A look at my DNA

I'm starting to remember things I haven't thought of in a while. I'm beginning to see that what I'm about--what I really care about--has been a part of my makeup since I was born--that my values are part of my DNA--that the way God designed me hasn't changed much based on my circumstances or where I've lived.

As a little girl living in New Jersey, I remember playing on our front porch, which was a small concrete area with a few steps leading up to the front door (it could look completely different from the way I remember it). It was there that I often played with a few of the neighborhood kids, including a little girl named Ginny who was obviously poor. She was the least polished of my friends. And while we weren't an affluent family, my mom has always cared a lot about our appearance.

Ginny stole some of my toys. I can remember being really sad, angry, and hurt. Then, I thought, "She probably took them because she doesn't have any toys of her own." And my heart welled up with compassion. I was still hurt, but I was able to feel both emotions at the same time. Maybe my mom introduced the thought. Maybe it was God. But I was about 5 or 6 at the time, and I remember it pretty clearly.

Not long after that, we moved to Kentucky. I told my mom that I wanted to invite a friend to come home with me. She said I coached her on how to behave: "Don't laugh at her because her hair isn't brushed and her clothes are dirty." I was in the second grade.

When I was in the 4th grade, an African American family from New York moved to our small Kentucky town of 1,000 white folks. My teacher asked our class (in front of the new girl) who would like to befriend the new student and show her around the school. Complete silence. No one raised a hand. I was stunned. Then, a boy named Matthew, who was sitting in the left-hand corner of the room spouted off some derogatory statement using a double-negative and the word "colored." The teacher asked Jennifer what she prefered to be called. She responded, "Jennifer." So the teacher clarified, "Colored? African American? Black?" She said, "I guess just call me what I am. Black."

So "the girl from New Jersey who talked funny" volunteered to be the friend of "the black girl from New York." We both thought we had seen each other before. I dug out my class pictures from kindergarten and 1st grade. No black students. I thought of all the friends I had left in NJ. No black friends. I wondered what made me so comfortable with her--so willing to be excommunicated. Maybe I was already an outcast. Maybe I knew what it was like to be different. Maybe it was God.

I hadn't thought much about it, but my friend Rachel had a conversation with my dad right before we moved to Uganda, and she said that he told her he could see now why I've never been very interested in material things. It all made sense to him as he watched us give away most of what we owned and head to a third-world country to live among the poor.

I've found that I tend to be more comfortable around the poor than the rich. In fact, I don't know very many people who would be considered rich.

My mailman asked me once why I don't have any blinds or curtains. I said, "I don't have anything to hide." One of my neighbor kids was happy that I put curtains in the dining room, which faces the street (my girlfriend was visiting from MN and I thought she'd appreciate the privacy). He said that we lived in the ghetto and that people would be looking in our house since it was a nice house. I said, "And what would they see? Nothing worth stealing. Everything we own is a hand-me-down or handmade. Besides, if someone felt like they needed to steal something from our house, they probably need it more than we do."

I don't feel like I live in the ghetto. I honestly don't know what would cause an area to receive the ghetto label. Is it because my neighbors are black? poor? unrefined? I was asked point-blank by someone yesterday, "What made you choose this neighborhood?" I told her, in essence, I'm a Believer and I drove around different neighborhoods for months and prayed about where to live and this is where I found peace.

James says I don't make decisions based on fear. I just happen to be attracted to people who are different from me, and I make decisions based on love. Only recently have I begun to realize that my decisions cause other people to sometimes feel uncomfortable.

When I lived in Clarksville, I attended Willowbend Baptist Church. A couple of Sunday mornings, I picked up one of my neighbors and brought him with me. I usually had to remind him to put out his cigarette before getting in the car. He was probably the same age as my parents. He lived with his mother in a rundown home near Riverside Drive. He was tall, slow of speech, and African American. My car always reeked of cigarettes, alcohol, and body odor when he went to church with me. He kind of had the Pigpen thing going (Peanuts character). I can't explain it, but I liked him. Since playing pool was his favorite pastime and he needed quarters to do it, I gave him a roll of quarters as a parting gift the day I moved to Nashville.

His presence probably made some of the folks at Willowbend feel uncomfortable. My presence in this neighborhood probably makes some of my friends and family feel uncomfortable (in fact, I know it does). But I can't help but be my Father's daughter--and that means loving the poor and not being afraid.