12 paralyzed seconds at the kitchen sink

This was an experimental poem I originally wrote about ADHD. I’ve been surprised at how many people this resonated with, so I’m posting it here. 🙂

12-paralyzed-seconds-at-the-kitchen-sinkDownload

pathlessness

I find myself standing alone in the water of who I am, watching places of my identity fade off of my being, cutting themselves loose to drop and melt away from me into a flow.

It’s this new warmth that created the thaw. It’s the new facet of sunshine I’ve begun walking under for the first time since my infant self saw daylight.

It’s the love that’s freshly deep. It’s my newly-stretched capacity that finally lets me abide as beloved.

It’s this warmth that has allowed my stories to fall off of me in chunks. It’s this rise out of freezing conditions which has shown me that the permanent identities I’ve held dear were only meant to be a shelter for a time. I now live in a gentle, stunned existence as I watch these guards and pictures and railways of identity release themselves—with their blessings—as though they knew they were temporary all along. 

And now my hands are empty as the precious defining structures fall off because nobody told me that they weren’t meant to last until my grave. When they came to be mine so long ago I only knew I needed them, and then structured a home with their branches.

These. These branches of who I am are fading. But they are still holy. They still bend and snap and hold the shape of my sacred stories.

I’m sad. But I know I’ve been loved by them all, left better for their shelter. And I know they will never be unnecessary. Just no longer my home. And the only desperate plea left for them this: please know I will never stop loving you.

So, in their departure, I commit to them—to me—to always hold any foolish and ungrown versions of myself with grace. 

~~~~~~~~

I move from this ocean, that sea that stands around my soul, and I now can see it.

My city.

I see this life I’ve built and learned and known…and I realize the clutter of the familiar is my city. It is my source. All of this packed space around me holds my entire-being structures. The ones which make me know I am in one piece. Here, I know where I am. I know what to expect. I know, here, that I am whole.

But as the clutter of my personal city (along with the stories of who I was) drop away, I realize I’m not really whole after all. I never was whole here. I was only well-built on temporary land. Somehow, knowing this is a low and quiet loss. 

But the gift of this loss is seeing…

That I’m not meant to be whole.

I’m meant to be better. I’m meant to be in constant transit. To grow beyond today’s normal.

I’m always meant to be unfinished. And as I commit to solidarity with my “unfinishedness,” I’m closer and closer to reflecting the perfection of God’s veiled-but-present perfect Kingdom. Only—even better—I get to be that reflection in the here. The now. In the broken. The schismed-but-being-redeemed. The assumed imperfections. The utterly impossible secured as truth. 

So I walk. Straight towards my painful unfinishing. Out of this cluttered city of familiarity. Out of the satisfying streets of the known.

I walk until I find myself in the desolate landscape of the unknown. I don’t know what to do. Other than to speak to the few rare inhabitants which followed me here. 

So I speak to them. These weird and unfriendly companions. I may not like them, but desolation means I lack any other traveler who knows my language. So I converse with my fear…my worry…my exposure…my insecurity…my lack of faith and it’s conjoined twin of shame. 

We do nothing but fight, but at least we understand one another. It’s better than complete isolation, I suppose.

But despite the chaotic voices of the contentious familiars who walk with me, I know that under this blanket of dry earth and unfamiliar soil…

I know the ground that holds my feet is the soil of trust. I know that faith is the solid land which touches the soles of my walking. I know I am traveling well because I can assume my weight will be easily held. 

I know because I’ve been led to this land. I’ve followed that map I never see but have learned to trust as real. Such is the understanding guidance of the Divine.

In fact, I know that this, here, right now, is one more sacred moment within my story. I know, soon enough, this desolation will populate itself again. I know the familiar will come and the comfortable will graciously encroach on this pathless and frightening land.

This knowledge inspires me to ask something new. In this quiet space of temporary desolation, where I am poorly described and without my great clutter, I begin to ask…

From here until the end of my life, how many more journeys of pathlessness will I get to live through?

They are without comfort.

But they are, in some strange way, the deepest and most privileged gift. They mean, hallelujah, that I am moving.

 Amen

#newspaces

Threads

And I look to the fabric of my life and cry out, betrayed: “God, what have you done?”

And I remember how I saw the future in my earlier years, when life was knit tight by hope and made bright by the confidence that I could swing through anything that threatened my stride. 

And I visit the mausoleum of my past assumptions, when I knew I was destined to rise through better jobs, stronger bank accounts, and blissful, stacked-up wedding anniversaries, smug with how well I chose and how much I had earned. 

And now, the past assumptions strip me like the thief who left me hollowed out from loss,  weeping into the fabric of my days as though life were a funeral shroud that has coiled itself around me way too tight and way too soon. 

It is stained, I say. It is old, I say. It is misshapen, I say. It is good for nothing, I say—not even for rags.

And I grip the ruined fabric and I heave up a litany of accusations, believing God has failed me. I lift my saltwater stare towards the heavens and beg for answers. Was it You, God? Was it me, God? Which one of us went so wrong that I’m here, now, after all I have fought through? 

I always
     did my best, 

I always 
     picked the right fight, 

I always
     worked hard—more than my body could bear

I always 
     did it for the good of my family, yet 

I never foresaw
     life turning out like this. 

And I can’t make sense of the stained and tattered life I have, with no money and bad health and impressive degrees with zero ability to put them to work. 

And I cry, and I cry, and I cry, in many tongues: 

God, 

I lament. 

I lament. 

I lament.

And God looks at my saltwater eyes and sees Her oceans. God touches the taste of my tears and sees Her infinite ways. God, our caring Mother, leans towards my wounds and honors the sacred need to weep. She sings prayers over me as I suck in bitterness and weep out confusion.

And God touches the fabric I’m wringing and shows me.

God shows me that it does not hold the shape of a shroud, but the tapestry of voracious hope. It is not threadbare, but is knit with the tensile strength of thickly wired healing. It is the soft blanket of warmth, crafted to cover the release of rest. It has the eclectic shape and the unbreakable strength of community. It is now woven from the wisdom of pain survived, not the whispery dreams of a young woman naive. It holds the secret of my own truth-telling reflection, never known to me in my youth.

And God shows me the golden threads which sewed the pieces back together through the unsurvivable slashings. And God traces my finger over the places of flawless mending, bought by years of heavy labor. And God makes me see the threads of heaven in my life; a filigree of rare blessing stitched into my very bones.

And I know that the threads of moments shared—God’s strongest elixir of community—have saved me. And I hold each thread in kneeling adoration. 

The thread of Mia’s sacred offering of paella, shared over ancient inside jokes and wine.

The thread of years’ long text threads sharing TikToks, smutty memes and unwavering support…my only smile on most days.

The thread of sitting at the little table under the big window in Monaco’s kitchen, seeing Johnny off in his morning’s flurry and sitting quietly with Bill in the evenings after his workday is through. 

The thread of watching the children thrive and stretch and whirl during family zoom calls. Blessed be these families, with their wildest-dream mothers and fathers. As I smile at the screen, I hear God Herself declare that these, our little ones, are good.

The thread of lending a portion of my healing’s wisdom back to the spiritual uncle who is responsible for so much of my own repair. 

The thread of holding baby Mabel close, in awe and fear and worry and with that intense, possessive love that only rises up for the most vulnerable among us. And bearing witness to the truth of how one precious life secured can mean the depletion of a good mother’s strength. And witnessing still how Mom’s sacrifice has gifted the world with a chubby, happy, kicking, raspberry-blowing cherub.

The thread of being grateful for my mother, whose help has taught me that, through being the daughter of Nancy, I am a true daughter of God.

The thread of counting on weekly debriefs that connect me to the world and draw up the sacred conversations which nourish and uplift and sometimes uncover wounds, just to build healing. 

The thread of leaving my apartment in pajama pants so that I can crawl into the safe, adoptive bubble of the Big Cheese Oasis and draw from all its iterations of acceptance, beauty and nourishment.

The thread of generosity, which threw a rope over the waterfall of poverty, so I could get across.

And I see all of these threads of love, and I know God has not failed me. Nor have I failed myself. 

And I know that this life is good,

because you are with me and I am loved.

because I am with you and you are loved. 

And then I can hold the tear-dampened cloth that is my life and say

thank you.

Amen

Karla Y Johnson

Out of Control

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but sometimes life spins out of control. That’s part of being human. And, when life careens beyond our stretch, it can throw us into all manner of pain.

And of course. The desire for control—having a reasonable amount of influence over our lives—is a necessary part of living strong and whole. Children who are denied a healthy amount of power over their tiny little worlds develop deep addictions for control. Adults who feel like they are helpless against the world shut down and stop reaching for the good life altogether. Having influence over our lives is so central to who we are as humans…well, some of us will tear apart everything and everyone around us just to clutch a dirty little nugget of it. Or, on the flip side, some of us will shut down and abandon the control we have, making the rest of the world accountable for the shape and quality of our lives. Needing control is simply a part of who we are, whether our relationship with it is healthy, toxic, or some sort of struggle-y middle ground between the two.

The hard truth is that the motivational speakers and prosperity gospel preachers are wrong. We don’t always have the control we need to create the outcomes we want. As a matter of fact, there are times when we can do all the right things and parts of life can still go south. And, when that happens, it’s not because we are being robbed of some god-like power we are due. Or that we just didn’t try hard enough, or try in the right way. Or that some core part of us is inadequate to the task of life. When life goes south after we try our best, it’s simply because we are not gods. The idea that we can completely and absolutely control your circumstances and your destiny is simply not true. Even worse, those ideals can become an impossible standard that makes us losers even when we’ve carved out a good life for ourselves. Or shutter our perspective with denial. Or, they can lead us into the magical thinking and unbalanced formulas that convince us we have the fool-proof keys which can give us the power to control God’s uncontrollable will. 

Even though, as harmful as those ideals can be, I get where the fables are coming from. In a way, the idea that we have full control over our lives is a necessary myth—a sweet gift that helps us function and remain positive. The fables counteract the harsh reality of this life, where anything can happen to any one of us in any given moment. (I learned that when my best friend died suddenly and unexpectedly a decade ago.) Can you imagine getting anything done if you were constantly aware of your own, overwhelming fragility? Or if you were always staring at where your lack of control could lead? We have to believe we can control the bulk of our lives in order to stay productive. Because, sadly, despite our need for the sweet myth of control, people get sick without asking for it. Spouses leave good partners. Children go down paths that scare us. People can die, even when their loved ones still need them. Companies lay off even the best of workers. Against our hopes and and against our needs and against our will, life can simply spin out of control.

With all that said, at times like these, embracing a lack of control is a gift. If we can step away from the impossible standards we get sucked into when our control needs scream? We can find peace.

Peace comes in realizing your stretch of the race track is limited. After you’ve given it your all—and if it’s important, you should give it your all—inner strength is available when you mentally pass the baton to God. Even if God has the tendency to run wildly out of the lines and purposefully frustrate your plans. Or, scare you senseless. Or, worst of all, allow your heart to be broken. But, no matter what happens after your stretch of track is complete? Allowing yourself to be a human, limited in scope, can be the most life-giving action of all.

Even more, in this release, there is also an invitation to see the truth of who you are outside of your accomplishments and control-driven comforts. Once you make friends with your God-given limitations? You can detach your value from specific outcomes and lucky circumstances. Then, you can see that no matter what life has thrown at you, you’ve always been determined to get to the other side. You can see that you have been authentic to the struggle, despite the pain. Or how you’ve been faithful to the work put before you, even if others didn’t agree along the way. Maybe your vision will clear so you can see how much you’ve consistently said yes to God’s work, even if there were times you didn’t understand the assignment. Maybe you’ve worked hard when no one was watching. Maybe you’ve been resilient. Maybe you’ve been superbly courageous. Maybe you’ve wisely asked for help when you’ve hated to, but needed to. Maybe you’ve prayed and asked for prayer, even when you were unsure and confused. Maybe you didn’t quit until there were literally no other options to explore. No matter what your “maybe” is, once you release the end results you could not possibly control, you get to see the truth of who you are. And you get to stand in that inner wisdom, even if circumstances don’t go your way.

And maybe? Just maybe, the space you can’t control will turn out to be the space that generates overblown blessings. Blessings you could have never created inside of your limited influence. Maybe embracing your lack of control is the best way of embracing hope.

Love to you and yours, my friends. Be well.

Dear White Friends #3:

You don’t know what to say. Half the time you feel like a jerk for not opening your mouth and the other half of the time you open your mouth, only to be treated like you said the exact wrong thing. Your voice is straining to be known, but your voice is also stuck: when it comes to racism, what are you supposed to say? And how are you supposed to say it? And how could you possibly to talk sense into that elder family member who still uses racial slurs? And what if you speak and, God forbid, unintentionally cause harm to an African American brother or sister—the very person you want to uplift? Or what if you speak and a black person hurts you out of their own pain?

Dear white friends, please don’t feel bad. It is nearly impossible to speak effectively into this blinding cultural fray. Everyone is talking [read: ranting] and no one is listening. We all say we hate the problem, but we are straining to find the mythical common ground which will move us forward. And, with each step towards unity, differences and offenses rise up and push us back into our separate, wounded and unproductive corners. 

Thankfully, your black sister in white skin has a gift for you. I have a script you can use, which is as close to a peaceful guarantee as you can get inside of conversations about race in America. This script can serve as our collective freedom papers, securing safe passage for both black folks in pain and white folks like yourselves, who are principled enough to keep trying. 

The beautiful part about this script is you don’t have to gain more knowledge to use it. You don’t have to agree on any of the underlying factors of racism to use it effectively and genuinely. You can disagree on politics, analyses, experiences, and otherwise, and still this script will still hold true. You can have police officers as heroes and loved ones (as I do), support them fully and still use this script without hiccup. 

This script is not about politics. It’s not about privilege. It’s not about ignorance or guilt. It’s not about shame or blame. It’s not about where you were born or whether you would win against a random black person in a “who has struggled more” contest. It’s not about past sins, past regrets, or even (for that matter) our very present societal anger. Even more, once it is spoken, it will require nothing else of you. You need not defend, elaborate or justify the use of this script. You don’t even have to be a specific race for it to be true. 

Are you ready? Here it is:

“When it comes to racism, I stand in solidarity with those who are harmed by it.”

If you are speaking to a person of color about race, you can simply say: “I stand in solidarity with you.”

If you need the long version, it is here: “I may not understand, and I may not even agree with everything I hear. I may say something harmful, because I am well-meaning, but unpracticed in this realm. I may not know what to do, but I am working hard to figure that out. But despite all of these things, when it comes to racism, I stand in solidarity with those who are harmed by it.”

My dear white friends, use this as your shield and your hope as you press forward. Adopt it as a posture, whether or not your voice ever speaks it into the fray. It will take your feet out of the confusion and plant them in real and solid common ground. The truth of the matter is, your hearts embraced this solidarity long ago, and you deserve to be seen inside of your own hard-earned righteousness. 

But more than anything, it will help. It will make a difference. I promise.

Go in peace, my dear white friends. Know thatyou are appreciated. And know that your voice is a priceless gift inside of our shared struggle.

(As always, you’re welcome to pass this letter on if you know someone who will be served. The script, like the well-meaning love we share, is for everyone who needs it.)

With Affection,

Karla Johnson

p.s. This letter was inspired by two courageous congregations who are leaning in to the hardship and finding rich blessings as they do so. New Hope Baptist Church of Hackensack, NJ (led by Pastor Drew Kyndal Ross) and Jewish Center of Teaneck, NJ (led by Rabbi Daniel Fridman) are holding joint zoom meetings where African American congregants share their stories and Jewish congregants simply learn from them. During the first call, the pain of our black brothers and sisters was met with these words: “we stand in solidarity with you.” Great healing came the moment those words were spoken, for they were the first words many black people had heard which could be deeply and truly received. Thank you, dear New Jersey brothers and sisters, for the inspiration. And thank you, beloved sister-friend Ronica Harris, for sharing the story with me.

 

Dear White Friend…Again:

Dear White Friend:

My father is listed as “negro” on my official birth certificate. Interesting how labels change. I’ve worn a lot of labels in my life; some of them fitting, some of them foul. Labels are part of the human condition. We use some labels to draw people close and others to push people away. Labels help us define where we belong and also teach us how to succeed. Labels claim our identities, whether that be friend, brother, sister, mom, dad, job title or otherwise.   

Labels can also be used to describe problems. Defining issues accurately is the only way to get to better solutions, and our shared work against racism is no exception. Labels like “white privilege” and “systemic racism” and “entitlement” were developed to analyze the complex and insidious brokenness which has plagued our world.

But something went wrong. The labels meant to define issues were tied to people instead. And you have been hurt in the process.

My dear white friend, if I’m not mistaken, you’ve held a good heart and held no animosity towards your fellow humans in darker skin. And yet phrases like “white privilege” and “systemic racism” were pinned to you as though laying claim to your identity and condemning you as a person. These classifications were stuck to your lapels without you having any say, making you feel like the world of color was reading the wrong name tag when they looked at you. 

Worse still, shame, blame, confusion and our shared racialized history have gathered together to press you into believing that you are the problem—that you are the very thing you hate. And given that this pressing has had the heat of hell behind it, you couldn’t help but catch bruises and take some of it in. Words like “racist” and “bigot” inevitably gained some strange, sick weight over your soul. And to add to the gravity, every time you’ve tried to vocalize a protest against being misunderstood, the world reflected back to you that you are, indeed, what the cruel labels say you are.

It makes me wonder how many solid, justice-conscious white people have been driven away from the work they’ve wanted to engage. I know I’ve watched words like “white privilege” make strong people flinch and turn away from the topic of racism altogether. I’ve seen white people reach towards change, only to have the echoes of cruel identifiers rubbed in their faces. True to the devil’s work of false accusations, being mislabeled has made noble people strangely compelled against the solutions they seek; it has caved good and sincere hearts in on themselves.

Personally, I hate being misunderstood. Ask anyone close to me, and they will tell you that being falsely seen (or being missed altogether) is a touchpoint which brings out the worst in me. So much so, when I feel mislabeled or misidentified, it is easy for me to feel persecuted. Being a black woman in white skin makes the experience all the more biting.

This has been made more difficult since our world caught fire and civil unrest started bleeding everywhere. On occasion, I’ve tried to cope by reminding myself I’m one of the lucky ones. The people I love who are inside of black skin are used to being mislabeled as incapable, subtly subhuman, or dangerous; that’s just another painful part of their days. The people I love who are inside of a law enforcement uniform have been called brutal, monstrous, and evil as they’ve stayed true to their vows of service and protection—and have done so while working unholy hours under treacherous conditions. These days, anyone inside of white skin and outside of a law enforcement uniform is getting off easy when it comes to being mislabeled. At least our lives aren’t on the line because of the ways in which we are poorly seen.

Still…that’s not quite satisfying, is it? Acknowledging that others have suffered more doesn’t quite make our personal harm go away, does it? Our wise national uncle, Dr. Phil, said it best. The broken leg next door does nothing to alleviate the pain of the sprained ankle inside of your own bed. And being mislabeled is painful, no matter the circumstances.

Yet, in the midst of it of it all, you’ve put your own pain aside, risen from your places of comfort and come to the table of racial lament. And you’ve taken your rightful seat, even though this table is a tough one for anyone to approach. The first thing most of you did as you’ve sat down is quiet your defenses so that the voices of your black brothers and sisters could finally be heard. You helped clear the noise so their historical pain could be seen. My Lord, what an honorable thing you’ve done. Trust me when I say, prioritizing black voices has been the most sacred of gifts; it has healed more than you know and given fresh revelations of hope where we assumed there would be none. Your choice to remain respectful in your pain has been transcendent.

Still, there is something missing at our shared table—a diagnosis left unspoken. While you’ve come here with honor and passion, you’ve traveled here with a limp. And as you’ve stayed seated, your eyes have looked haunted, as though you hold some vague guilt over a crime you didn’t commit…as though you are scared that the next black person you see will carry out some cruel and unfair sentencing. As you continue to listen at this communal table, I’ve watched you subconsciously rub your knees under the surface, as though you’ve been touching the ghost pains of racialized violence. As though the foul labeling on your chest is making you feel like it was your intention-driven kneecap which crushed the windpipe of our dear brother, George Floyd.

My beloved white friend, your pain is real. And if no one else acknowledges you in this, let it be me. Let it be your black sister in white skin. 

Being labeled unfairly is sinister, and what happened to you was wrong.  You should have never been personally slapped with labels or accusations that placed you on the wrong side of racism—especially since racism disgusts you to your core. Even if you didn’t understand and even if you’ve been a part of the problem unawares and even if you are coming to the table later than any of us would have liked, you did not deserve to be identified as the social scourge you want to see purged from our land. You are not the malicious devourer of others’ dignity. And if I have any advice for you, my dear white friend, it is to learn how to secure your own dignity no matter what you are being called. Not only do you deserve it like every other human born, but standing in your own dignity is the cleanest way to learn how to defend the inherent dignity of others.

My beloved white friend, if you hold false guilt, vague or otherwise, I would ask you to release yourself from its sticky hold. Send it back to hell if you know how. Not only do you deserve to be freed, but your freedom from false guilt will lift your hands off of your knees so that you can lay claim to the difference you want to see in the world. As a group, my dear white friends, you are known for getting things done. You stand to press us forward against racism more than the last 400 years have dared to even dream. And if you’ve misstepped in the past or regret the ideals you’ve held, remember you didn’t know what you didn’t know. The only way we can move forward is to make grace the stance our collective lives depend on. 

You, my dear white friend, are a part of the commendable solution, because you are part of what is right in the world. And as you are seated at the table, please know you are welcome alongside your brothers and sisters inside of darker skin. We are so very glad you are here. Your gifts are a key reason that we can have hope.

Be blessed, my dear brothers and sisters. Go in peace. Walk upright and free. Continue to wear the rightful badges of honor and care, no matter who says otherwise.

And, before I go, you are welcome to pass this on. It is meant for anyone who might be encouraged.

Yours,
Karla Johnson

 

A Letter to My Beloved White Friends

Dear White Friends:

You are lost. “Hurt, mad, insulted, grief-stricken and enraged more than I can say,” as my dear white uncle said. You don’t know what to do. You want to help—and of course you do. You’re a good person. This is my attempt at sharing guidance, from someone who holds both black and white inside of my skin.

I love you, my dear white friends. Let’s start there. You are my brothers, sisters, best friends, teachers, cousins, nieces, and nephews. You and I belong to one another. I am also an African American woman, by bloodline, culture and identity. African Americans are my brothers, sisters, best friends, teachers, cousins, nieces, and nephews. I was born with inherited racial trauma. (Inherited trauma is a thing—you can look it up). I have hordes of relatives, but only one who is a cop; a close cousin, who wears his badge with honor, excellence, and commitment. He’s also black. I pray for him often during times of (visible) racial unrest, and break into scared tears every time I pray. My heart, through an odd positioning, spans the width of our collective racial anguish.

Still, there is something deeper than any other identity I carry, with the exception of my faith. I am a mother. A black mother of two young black men whom I carried, painfully labored into birth and successfully raised through some very tough times. Any mother can understand that my children are my greatest pride and my deepest love. So please understand that racialized violence hits me different.

My dear white friends, most of you don’t know what to do. Here are some tips, from your white-skinned black sister:

• I want you to imagine witnessing a terrible car accident. Then imagine walking up to one of the wrecked cars, finding someone who is still bloody and injured, and saying: “watching you go through that trauma was hard for me. Can you please give me some emotional support?” That’s what you do when you ask black people to help you deal with your angst. The phrase I’ve been using these past few days is this: “As a black woman, I’m struggling to take down my own bitter cup. Please, dear white brothers and sisters, stop trying to pass me your internal poison so that you can find relief.” If you’ve done this, you didn’t know what you didn’t know. You’re forgiven. But please stop.
• If you want to understand, do some homework. That can be as easy as a google search. There are essays, blogs, books and articles galore which can help you get a better feel for what’s happening.
• If you have black friends (or friendly black acquaintances) please check in on them without agenda. If that feels strange, imagine that they lost a distant-but-important relative, because that’s what it feels like. Dear white friends, you know how to offer comfort during loss, so there’s no need to be intimidated. Just send a simple text: “Just checking in. Is there anything I can do?” or “Thinking of you. Are you okay?” Let them know that they are more than a headline to you. If you are a praying person, pray for them and let them know.
• Don’t talk about the issue or the headlines unless you already have a strong friendship with that person. It is awkward and unwelcomed to bring discussions of racism to a random black person in the grocery store or some such thing. Just like you, all they want to do is pick up their eggs and get home. Part of the difficulty of being in black skin in America is constantly being recruited as teacher, sounding board and priest to white people’s racial angst. Please let black people go about their days without such recruitment.
• When you interact with black people, for the love of God, stay white. Nothing is more insulting than watching a Caucasian person try to use language, inflections or gestures which are not theirs in some awkward attempt to prove—with neon signs—that they are not a racist. I know this sounds strange, but black people know you are not black. They can tell just by looking. If you don’t want to look like a racist, be yourself, no matter who you are addressing.
• Embrace the fact that you are a good person on the wrong side of an ugly history. You would never pull a trigger on a black person just because they are black. But, like me, your ancestors built this system. People who look like you continue to perpetrate this horror. That doesn’t make you guilty, that makes you and I unwilling recipients of an ungodly inheritance. We can’t keep pretending that isn’t true. The good news is your heritage also gives you tons of power to affect change. Make peace with what your (and my) people have built. Then consider—-from your position of lament—affecting change, even if that change is in your own perspective and social circles.
• If you experience anger against you because you’re white, learn to deal with it without lashing out or diving into shame. I’m sorry, my dear white friend, but you must let go of the idea that you can be part of the solution without having your sense of innocence disrupted or called into question. And if you don’t have any tools to absorb feeling falsely accused because of the color of your skin? That is something a person of color may be able to help you with, if you are sincere in wanting to learn and can come to the question with neither defensiveness nor agenda. 
• Your guilt and your shame doesn’t do the tiniest bits of good to anyone, black or white. Work through it. It’s not helping.
• Be aware that you are losing something personally important to you. You hate the circumstances, but as the scales of justice try to right themselves, you are losing your sense of security and your assumed power base. That loss is real. And eventually, that loss will make you feel threatened. (Even as you remain outraged against the racism.) That doesn’t make you a monster, that makes you a person. But please don’t take those feelings to the cause, and please keep tabs on your own, understandable defensiveness.
• Especially in our culture, we hate to admit our own privilege—even to ourselves. I am an embarrassed participant in this dysfunction, and have often struggled to admit (much less claim) my own privilege. Please confront the lie that you are not privileged because, like me, your privilege is enormous. 
• You need not feel accused nor ashamed nor “less-than” because you hold privilege. You have also struggled, endured hardships, worked hard, and suffered. You’ve known pain. Your privilege does not detract from, lessen, or mitigate that reality. You get to own your story without excuse, no matter what privileges you’ve been afforded. You need not defend anything.
• As a Caucasian brother recently said to me, “white people murdering black people is not a black problem. It is a white problem.” I can add nothing to his words.
• Imagine walking into a room full of black people, where you are the only one with white skin. Then imagine someone bringing up your skin color, and having the whole room swivel to stare at you, hoping for answers, jokes and/or comment. If you see one or two black people in mostly-white room, please don’t put them in that position. And if someone else does, be willing to speak up and align yourself against the awkwardness. The same goes for social media exchanges.
• If you interact with a black person, don’t point out the differing skin tones. Again, they can tell you aren’t of the same race all by themselves. Treat them as a person versus a skin color. Kindness and authentic respect is what transcends differences and puts people at ease.
• Don’t let the devil tell you that you have no right to be angry just because you’re white. Of course you should be angry. This is a human story, not a story contained in black skin. Your ethnic background does not cheapen your lament. Your anger is well-placed, valid and necessary.
• Black people need your voice, and we need your involvement. Traumatized people do not make the best advocates. Traumatized people—no matter where the trauma comes from—are angry, shut down, and often counterproductive. As long as you leave it up to black people to speak out, you are making unreasonable demands of the group you want to help. Speak up, dear white friends. Step up and speak up. We don’t need you to share our trauma, we need you to stand against what perpetuates the pain.
• You can’t crawl into a black person’s skin in order to understand what is going on. You couldn’t possibly know what it is like, and if you could for a moment, it would shut you down. I promise. You must address, understand and process this issue from your lens, your white skin, and your unique perspective.
• If you want to help, aspire to becoming the white person who gives other white people a touch-point to their own racialized angst. Be a bridge which helps other white people engage without shutting down or blaming the victims.
• Ask yourself what you are called to do. That will look different for everyone. Every bit counts. Just don’t disengage and leave it to the people who are being harmed.  We can all do something, as this is our nation.
• If you’ve been guilty of any and/or all of the hardships I’ve mentioned, remember you didn’t know what you didn’t know. I know you didn’t mean it—that goes without saying. The only thing we can do is be truthful, be gracious, learn from our circumstances, and move forward. Like Maya Angelou said, “when you know better, you do better.”
• You are a good person. Just be yourself, because sincerity goes a long way. Awkwardness and missteps can be forgiven—trust me, black people are used to it. Your genuine compassion and concern are what matter. And your sincere engagement matters even more.

Dear White Friends. I love you. You are my brothers, sisters, best friends, teachers, cousins, nieces, and nephews. You and I belong to one another. Keep being the people who may not understand, but who remain good, decent, and compassionate human beings. Embrace change, and if you want to help, start by taking hold of your own cup—it is plenty bitter enough.

And yes. If this has helped you, please pass it on.

Sincerely yours,
Karla Johnson