Finding Empathy in the Midst of Racial Tension

Photo by: Alina Kuptsova


It’s very important to experience being the minority when you’re a person of privilege. As the US has turned its eyes to the ongoing issues of race—the outright injustices, the hurt of generations, and the nuanced ways of exclusion beneath the surface—I have been pondering what has informed who I am in this realm. I think that’s the least that this time calls for. In some ways, we could think of it as a moral inventory, but I think to get the best picture, we should consider all of our experiences with race, with people who look different from us, and the conclusions we’ve drawn from those experiences. I think as a society, we tend to think of racism as conscious thoughts and actions of hatred, but in reality, racism creeps into so many unconscious ways of living and relating to others often because we just haven’t had the opportunity to be trained to see from the other person’s point of view.

I have thought about my childhood and the ways my parents modeled loving others in diversity and being informed about other people and places in the world (even in spite of growing up in a place that didn’t have a lot of diversity). However, I think the experiences that have most informed my most empathetic understanding or feelings as to how my brothers and sisters of color could feel have been while living in Honduras. I want to share some of those experiences with you, but I want you to hear my heart behind it first. I have all different kinds of friends who have viewpoints on every side of every argument, and I have seen various statements that systemic racism is a myth. I want to be the kind of person who can disagree while still honoring the other person, but my desire in sharing these experiences is that I’d like to give a peek into the way that our human nature plays out in the area of race. I don’t share these stories because I want pity or because this issue is about me at all—I want to be very clear about that. I share these stories because, as a white person, I want to provide some insight into the subtleties of how race plays out in society and to why it’s worth listening to people of color when they express their hurt. These experiences are confined to Honduras, and I’m sure that some would make the argument that these things only happen here, but that’s simply not true.

When I first visited Honduras on a short-term trip, I was struck with the realization that not only was so much of the rest of the world living with challenges I had never dreamed of, I but that I had done absolutely nothing to deserve being born in the United States as a white person to loving parents who had the means to provide for me. There is nothing inherently better about me or more worthy of the provision, the safety, and the love I’ve experienced that someone else has not. That realization has informed a lot of my mentality in missions.

In Honduras, there are a lot of missionaries; thus, many Hondurans have had experiences with people who are white. Some, in more rural areas, haven’t always seen a white person before. There is a certain kind of curiosity that happens when people see something different than what they’re used to. The responses I’ve received for being the different one have stretched across the board:

Sometimes I will be sitting in the bank or in a government office in the waiting areas or I’m standing in line, and I will suddenly feel someone behind me touching my hair. Natural blond hair isn’t very common in Honduras (even though mine is now several shades darker than what it used to be). Sometimes, the people grabbing my hair to see what it’s like are children, but sometimes, they’re adults. No one ever asks to touch my hair; they just do it. To be honest, I’ve just trained myself to let the person do what they need to do and maybe eventually turn around and smile. As long as they’re not yanking on my hair, it doesn’t bother me. Is it my favorite? No, but it comes with the territory of being different, and I signed up for this when I decided to live here as a missionary.

All anonymity is out the window for me in Honduras. I have to confess that has been very, very hard. I can remember in my first year of living in Honduras feeling jealous of Alvin, who is black, because as much as I was trying to fit in via language and culture and all of the things, it was just never going to happen because of my appearance. Meanwhile, unless someone catches Alvin’s accent when he speaks Spanish, no one assumes he is from the US. He has a lot more freedom because he can maintain anonymity. I can’t go anywhere without being noticed. In my neighborhood, I am one of two white women (now that Lindsey lives nearby), and everyone knows where I live. People who I don’t know at all in my neighborhood know me by name and know where I live and who my husband is because it’s a lot easier to remember the (previously) only white person. If I’m sitting in a food court or in a park by myself, I almost always have someone want to talk to me. Sometimes, it’s someone who just wants to practice their English; sometimes, it’s a man who wants my phone number. I am always aware of how much skin I have showing not just because of modesty but also because I want to avoid unwanted, sometimes threatening attention from men. I have had Christian men make raunchy comments about me behind my back, and several Christian men insisted that God told them I was their wife (before I was married) after they’d only seen my picture.

In general, being white in Honduras means that you have money. That’s the assumption. Given the poverty that exists here, depending on the person, by comparison, that’s not always incorrect (though there is also a lot of wealth in Honduras in a small percentage of the population). The precedent that many missionaries have set from ages ago is that white people hand out things or rescue people from need. While I’m sure much of this has been well-meaning, it has also caused dependency and almost an attitude of entitlement toward white people coupled with many other problematic issues beneath the surface that never get addressed like low self-esteem, feeling like a victim, lack of empowerment in one’s own life, etc. If there is someone begging for money in a restaurant or other area, I’m always the first person they’re going to go to. It’s not uncommon for people to follow me around asking me for money. And, I’ve even had the experience of someone coming up to me in the grocery store, hand already extended to say with great confidence, “So, what are you going to give me, gringa?” I have had neighbors I have never seen before in my life come right up to my front door asking for a handout with all of the conviction in the world that I just had to give them money because I’m white. When I go to certain areas in the city, I have to be careful about how I dress. Since I call attention anyway, I have to be careful to wear old clothes, not wear my wedding ring, and not carry a purse in certain areas just to prevent being a target for thieves. I try not to have a lot of flashy possessions out and about for the same reason. I have also had the family of a young person I was helping try to extort me. The assumption is that everything has been handed to me and that I can get anything I want just by “shaking the dollar tree” I supposedly have in the US. The idea that I have to earn money or that I have to save well or administrate well or that I’m a hard worker never seems to be considered. Let me reiterate—I have the luxury that at any point in time, if I want to, I can go back to the US to slip right back into the comfort of anonymity and live in a bubble where no one else’s needs are touching me.

Also in the realm of money, the tendency is that people will overcharge you when you’re white. That’s not always the case, but in a lot of cases, it’s better to avoid than risk it. So, when Raúl and I are together and need to take a taxi, I go hide around the corner while Raúl negotiates the price because most of the time, if a cab driver sees me during the haggling, the price is going up exponentially. I’m a really independent woman, and I like to be able to analyze things well before I purchase a good or service. But, I have become a lot more dependent on Raúl because the trade off for being independent is often paying more. So, the last vehicle that we bought, when we went to see it, Raúl and our mechanic got out of the car to look at the vehicle we wanted to buy while I camped out in the car we were in for the entire time until they had established a clear price, and we were headed to the bank to make the transfer. It’s inconvenient and annoying, but again, I am a foreigner in another nation. There are simply going to be aspects of life that I have to adapt to.

The color of my skin and my nationality have also affected my marriage beyond the relationship the two of us share. Most people make the assumption that Raúl only married me so that he’d have a way to go to the US. He gets so defensive that people would assume that about his motives that he doesn’t publicize that he’s married to a white woman. He only occasionally posts pictures on social media of us together to avoid questions or assumptions. He has had random men stop at his business—not to change a tire or to buy oil—but for the sole purpose to seek him out to ask him if he’s married to a white woman from the US. In fact, a lot of his clients and vendors, when they do find out that we’re married, assume that I am the one financially sustaining his business or that I was the one that gave him the start up money. Neither of those things are true, and you can see how those assumptions can erode my husband’s sense of self and pride in his own work ethic and accomplishments. The idea that my husband only married me to get to the US is also demeaning to me because it means that people assume that there’s no reason he’d want to be married to me for who I am beyond economy and travel. Raúl has also had men seek him out just to tell him to be careful because white women are controlling and bossy. This brings me to point out that comically, a lot of people think that all white people are alike and that we all know each other.

In the realm of safety, when I get into a fender bender, calling the police instead of negotiating with the person directly isn’t always the best idea because even if I’m not at fault, there’s a risk that the cop will make the assumption that I have the most money and can afford to pay my own damages and that of the other person. Or, it’s possible that they policeman will offer siding with me in exchange for a bribe. A white friend of ours once had a situation where he saw a wreck that involved a young child. Because he was worried about the well-being of the child, he stopped to see if he could help. The person who caused the wreck left, and when the police came, even though our friend stopped at the wreck after it had already happened, they pinned it on him and took him to jail temporarily until he paid. The victims of the wreck just went along with it, so they’d have a guarantee of having their medical bills and vehicle damages paid for. In situations like that, it’s the white person against everyone else—so, who do you think most often wins?

On the flipside of this coin, many people often assume I’m safe because I’m white which means that protocols that get applied to everyone else don’t get applied to me. When there is a guard outside a bank who is supposed to check purses and use a wand to detect any weapons, they will check the Honduran woman in front of me, but they won’t check me. I have been on a bus where they made everyone get off and have their luggage searched for possible weapons—everyone but me, the only white person on board.

In Central America, white people are called gringos. It doesn’t matter if you’re from the US (for whom the term is actually intended) or from Denmark or from the UK. If you’re white, someone is going to call you a gringo. Some white people find this offensive. Personally, I don’t as long as the person using the term isn’t coupling it with insults just because we live in a society that focuses a lot on physical appearance. They have a nickname for themselves here in Honduras and also for people from Nicaragua and people from Costa Rica. Nicknames for individuals are very prevalent and also focus on distinguishing physical features. Words like “chele” (referring to someone with light skin, light eyes, and light hair), “gordo” (fatty), “negro” (black), “flaca” (skinny), etc. are all very common nicknames that aren’t meant to be offensive. They’re more so just stating the obvious. So, when someone calls me a gringa, I give the benefit of the doubt that it’s just an identifier stating the obvious.

I did one time, however, have someone yell at me using “gringa” as an insult since it was coupled with other insults. I was walking in a very rural area with a couple of other white girls as we were on our way to give some English classes in a local school. A fancy truck drove by, and a lady hung out of the window to yell at us and insult us. It was weird but not devastating just because that had never happened before and hasn’t really happened since.

Similarly, on the extreme end of the spectrum, one time I was walking in a small town on the phone and minding my own business, when a random man I had never see before smacked me and said, “You don’t belong in Honduras, and if you stay, I will kill you.” It didn’t physically hurt me. More than anything, it just caught me off-guard.

Beyond these extreme occurrences, there are also the quirky inconveniences that I just never thought about before moving here—things like not being able to find the right foundation for my skin color or not being able to find the right color panty hose in Honduras.

There are also the issues that I think about in terms of the future. When Raúl and I have kids someday, we’re going to have to be so intentional in this issue because our kids could deal with racial repercussions on every side. In Honduras, we may encounter people who treat my kids like they’re prettier or more special or more desirable just because they have a white mother because unfortunately, it’s common for the concept of beauty here to be connected with lightness of skin. People walk around with umbrellas for the sun because they don’t want to get darker, or people make comments like, “She’s pretty for a black girl.” We don’t want our kids to internalize any of these mindsets or to treat their peers or cousins as lesser just because they have a white mother. On the flipside, it’s hard to tell what they could encounter in the US because they’ll be mixed, because their father would be an immigrant (who currently doesn’t speak much English). People may look down on them or make assumptions about their legal right to be in the US because of what their skin may look like or because they’re speaking Spanish.

Let me reiterate why I bring all of this up: It’s not to draw attention to the situations within my own life as much as it’s to draw attention to the deep ways that race affects society and how we relate to one another. It’s also to spark the idea that these things that I’ve experienced are mere shadows of the reality that many people of color live when they are the minority. The bottom line is that I have chosen to live in Honduras. I may not have fully known what I was getting myself into, but I always have the luxury that I can go back to being the majority in the US whenever I want to. The biases I experience here are nothing compared to what people of color experience within their own countries. Where is their safe place? Where do they get to go to just breathe and be themselves? Where is the space where they are not just tolerated but celebrated?

It's not too far a stretch to read my experiences and be able to think about the experiences that people of color have. If you can believe that these are things that have happened to me as a white person living as a minority in another country, you should also be able to at least consider some of these scenarios within your own country:
A black child feels different and lesser because their hair doesn’t style the same way as the white children in their class. Or a black employee experiences pressure to make their hair look more like white people’s hair just because that’s considered more societally acceptable in the work place. Their natural hair is the beautiful hair that God gave them—however they want to style it or not style it.
What must a person of color feel like when they’re the only person of color in the room? I have had the experience of being the only white person in the room, and it’s an experience I’ve learned to take in stride, but it’s still one that makes me very aware of how other I am. I’m always conscious that I’m being watched and aware that some people may feel like I don’t belong. What must it feel like to not see yourself represented in board rooms and in entertainment and in all areas of society—to lack models of success to emulate and tell you that if they could do it, you can to? What must it feel like to have to speak to white people representing the entirety of your race? I have fielded questions about white people or North Americans, and it’s overwhelming to know that whatever I say won’t just be my relating my personal experience as an individual but will be taken in the other person’s mind to apply to all people of my skin color.
What must it feel like to have someone assume you are poor or dangerous or looking for a handout just because of the color of your skin? If people here assume I’m wealthy because I’m white, it’s not too far a stretch to recognize that other people can assume that someone of color is on welfare or a drug dealer or threatening just because of the color of their skin. How degrading to your work ethic or your personal qualities to have someone make an assumption about you without even knowing you. Worse—how life-altering and devastating must it be when someone infringes on your human rights because of these assumptions and biases.
As someone who is overcharged for being white within the marketplace, I have no problems believing that someone of color could be cheated or followed in a store as someone of suspect despite being just any other customer.
As someone who can’t necessarily depend on policemen to be fair or to take care of me here, I can only imagine what it must feel like to fear that policemen could treat you unfairly or could kill you because of their own biases or fears related to the color of your skin. That’s not to say that all policemen are like that just as not all policemen here are corrupt or looking for a bribe. But, just having to conduct yourself with the knowledge that the very profession designed to ensure safety could actually be a threat to you is exhausting. I have experienced this feeling in very limited form, and it makes you feel exposed and like a target. It’s heartbreaking. How scary must it be to be a person of color within the justice system and face the question of “when it’s everyone who is not of color against the one person of color—who do you think wins?” How infuriating must it be to be someone living your own life like Elijah McClain or Breonna Taylor and be treated like a criminal just as my missionary friend was treated here. The difference is that they lost their lives.
What must it feel like to regularly face insults or violence just because of the color of your skin?
What messages are we sending to people of color about their value or their belonging when they can’t find products that match the color of their skin? Sure, it’s an inconvenience, but it also sends a message about who we want to cater to in our society and which color of skin has the most profit or value.
As someone who may have to have a conversation with her future children about how to dress or what language to use or how to be aware (and also thick-skinned) in terms of how others may respond to their race, I can only imagine the disillusionment that has to be present when people of color have to have conversations with their children about how to keep their hands on the wheel at all times when a cop stops them or what music they can have playing from their car speakers and at what volume or what clothing they need to wear in order to ensure that their image doesn’t come off as threatening. I feel like it would have to rip your world apart to have to be the one educating your child that other people may not love them as much as you love them just because of the color of their skin. It brings me to tears just thinking about it.

For the moment, what I’m pushing for here is just empathy. The value of a human being created by God is never a political question or issue. We, as Christians, were told to go. We were not called to stay in a homogenized bubble of comfort. If we aren’t seeking out people who are different than us and people who challenge us to think differently, we’re doing it wrong. We cannot possibly know how someone of a different skin tone or religion or nationality is treated if we aren’t willing to actively seek uncomfortable experiences. If we’re in the majority, we may never know exactly what a minority goes through, but we can allow ourselves to get a taste and to enter into that suffering.

Go to an all-black church and be the only awkward white person in the room. Go to a country where they don’t speak your language or have a very different culture and try to figure out what the cultural rules are. Seek someone out who isn’t in your tax bracket and see how that person lives and hurts. Sit and listen to someone in need before you rush in to save them. Before you press that “publish” button proclaiming your political views on immigrants, research the process to come to the US legally, visit the detention facilities at the border, and seek out immigrants in your community to befriend. It’s possible your political views won’t change at all, but you will at least have done due diligence to have a face associated with the issue. For far too long, the Body of Christ has sat back expecting the government to dictate culture. The government has its place, but we shouldn’t forfeit our role in loving well and causing change. Maybe we haven’t been the direct culprits of perpetuating racism, but as children of God, we’re given the power to stand in the gap and repent on behalf of others. We cannot start to be part of the solution in racial reconciliation until we have the humility to connect with others who are different than us as equals.

About a month ago, in a time of worship, I felt like God impressed upon me that the next wave of revival that is coming is going to focus on making the Church His Bride. He wants His Bride to be fully free, fully herself as He made each of us. Being made into the Bride means that all of her facets are celebrated and not just tolerated. It means she doesn’t have to stifle or censor herself because of the majority or because of playing to the lowest common denominator. What if the movements we are seeing take place—Time’s Up, Black Lives Matter, etc.—is actually driving the shift in the Church by outside culture because the Church refused to take her rightful place and steward the invitation to lead toward freedom. When we stifle the Holy Spirit, we will inevitably stifle our brothers and sisters as well. When we stifle our brothers and sisters, we will inevitably stifle Christ in them and the unique manifestation of who God is as well. I think the first step to re-claiming our part in this realm is deep brokenness and humility. God cannot fully reveal Himself until He sets the oppressed free. Pieces of Himself are hidden in the oppressed, in the minority. We will begin to see revival and the fullness of Him when we have released our brothers and sisters to be fully themselves.