"Well, Here Comes the White Man!"

“Well, Here Comes the White Man!”

Back in the mid-1990s, I taught history at St. Vincent Academy, a wonderful all-girls Roman Catholic high school in the Central Ward of Newark. Although I was hired to teach, the truth is I learned more than I ever taught. In a sense, I grew up at SVA. From the Sisters of Charity and many other colleagues, I learned about commitment to urban ministry, about having a strong sense of mission, and being frugal and creative with limited resources. And from my students, mostly young black women and other women of color, I learned about the strength and courage required to get through the day when there are always so many obstacles in the path.

I remember one time some of the girls told me that whenever they went to Macy’s at Broad and Market they were followed around by suspicious store security. I was incredulous! I had never heard of such a thing. Plus, I knew these girls and they obviously posed no threat to the bottom line of Macy’s. I said as much to them, and the girls shook their heads sadly and said, “Mr. Murphy, you just don’t understand…”

When the weather was nice, after school I would often walk down West Market Street and Market Street to catch the PATH train at Penn Station. I walked past many rubble-strewn lots, lingering evidence of the 1967 riots and signs of the continued poverty and underdevelopment that had long plagued the city. Although renewal began to bloom along my route with townhouses rising on some of the lots, it was still pretty desolate. And, as a white man in his 20s, I knew that I stuck out at least a little in that neighborhood but I honestly never gave it much thought. Sure enough, over those many afternoons of walking down Market Street, nothing ever happened to me. Except for one time.

I was just a few blocks from school when I noticed a middle-aged black woman walking towards me. Since she was smiling in a way that made me think that she knew me, I assumed that she must be the mother of one of my students. In the few moments that we approached each other I flipped through my mental files, desperately trying to come up with a name to match the face. Since she was smiling, I expected a pleasant encounter, that she would say something like, “Mr. Murphy, it’s nice to see you! I’m so-and-so’s mother.” Or, who knows, maybe even, “My daughter loves your class!”

Instead, as she got close to me her smile faded and she slowed half a step. As we were passing one another, she looked me over from head-to-toe and said, “Well, here comes the white man!”

And, that was it. She went on her way and I was too shocked to stop, look back, or say a word. I’m sure my face flushed and I know my stomach dropped in fear and confusion and embarrassment. “Well, here comes the white man!” What was that supposed to mean? Why did she say that to me? I remember thinking, I’m not just a “white man.” You don’t know anything about me! You don’t know that I make the trip every day from Jersey City to Newark to teach some of the young people of this city. I’m not your enemy. I’m no threat to you.

This happened something like 25 years ago and, obviously, I’ve never forgotten it. I’ve told the story a few times, with a shrug, as if to say that this is just one of those strange things that happen. But, I don’t think I’ve ever thought deeply about it – until now.

As we all know, the toxic combination of Covid-19, a deeply divisive president, an economic disaster, and the killing of George Floyd under the knee of a Minneapolis police officer, has broken our hearts and driven many of us out onto the streets demanding that we finally, finally change our ways and purify our hearts and clean our country of the racism that has poisoned our land since its founding. Frankly, as the spiritual leader of a diverse congregation, I feel inadequate to the task of offering comfort and challenge, of speaking the truth to people who already know the truth in ways that I never will.

On Sunday, after our Pentecost service and after our Zoom “party,” I was scrolling through our church’s social media when I found this message posted on our Instagram account, written by someone who sometimes attended our church a few years ago:

“Any churches in Jersey City that are controlled by white people that have organizations and programs run by white people are the biggest problem in society because they are covertly racist. These are the people that preach the word of Jesus and do not follow his wisdom. They pretend. They are not our friends. They are our slavers. Until White people step out and recognize the privilege they receive daily, effortlessly. We cannot afford to condone church services that continue to support these racist mechanisms. #blacklivesmatter #brownlivesmatter #wemustact”

Just like on Market Street long ago, I could feel the blood rush to my face and my stomach lurch. This would be troubling enough coming from someone I didn’t know or who didn’t know me, but the writer does know me and is familiar with at least some of the work our church does. We’re covert racists? We’re “the biggest problem in society”? This post sent me into deeper funk as I turned over in my mind if I should respond, how I would respond or, would it be better to ignore it or even hit the delete button and make it go away.

Instead, I just thought and thought about the hard words he had written. And, I remembered the woman who had sized me up long ago in Newark. I thought about how she must have been expressing so much hurt and anger when she dismissed me as “the white man.” I realized that the person who posted on Instagram was also expressing genuine hurt and anger. And, I realized that, in both cases, I got just the tiniest taste of what people of color experience all the time. Getting sized up every day because of the color of their skin. Having people assume the worst, no matter what their intentions. I got merely the tiniest taste of that and it hurt like hell.

So, those SVA girls sure were right: I just don’t understand. No one has ever looked at me in a department store and suspected I was a shoplifter. I could walk down Market Street without a second thought while Ahmaud Armery’s jog through a white neighborhood led to his execution. When I’ve applied for jobs, I’ve always assumed that I’ll be judged on my skills and experience. The one time I was pulled over by a cop for speeding, I didn’t have to worry that the encounter might turn deadly. I just don’t understand what it’s like  – I can’t really ever understand – what it’s like to endure racism and prejudice every day.

Fortunately, I don’t have to wait for the day when I fully understand the experience of my former students, my neighbors, and parishioners. I may never totally “get it” but I’m no longer that naïve young man who was shocked by the stories told by my students. I understand enough to know that the time has come for us white people with all of our privilege, it is time, and way past due, to not just stand up beside our black sisters and brothers at rallies and protests, but to listen to your stories, to hear your pain, and begin to finally learn.