"Melting Pot"

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“Melting Pot”
Before May 25th…
Before the name George Floyd tragically joined the list of names,
the list that should not even exist…
Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, Eric Garner, Treyvon Martin,
The list that goes on, and on, and on.
Before the nation witnessed the horrific killing of yet another black person at the hands of a racist wielding too much power, harboring too much hate…
Before… the racial tensions were already there, make no mistake. The heat on the “melting pot” had been turned up so high, for so many years, so many decades, so many centuries. It was only a matter of time before something was going to burn.
Too long in the pot. Too long have we thrown those black and brown bodies in the pot and tried to melt them into “American.” What does it mean to be “American” anyway?
“American” like Velveeta cheese? Moldable and meltable?
But like this “cheese,” we know deep down that the “melting pot” is not the real deal.
The “melting pot” is a dangerous myth. The “melting pot” is the tool of the powerful to try and control those unlike them.
“Come to America, but speak like us,” they say.
“In America, you can only live here or here. And if you happen cross the line, we will flee further outward.”
And, “We think you’re cute when you’re little… but then when you grow into manhood we’ll lock the car door at the stoplight, clutch our purses tighter, and perhaps even call you a thug.”
The “melting pot”… damn, who came up with the idea of America being a melting pot anyway?!
Stripped of the essence, boiled down into some homogenous, bland, Cream-of-Wheat style goop?
The “melting pot”… it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
It tastes of char. It tastes of something cooked for far too long.
Those who stir the myth of the “melting pot”…
Those who stoke the flames of “Make America Great Again”…
Those afraid of the richness and the diversity of the human family…
Those are the ones who should be thrown the hell out of the kitchen.
For behold, a new kitchen is coming.
And believe me, we don’t want what is served up on your menu.
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I realize as a white woman I sit in a particular privileged location. Some days I feel like I have no place commenting on matters of race. There is so much I don't know, and I'm well aware that too often white voices get amplified over the voices of people of color. Other days I feel like some words need to be spoken. At the end of the day, I think it's better to say something imperfectly or partially, than not at all. For that's where the conversations can begin. That's where change can begin, if only we have the courage to unearth our own biases and learn from the stories of others.

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