A lizard and a gift

My sisters and friends at Koinonia

Some of my earliest fuzzy memories are of Collins McGee. He also lived at Koinonia Farm, the integrated commune in south Georgia where I was born. I was just a toddler when our family moved to Atlanta for Dad to take a job with the Georgia Council on Human Relations, but my parents kept up their friendship with Collins. He was a frequent guest at our supper table. The neighbors on that tree-lined street who peeked out through their curtains didn’t like it when he showed up.

What I remember about Collins are the feelings. He was fun and playful. His hair was big and fuzzy and soft. The most overwhelming feeling, though, is one of SAFETY. Collins made me feel safe. And loved.

Fast forward about 50 years or so.

This past Tuesday afternoon, I was heading toward the door of the grocery store. A young black guy ran out the door toward me, counting dollar bills from a roll he held in his hand. I felt the white lizard brain that lives in my body. It bypassed my thinking brain completely, wrapping its talons around my solar plexus.

I noticed it. And that’s what I did. I didn’t change my pace—I kept walking toward the door. I didn’t change my direction or turn to see where the guy went. I breathed. I tried not to hate my lizard brain. I created space inside my body.

Another couple of steps nearer the grocery, someone else emerged through the sliding doors. Above her mask she looked familiar, and her bright eyes told me that she recognized me as well. She greeted me warmly, and I quickly confirmed that it was who I thought—the newish wife of a very dear friend of mine. She told me he was waiting for her in the car, and I should come over and say hello.

When I got there he cracked the window and immediately told me about the difficult times they’d been having. “We’d appreciate your prayers,” he said. And I responded, “You’ve got ‘em.”

These are friends, also African American, who have had supper at our table. When times are different, he and I regularly have breakfast together at Cornerstone. He’s been a long-time important mentor in my life. Yesterday I checked in with him to see if things were getting any better and he filled me in by text, ending with, “I truly love you for who you are.”

Two days old

At lunchtime today, it will have been 54 years since Mom opened the window to call across to the Koinonia dining hall, where Dad sat eating with Collins, my three sisters, and members of the Koinonia community. “Al! It’s time to go to the hospital!” Her water had broken. I was on my way.

The birthday gift I gave myself this week was to keep walking and not turn around. Just creating a tiny bit of space inside my body. And the universe responded with a gift of much-needed connection in a lonely time.

I’m not a great or wonderful or amazing white person. I still have the lizard brain fully wired into my body, despite my upbringing. But I am learning how to breathe. And if other white people can also try to learn how to breathe, dammit, maybe we can make some progress.

What do you want to know?

What do want to know about Benjamin D’Ion Lawton Willingham, my great-great-great grandfather? Birth date? When and where he was married? Plantation house where he raised his thirteen children? (Still standing, now with a full-sized bear in the entry and a sunken jetted tub in the master suite: Gravel Hill on-line tour.) His mansion after the Civil War, where he lived while he built his huge post-war business? (Also still there—now houses seven apartments.) Favorite brand of toothpaste? Yeah, I could probably figure that out, too.

But what about the 100+ people he was enslaving in 1860? I can tell you their genders (45 female; 59 male) and their ages (3 who were 60 years old, 36 between the ages of 18 and 59, 34 who were 11-17, and 31 aged 10 and younger. One was just four months old at the time of the 1860 census). That’s it. No names. No stories. No nothing.

That is my white privilege. That’s white supremacy.

But I'm not giving up yet.

Clouds

I woke up feeling heavy and sad. My morning walk lifted the clouds for a bit, but they wrapped around me again soon after I descended back to the valley.

Today Ahmaud Arbery would have celebrated his 26^th birthday. My white son is 23--he runs in our neighborhood. I can’t stop thinking about Ahmaud’s beautiful mother, Wanda Cooper-Jones. I speak her name aloud.

With news events like this, my tendency is to either consume it and let it consume me or avoid it completely. There’s no middle ground for me. This story is swallowing me up. Running 2.23 miles and taking a picture are not enough—I can’t outrun the injustice and grief.

I’m reading My Grandmother's Hands, and I’ve been thinking a lot about racialized trauma, reptilian brains, and acts of violence that bypass reason. The murderers who stole Wanda Cooper-Jones’ light don’t deserve the benefit of a reptile-brain defense, and yet they are part of this generational cycle of lynching that infuses our bodies and systems. It’s so much bigger than these men, this southern town, this story.

These clouds will lift. Blackberry winter will turn back into spring. But in a time when we complain about wearing masks, I will wrap my arms around my son, knowing that we do not deserve the sense of safety we take for granted.