Despite years of learning about slavery and the Civil War, I remember the first time that I realized people of color may still be treated different than me. I was about 10 years old and it was Martin Luther King Junior Day. My mom took my two sisters and me to a primarily African American church - a small, brick building with an unforgettable red door.

Almost ten years later, this day is one that still sticks out in my memory. It was an experience that I try to always keep in the back of my mind, but often times forget about until an event like Martin Luther King Jr. Day or Black History month bring it back to my forefront. It was so profound, I believe, because that day was the first time in my life I got a tiny little glimpse of what being in the minority feels like...

As my tall, blonde sisters and I followed our mom into a spot like baby ducks following their mother goose, I remember looking around and having this startling feeling that we stuck out tremendously. I wanted to draw my family in - to keep the only thing that was familiar to me close by my side.

My mom exchanged hellos with a few people, but unlike our regular church, I recognized no one and almost everyone was a different race then me. As a ten-year-old who merely never had an encounter with marginalization, this experience made me uncomfortable. My little self gained this foreign feeling of self awareness - I was afraid to do the wrong thing because I felt like everyone was looking at my family and I (although that wasn’t actually the case). Despite everyone’s genuine smiles and welcoming looks, I couldn’t get rid of this weird feeling that I was out of place.

The worship began and I remember being bewildered by how different the service was from my traditional, conservative church. People swayed, belted out the hymns, clapped their hands, threw arms hands up, and fearlessly yelled “Amen” or “Hallelujah” in the middle of the sermon. I remember looking at my sisters with a mutual surprise and slight discomfort because it was so different from our norm. The people believed, they deeply believed in God and were unapologetic in their worship.

The program shifted a little from worship to a remembrance of Martin Luther King Junior. Of course, I knew who Martin Luther King Jr. was, I knew his famous speech, and I’d learned in class about how much of an impact he made on the Civil Rights Movement.

But the passionate, faithful African American people in the church that day taught me much greater lessons than anything I’d learned in elementary school.

They didn’t talk about Martin Luther King Junior's influence like it was just some event in history. The speakers talked about it with a firey, genuine enthusiasm. They talked about him with such profound gratitude that my ten-year-old mind could hardly comprehend. Their “Amens” in agreement with the speaker were so heartfelt I thought they might break into tears.

I remember it striking me - really hitting me for the first time - just me how monumental this man was for people.

The congregation’s praise and gratitude showed me that Martin Luther King Jr. and The Civil Rights Movement is far from just an assignment in my history book. It was a moment that affected every single African American person in that church. It was an event that changed history forever and impacts every single one of us still today.

Some details of this day, I fail to recall, and it’s not to say that I didn’t have many other moments that opened my eyes to this sociological experiences of race. My parents worked hard to raise me with an open, non-judgmental eye when it came to race, gender, sexual orientation, religion or class. For that, I’m so, so thankful.

Nevertheless, I think it was inevitable that my young, straight, white, midwestern self never really thought about race. My curiosity didn’t commonly lead me to think about what it meant that I was a white person.

Despite my parent's efforts (regular outings to big cities, a lack of shelter from diversity and more) I think it was still inevitable that I oftentimes took my race for granted - I didn’t realize that I wasn’t being discriminated against, but others were. Maybe it was inevitable because I was raised in a tiny, conservative town, because my school was majority white, or because of the media that I subconsciously soaked up.

But maybe it was none of those, too. Maybe it was simply because I was white and, despite any level of exposure I had to different races and cultures, I still would never truly understand what racism or any kind of marginalization really felt like.

A couple of days ago in my college class, we read “The Narrative Life of Frederick Douglas.” We discussed how almost every single African American person has some connection to slavery. It’s a deep, deep affliction in many people's hearts still today. I think it’s really easy to forget that slavery still affects people when you’re not one of the people feeling those effects.

Sitting in class, I was reminded of that day in the African-American church, where I learned for the first time how people like Martin Luther King Jr. and events like the Civil Rights movement must be kindled with great remembrance and gratitude.

Nine years later, my feelings, knowledge, and cultural awareness is incredibly different than they were that day. I’ve learned so much about how important it is to acknowledge these differences in people, while still treating everyone with complete equality. After moving to the largest public University in the U.S., I had quite the culture shock and was exposed to more races and cultures that I ever had been in the middle of Missouri. I’ve learned an abundance more about the importance of not being ignorant about racism and respecting other cultures.

I’ve also learned how minuscule these differences are in the grand scheme of things.

I have become friends with more people from different ethnicities than there even was in my small town. But I didn’t to become friends with them because I wanted to become more “cultured" or was trying to make myself learn what it felt like to be marginalized. I became friends with them because they attain the exact same feelings, values, beliefs, and interests as me. Deep relationships with them have taught me many things, but one lesson that sticks out the most is this: skin color and ethnicity are by no means a legitimate way to judge someone.

Despite that day being my first “click” about what it feels like to be the minority, I still would never be able to claim that I know what it feels like to be discriminated for by my race, culture, or religion.

I still don’t know what it’s like to be treated different because of my skin color or accent - I still don’t know what it’s like to even question if those are the reasons I’m being treated a certain way. These thoughts, and my inability to truly understand the hurt that people who face discrimination, cause guilt and affliction in my own heart commonly. As much as I wish I could truly empathize, I think simply acknowledging that I can’t is one of the most important things I can do.

I’ll forever be thankful for that day that my mom took me to the little brick church with the red door.