Sarafina Bianco grew up and still lives just down the road from Ferguson, so the roots of racism and anger—and the need for healing—hit close to home.
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I meant to go to the social security office last Monday but quickly changed my mind once the violence began in Ferguson. The office closest to me is fewer than three miles from my house, a quick trip down the road. But so are the riots.
I took my first dance class at the YMCA on W. Florissant, and later played soccer there. I took classes at Florissant Valley Community College one summer while I was home from college. My friends and I used to drive over to Krispy Kreme to ease hangovers on Sunday mornings. All of those places are along the thick of the looted street.
It’s a sad, inexplicable thing to watch pieces of your childhood burn to the ground.
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It’s a sad, inexplicable thing to watch pieces of your childhood burn to the ground.
Racism exists in St. Louis.
I was brought up with the idealist notion that we, my generation in North County, could make a difference. We could see people for who they are outside of their skin color. And honestly, that’s how I’ve always wanted to live. It wasn’t until I left Florissant and moved around for teaching jobs that I learned my hometown still needs work.
It’s painful to say and I’m not proud. But here we are, staring at one tiny municipality, assuming their anger—this one incident—is indicative of the daily lives of residents.
That’s simply not true.
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The St. Louis specific question—“Where did you go to high school?”—proves our community cares too much about socio-economic status. It determines people’s worth based on where their parents chose to raise them. According to this practice, we’re a bunch of thugs in North County.
When I told my South County students I went to Hazelwood Central, they would stare at me with their heads cocked to the side in confusion, or drooped down staring at their Sperrys.
I’d always respond, “What exactly do those people look like?”
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They would reply, “You don’t look like someone who grew up there,” without making eye contact. This proved, on some level, they knew exactly what they were saying. And I’d always respond, “What exactly do those people look like?” Calling them out on their offensive comments, hoping they’d learn something.
I don’t look like someone who grew up here in the eyes of the rest of St. Louis because I’m a blonde girl with dimples and a hankering for Gap and Anthropologie clothes (which I can’t afford). I’m a lover of the English language and all-things-Volkswagen. That girl typically lives in West County, but because I didn’t, I just didn’t make sense to them.
I always follow up with a simple question: “Have you ever been to North County?” I almost always get the same response. “Oh no,” they say. “My mom would never let me go there.”
While their ignorance fueled hatred, it also allowed me to sit and say, “See? We would never do that,” judging them for their experiences living on the other side of the county.
Obviously that’s not the solution either. I still have work to do on myself.
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It’s time we all stop.
Love is what will stop this.
When I left my abuser, the people who focused on me and my recovery helped me heal. The people who vomited hatred and insults at the monster who caused my pain did not.
Parents are suffering through all of this right now. Mike Brown’s parents are grieving; they should not have had to bury their son. And a policeman’s parents are praying for their son’s life, afraid that fearful angry mobs will track him down and seek the ‘justice’ they believe he deserves.
I have friends who have spouses on the county police, the state troopers and the National Guard. Some of them have babies at home. I have friends who live along W. Florissant, listening to violence erupt every night. They have babies too. And I have even more friends who work for the Ferguson Florissant School District who aren’t able to go back to work because of all of this. Should they or the kids who are waiting for school to start suffer because of this incident?
Nobody is winning while we all take out our anger on who we believe is wrong.
I think once you survive an injustice, you empathize with other survivors more, regardless of whether what they survived.
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I think once you survive an injustice, you empathize with other survivors more, regardless of whether what they survived.
Some people will say, “But you don’t understand what it’s like to be black.” And they’re right. Sometimes I feel really lucky for being given a gift I didn’t choose. Other times I realize my life still isn’t as easy as some people want to believe.
Still, it’s not my job to get angry at people who feel like wrongs have been done to them. They’ve lived through things I will never face. And just because I don’t understand doesn’t mean I can’t try. It certainly doesn’t mean I can’t give them the love and support they need.
Is it my fault they deal with what they do? No, not on a personal level. I didn’t choose how I was born. But neither did they. And once we all start realizing nobody has a life as easy as we assume, we’ll be better off.
Want to move forward? Stop feeling personally attacked by what’s happening in Ferguson. Start understanding exactly what the people who are personally suffering need.
It’s love.
It’s what Mike Brown’s parents asked for and what so many others pray for while they peacefully protest.
Hatred that streams through each of us fuels the opportunists to continue looting and taking advantage of a heartbroken town.
If all of us showed each other the respect and love we deserve, the nasty out-of-towners who are showing up to ruin Ferguson’s reputation would have nothing left to work with.
Photo—Leland Francisco/Flickr