Listen to Jonathan read the essay of his we just published, and which is reprinted below. It's a personal story and reflection on overcoming the barrier to rest that is racism. For more stories like this, as well as our weekly newsletter, podcasts, and more, subscribe at KTFPress.com.

Last summer during a vacation, my family and I went on a zip-line course with a group of other tourists on Catalina Island off the coast of southern California. The landscape is epic and streaking through the sky over it was exhilarating. But a familiar feeling interrupted my joy–the anxiety of exclusion. I was the only Black person in the group. I committed myself to trying to enjoy the moment for the sake of my wife (plus, the tickets were not cheap). Then our White tour guide started asking questions.

On the platform at the top of each new line she threw out an icebreaker to the group. Her first question to me was, “What’s your greatest fear?” My internal response was, “One of my neighbors calling the police because there is a Black man at my house, and my daughters losing their Dad in the driveway.” But of course, I could not say that in front of all these White people. My momma raised me to prioritize White comfort because that meant I would always survive the day. So what came out of my mouth was, “This. I am jumping off a perfectly safe platform even though I have children to live for.” Everyone laughed. Deflection successful.

At the next platform, the guide asked, “What would be your last meal?” My internal answer: “Fried chicken, biscuits, mashed potatoes, watermelon, and every other stereotypically Black and objectively delicious dish that my people so generously prepare for one another and had to prepare for y’all by force.” My external answer: “Whatever the wonderful ladies at the church I grew up at are willing to serve me”. Everyone laughed again. Another deflection successful. That pattern continued. And as I skimmed the tops of trees on the last leg, I was glad the tour was ending. I had gotten used to jumping off the platforms. But I’ll never get used to jumping out of my skin. Afterward, the tour group went our segregated and stratified separate ways.

Later that week in a suburb of Los Angeles, I was cleaning my mother-in-law’s car, and a White woman crossed the street directly toward me. She was focused and intent. But at the last moment, within feet of the car, she turned onto the sidewalk and walked in a different direction, headphones in, not paying attention to me at all. So why did I experience her like a Russian fighter jet buzzing a US F-15? Why did my watch pick up an increased heart rate? Because I’m in a town where White supremacists rallied not too long ago, and no one seems aware that the blue-striped flags on the surrounding houses make me feel unwelcome. The woman walked out of sight. But my adrenalin kept me wondering if I was doing anything White people might find suspicious. I looked down at my glass bottle of ginger beer. Could a neighbor suspect I was drunk?

Anti-Blackness and White supremacy are real and still reign, and they left me weary after those ten days. On our way back home to Queens, I was glad to be going to a place where there are safe friends and a bed where I can sleep in peace, knowing my skin isn’t an anomaly and I have a community where I don’t have to deflect so much.

But on a morning not long after we got home, I was doing yard work in a hoodie. A White woman neighbor stopped her car and rolled her window down to tell me, “You better not have that hood on. People are gonna start asking questions.” I looked at her, smiled as unthreateningly as I could, and said, “You’re exactly right about that.” She laughed and drove away.

I spent the next minute removing her from the list of white people that are safe for me and my kids. I spent the next 10 minutes trying to figure out how to tell my wife that this happened. I spent the next hour trying to remind myself why we moved to this more culturally suburban neighborhood. And I spent the day trying to plan how I’m going to act when I see that neighbor next. All this mental load just to deal with the intractable reality that Whiteness doesn’t take a vacation when I do, and it’s there waiting for me when I get home.

As I look toward our summer vacation this year, I wonder what a slower pace, beautiful views, and great food will cost us. I’ll budget for the ticket prices, meals, or an RV. But I don’t have pockets deep enough to buy the privilege of existing as the default traveler, the desirable guest, or the patron a tour guide can easily relate to. Yet I still have to rest. So when I leave my home every morning with my daughters, we recite a prayer together to remind us that where we are is where we belong. “I am accepted. God is not ashamed of me. I am His and He is mine. I am a child of the Most High God.” My fear is real, but so is that faith. And that faith rests not just in God’s promises, but my experience.

God got my mother and father through Jim Crow to bring me into this world. He will keep me and my wife as we raise two girls of color to be lights for the next generation. When I, at 18, left my region of the South for the first time alone on a train to New York City for college, God provided a stranger on the Petersburg station platform to assure my Momma I would get where I was going. The stranger got me all the way to Penn Station and onto the subway toward campus. God will also be with my two little girls when it’s time for them to travel far away. The world is not safe, but God has always been good. That gives me the peace, perseverance, and hope I need to board another plane or do yardwork in front of my house. He will carry us through.

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