn would calm down and actually learn something. Her darling Zam/British accent and vocabulary (over which I swoon) is entirely credited to Timothy, as is her general preschool aptitude of numbers letters and such.  He made preschool a safe place for her even though it meant him squeezing his full grown adult rear into a pint-sized chair and sitting next to her almost every day.

Bronwyn has no idea how much precious history she has with this guy.

Bronwyn legit loves Ba Sah ("Ba" is like Mr. and as for "Sah," sound it out and you'll sound like my child). I’m clinging to the hope that now with one term under her belt, her re-entry in January will be a less dramatic.

big man, itty bitty chair.

I would like this picture framed and hanging in every room in my house. 

I know that the social-linguistic anxieties are probably going to linger a while. She has started asking, in advance, if "anyone who speaks English" will be there. When there are too many kids around, I can see her getting lost in the cacophony. At those times she’ll often come and say she’s tired and ask if she can play on her i-pad. Nah, girl. No way, I will not let you withdraw into a screen and become one of those super awkward MK’s who can’t hang because you only talk to digital people and not real ones. Instead I’ll join her in the play and become a part of the chatter and she suddenly looks less tired. I’m trying to coach her as best I can. I’ve started speaking Bemba in the home so that she hears more things in familiar context. I give her phrases to use and she has been receptive to the coaching.

The nostalgia I feel for the yester-years, those "pictures on the left," is often insufferable. For the days when my first-born felt comfortable in her own skin, when she trotted around the village like she had planted the very turf, when I feared she would never speak English for all the Bemba she was spouting.

We fell for the trick of babyhood and took it for granted how “easy” we had it those early days. But now that she's a small child instead of a small infant, the rule of the game have changed under my nose and I catch myself homesick for another era.

I guess I forgot how disorienting and alienating it was for me, back in the day, when I didn't know what anyone was saying. Now I can preach and translate and eavesdrop and all that jazz and my world feels so much more… controlled.

I don’t totally know how to help her take control of her own brain, to be honest. I mean, she is three so she’s kind of a cave-woman-child in any language but this world of third-culture-kidhood is particularly unsettling, I know.

Hard seasons are what send us to our knees in the best way possible. They remind us to give thanks in ALL circumstances. I look forward to the day when her Bemba surpasses mine and we can have a “remember-when…?” praise Jesus festival of wordy gratitude in all the languages. I'm fighting the urge to ask, "but what if she doesn't get it?" I don't think the answer to that is mine to know. For now, we forge ahead, blundering and babbling and hoping and praying and hugging because yes, words and life are hard, but God is good.  

welcome to the amatebeto

This week we had the privilege of attending an amatebeto with some of our neighbors. The Malisawas were celebrating 35 years of marriage and the family had arranged a special amatebeto presentation for them. An amatebeto is, in short a massive presentation of traditional foods. Historically, amatebeto’s are given on behalf of a bride’s family to the groom’s family. Overly simplified, it is a way of saying “See? We can cook really, really well. Your son will not starve.” Better explained, it is also a communication of respect, deference, admiration, and commitment. Because food is so deeply significant in this culture, a beautiful presentation of all the foods of the land is like saying, “We give you our best, we give you our all.” It is touching and significant.

In recent years, amatebeto’s have been given as a way of honoring couples that have remained married for many, many years. And it was for this reason that we all gathered together with the Malisawas. I desperately want this tradition to be introduced into American culture. (I’m pretty sure the Colvins would love a spread of all of Mama Rawson’s delicacies.) And so in case you are planning a 35^th wedding anniversary celebration for someone near you, or maybe you want to hold on to the idea for yourself, I’ll share the whole day with ya’ll right here.

The ceremony was held in a shell of a building (the one we hope to rehabilitate to make a second preschool – but that’s another post for another day.) The couple entered in looking sharp. And serious – because just like in Zambian weddings, the couple is not supposed to smile. (Every once in a while you’d see their lips turn up but they obediently tightened them back down.)

And then entered in the food. Dishes piled on top of each other and wrapped in fabric, carried on top of the ladies heads which they sang and danced their way into the gathering area. The drummers beat wildly and the audience hollered with delight.

One by one, family members stood to give tribute to the couple. Their messages contained words of gratitude for the example the couple has set over many years of marriage. For staying together through thick and thin, year after year. And for giving the clan nine children.

I just have to pause and explain how fascinating these tributes were. Every single person that stood and spoke thanked Mr. Malisawa for the nine children. An alien would have thought that men were the ones to birth and raise children because not a single person addressed Mrs. Malisawa in their  praise of the full quiver. From my “good wife training” I know that women are supposed to kneel and clap and tell their husbands that they are hard working stags after a round of love making. All of the male-centered congratulations during the program only confirm the cultural conviction that children are born of sperm and manliness and the women’s contribution is really not all that. (All the more reason why we are pushing for more men to be present in the delivery room. It’s time they knew the truth.)

The other interesting thing is that all of the members of Mrs. Malisawa’s family told Mr. Malisawa that after 35 years of having him in the family, they have decided he is a good man and can now call him brother. To any one in the States dealing with in-law tensions: you have no idea. A young groom basically lives in fear of his in-laws for decades as he proves himself a worthy man. He lives amidst the bride's family never speaking directly to his in-laws, never eating in the same room with them and constantly watching his mouth and actions lest the in-laws hate him, expel him or end him. For 35 years this man has been on the chopping block and finally the cleaver has been laid to rest and he can breathe.

Jeremy and I also gave a tribute of which there is no picture but suffice it to say that we never fail to entertain, particularly because when we dance, people roll on the ground like hyenas. (I credit all of this to Jeremy who looks like he’s driving a large tractor when he dances. It’s epic.)

After all the talking, the family comes to present the food to the couple. The women displaying the food must lay on their sides on the ground before the presentation as a symbol of respect. The dishes are brought to the front, unwrapped and one by one and presented to the couple while everyone sings a delightful rendition of “See the food! See the food! See the food!”

Chicken, fish, beans, vegetables, groundnuts, sweet potatoes, mushrooms – the works – it’s all laid out until the couple has seen it all, everyone has rejoiced and the whole village smells like delicious. And then we eat. And everyone is happy.

Bronwyn was deeply moved by the ceremony which is why she slept through half of it and spent the rest of the time hanging out with Timo and asking people for beans.

I'm pretty sure she's trying to talk him into running away with her. forever.

I’m telling you. Our five year anniversary is in a few weeks which means Jeremy only has 30 more to go before he is in good with my family and we can present him with Mama Rawson’s cinnamon rolls and pork tenderloin and super supper skillet. And Ya’ll are sure to be invited.