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The other night my George W. Bush look-alike friend, Jack, was here for supper with his beautiful bride, Jeanne. The next morning I washed many of our dinner dishes by hand because the dishwasher broke. That’s the sad side of the tale. But the near-flood made me slow down and do one unexpected chore for while.

The sweet side of my reality on that recent morning was while I sunk my hands into the warm bubbles, I watched the opening of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture. Fine black and white leaders talking and singing and celebrating and, for lack of a better word, bridging with me over the suds and airwaves. Even my least favorite president to date, that devil George W had signed the original legislation to create the museum 13 years ago. Who knew? He spoke eloquently at the event. Let me say, George W is looking better and better all the time as I consider the alternative. The museum’s founding director, Lonnie Bunch, reported that President Bush insisted, “This museum must be on the national mall.” Guess he isn’t all bad, just like the rest of us. But I digress…

I must admit: I have my own stories of race; watching the event reminded me of some of them. Almost 50 years ago and early in my decade of experiencing black and white often and personally, I was a young adolescent standing alone, a white girl in a crowd of black age-mates on the steps of Chandler Junior High in Richmond, Virginia. That’s a longer story. The story and its aftermath left me with a deep and abiding understanding of what it means to be visibly different in a 2 % minority.

Yes, I came to make friends and appreciate those experiences. But after I moved west and for the next thirty years of my life, my best friends looked and sounded like me. The people who came into my home spoke English and were white, almost exclusively, not to mention usually relatively wealthy.

Now in these dark, troubled times, a few white people are choosing the verbal ugliness, the blatant racism that I witnessed in the South. Most are unintentionally perpetuating institutional racism and some are even choosing violence. I am embarrassed, sad and tired to say the least.

I do not know how we are going to get past this. What can I do besides weep?

Watching the museum opening helps. President Barack Obama is now stepping to the stage to conclude the series of speeches. In his usual stellar words, he reminds us, “Protest and love of country don’t merely coexist but inform each other.” I find myself pondering, grateful beyond words that I had the opportunity to vote for this man and live during the eight years he has served us as president.

I am encouraged as the dishwater cools and then drains. I realize that regardless I can choose my prayers. I will also continue to consciously nurture friendships with those who are different from me. I am not a marcher necessarily. I am a writer and a welcomer. So I can naturally get to know and invite a much greater variety of people whom I love into my home. And into my heart.

My hope is that I will continue to sink into and wash myself with wonderful events like this museum opening. I will reflect on fabulous current events that shine like gold and are encouraging, especially and finally, to my black and brown-skinned friends. As Stevie Wonder just sang, we are in search of “A Desperately-Needed Love Song.” I intend to be part of it.

At the beginning of one staff meeting when I worked with the hospitals, we were asked to introduce ourselves by telling our name and its story. A large world map had been taped to the bulletin board in front of us. A scribe volunteered to record all of the stories by placing a tack in the map whenever a new place on earth was mentioned. I knew there would be some space covered as we told name stories because our telephone helpline employees were present. They spoke several languages in addition to English and some had immigrated to the U.S.

What captivated me most was the depth and elegance and surprise in every story. Even someone with a simple-to-me name like John Smith, had an elaborate middle name or shared the story of a special Uncle or Grandpa John who had traveled from Newfoundland across Canada to Seattle before putting up stakes. And me – technically I had been named Penelope Jane after a pig in a children’s book. I started my story lamenting that “No, I had not been named after the famous Greek wife” and – ding! – up went a tack halfway around the world.

Sure the name stories of my brown and black-skinned colleagues tended to cover more area than us white folk. We all enjoyed the diverse territory these names laid claim to.

I was most fascinated by the silent, nonvisible stories. The one from my Roman Catholic office mate that included five first names and at least two sir names. And Maya, like all of her sisters, had a saint’s name too, for good measure. And Jake, the child born to two parents who each had hyphenated last names – creating an amalgamation of four names representing four countries and two continents. There was the story of the European-born woman, Elise, who had married an African and had a complicated marriage tale that accompanied her name story. And Gloria too, the woman who had outlived three husbands and just continued to add name after name.

The 40 of us covered the globe that afternoon and left with more information and connection than we’d ever imagined. Never again would our assumptions when seeing a face or hearing a name be so limited. What’s in a name after all? Turns out, a whole lot.