It’s challenging to conduct a workshop on racial justice with an interracial group of people who work or socialize together but have never talked honestly about race. Usually the White people assume everything is fine. They say things like, “We’re all friends here, so we don’t have any problems with race.” They’re often taken aback when a Black friend or coworker speaks openly about their feelings and experiences with racism.

In this case, our participants were all members of the Baha’i Faith community who had known each other for a long time. About 20 people, including my mother, had come to the day-long workshop my husband Gene and I were facilitating. There were two Black women, three White men, and the rest were White women.

We were engaged in a discussion about neighborhood initiatives when Tasha, the younger Black woman, said, “I can’t bear to lose anyone else. My cousin and one of my closest friends are dead. Other friends are in prison. Every day more Black boys disappear. It has to stop. I can’t take any more loss.”

She was trying not to cry, wiping tears off her face with the back of her hand as they spilled from her eyes. As she talked, everyone got very still and quiet. Everyone, that is, except Francis, the older Black woman, who rose from her chair like an avenging angel.

Francis began speaking to all these White people she had known for years. She told them they had to stop feeling sad and sorry and surprised, and start feeling angry. She said their compassion wasn’t enough, that they had to DO something. Her voice got louder and her gestures more emphatic, and by the time she finished, several minutes later, she was shouting and shaking with emotion.

We called for a break so we could regroup. We needed to come up with a process where the White participants could respond in a way that was safe for these two women. While my husband and I were consulting, one of the White women came over and told me she was going to leave.

Cathy was visibly upset. I went out of the room with her and asked what was going on. Of course I can’t recall in detail everything she said, but it was something like this:

“It feels like she’s accusing me of being a racist, but I’m not. I came here to learn and be supportive, and now she’s judging me. And there’s no need to stand up and shout. I deserve to be treated with more respect and I don’t like that kind of confrontational language. I thought we were friends! She’s hurting my feelings and I’m just trying to be supportive. I can’t deal with this. I don’t do well with intense emotions. I’m not the kind of person who can stay in a situation like this and I didn’t come here to be attacked. I’m leaving.”

This is the story she was telling me and herself. It generated fear, resentment, defensiveness, anger, pain, and sadness, which are all understandable reactions to that story. So she felt threatened and decided she needed to protect herself by leaving the situation.

I told her, “Of course you can leave, if that’s what you need to do. I just want you to be aware of one thing. If you leave now, you’re basically telling your Black sisters that their anger is too much for you, that you’re not strong enough or willing to be there for them when they’re hurting. Is that what you want to tell them?”

Cathy opened her mouth but didn’t speak right away. She looked first surprised, then puzzled, and finally determined.

“No,” she said. “Not that.”

“What do you want them to know about you?” I asked.

“That I do care about them. I just was starting to feel scared. I’m not used to people showing such intense emotions. All those things Francis was saying were really hard to listen to, and it made me feel extremely uncomfortable.”

“What else?”

“Maybe that I’d like to try again and that I hope they’ll be patient with me.”

Then she seemed to remember something. “Actually,” she said, “someone was just telling me that I’ve changed, and I think she’s right. I’ve gotten a little tougher lately.”

As I stood there and listened, Cathy gradually talked herself into an entirely different identity. She went from “I’m not the kind of person who can stay in a situation like this” to telling me, “I’m someone who’s learning how to stay present with strong emotions.”

Same people, same situation, different story.

Now the story she was telling herself generated feelings of love, connection, courage, and self-empowerment. It’s not that the previous version of herself wasn’t true, but it was an old truth that didn’t take into account her recent growth.

Cathy returned to the workshop and participated fully in the afternoon’s activities and discussions. At the end of the day, Tasha and Francis said they felt heard and supported, and everyone was hopeful about their personal and community action plans. As people were leaving, I saw Cathy talking to Francis. I would have loved to hear what they were saying.

Gene and I had to be in another city the following day, so we had no opportunity to debrief with any of our workshop participants. But I was hoping to talk soon with my mom to get her feedback. She called me the next day, just as we were pulling up to our favorite Chinese restaurant to order dinner. Here’s what she told us.

That morning, members of their Baha’i community had gathered for an annual district convention. After prayers, Francis and Cathy stood together at the front of the room and took turns telling the entire gathering what had happened the previous day at the workshop. They shared all the details, all the feelings.

Mom said they created a healing energy that permeated the convention.

I’ve told this story hundreds of times, but I’ve never written it before today. I think it’s a powerful example of what can happen when someone transcends her conditioning and steps into an advanced version of herself. It’s heroic, in my humble opinion. I hope you find it as inspiring as I do.

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood from Pexels

A lively group of people gathered at the New England home of our friend Kiara. The festive, boisterous atmosphere grew as more guests arrived for the evening’s program of devotions and fellowship. I could see only one subdued spot in the whole room. On the couch, Laura and her two children sat still and close together, creating their own little island of quiet in a sea of buzzing activity.

I had met Laura a few days earlier. She was interested in the Bahá’í Faith and had been coming regularly to meetings at Kiara’s house. Her son and daughter, who always accompanied her, were young and close together in age — maybe five and seven years old — and they never left their mother’s side. They were so physically attached to Laura at all times that I had started thinking of them as the Velcro kids.

During an earlier conversation, Laura told me she was also attending Quaker meetings. When I asked what drew her to that particular church, she said, “I just love the quiet, contemplative atmosphere there!”

And now the three of them sat like statues in Kiara’s living room. In this mostly African-American group, they were — along with me, my husband Gene, and one other man — the only White people present.

After an uplifting hour of prayers, readings, and music, people were serving themselves from the luscious array of desserts and returning to the living room to eat and socialize. In the kitchen, Kiara chatted with two of her close friends. They were very animated, and as they talked and laughed, their voices became louder and their gestures more enthusiastic.

I was seated across the coffee table from Laura, and as the kitchen conversation became increasingly exuberant, I watched her children closely. They were still securely fastened to their mother, but they looked over their shoulders anxiously at the three women. Their eyes were wide and their little mouths compressed; they hung on tightly to Mom’s arm.

“They sure are loud,” whispered the little boy. Laura was engaged in conversation with the woman sitting next to her, and she paid no attention to her son’s observation.

“Yeah, they sure are loud,” I agreed. “Those are about the loudest ladies I ever heard!”

“How come the brown people are so loud?” asked the girl. She and her brother looked really frightened.

I watched Kiara and her friends and thought about how I could help these two impressionable kids see things differently. “Well,” I said, “I guess they just love each other so much that it has to come out loudly.”

I could see their struggle as they considered my explanation. I was an adult and they wanted to believe me, but they were having a hard time. “You mean they’re not mad?” the boy finally asked.

“Turn around and take a good look at their faces,” I said. “Do they look mad to you?”

They watched the three women for a long time, and then I actually saw their grips on their mother’s arm relax.

“Hey I’ve got a great idea!” I said to them. “Why don’t we go into the kitchen and get some cookies? It looks like your mom’s going to sit there and talk all night.”

I don’t know if I really expected my strategy to work, so I was a little surprised when they both got up, took my hands, and followed me to the plates full of goodies. As they served themselves, they looked around shyly at the three laughing women. When we returned to the living room, they sat down next to their mom and ate without touching her.

At first I was unsure if I should tell Laura what had happened as she talked with her new friend, apparently unaware of her children’s feelings. But by the end of the evening, both kids were going back to the dessert table by themselves, and were even interacting tentatively with other adults. This was such a dramatic change in their behavior that it deserved some explanation.

“That’s, um, quite amazing!” Laura said. “I couldn’t figure out why they suddenly let go of me.” She gave a little laugh. “They’re normally so clingy, in case you hadn’t noticed.” She looked at her two kids, who were having a very quiet conversation with an older Black man. “Hmmm,” she said, “I need to pay attention from now on. This is very good.”

Later, when I told Kiara the story, she declared it a miracle. It was the first time she’d seen the children leave Laura’s side. To me the miracle was the sight of a young boy and girl smiling at people they’d been afraid of only minutes before.

This was one of my first and most powerful experiences with rewriting the story we’re telling ourselves. Until very recently, the children had only been in quiet, White spaces. It wasn’t surprising that they connected loud voices with anger. They could have carried that association subconsciously into adulthood and never understood their negative reaction to groups of Black people.

That evening, they realized that loud also means joyful and loving. If only it were that easy for adults to reassess their assumptions.