I rarely post anything political. Frankly, I don’t think
that a social media post will change anyone’s mind and far too many people
confuse fact with opinion or are simply posting with the intention to inflame,
provoke and spread inaccurate information (that sadly, they may find funny.) However,
equality, justice, racism and anti-racism are not political. This is about
human rights and basic human decency. This is about using my voice to elevate
someone else’s. This is about acknowledging and working through my discomfort
to help and support someone else.
My heart is heavy. When overwhelmed with emotions, my
tendency is to retreat – be silent. I have to process things and find the right
words. I can’t seem to do that. My words seem hollow.
I grew up in an area that wasn’t quite the north and not
quite the south. An area that may have been slightly more open minded than the
traditional South but still heavily influenced by all things Southern. My very
youngest years included Evelyn. She came over almost daily. She cooked and
cleaned and took care of us. She made us dinner before my parents ate. She gave
me a bath and tied my hair up in rags to create the perfect curls my mother
wanted. She taught me to sing “Catch a Falling Star” and “How Much Is that
Doggy in the Window.” I remember her playing with me, singing with me and
taking care of me. And at night, Evelyn would leave our big house and take a
bus to another part of town – to her own family. This was just the way it was.
I was very little – I knew no different. This was my white privilege.
When my daughter was quite young, we were talking about a
good friend of our family but she couldn’t remember as we have more than one
friend with that name – so I finally described her as Black and my daughter
looked at me like I was crazy. What did I mean she was Black? So I dug up a
picture of Kim and sat my 4-year old down and we talked about race. How impressed
I was with myself that I was raising a colorblind child who saw the human-ness
in someone before their race! This is how it should be I thought. I thought
wrong. This was my white privilege.
When I was in junior high school, I snuck outside behind the
locker rooms during a school dance to smoke some weed. A cop caught me with a pipe
in my hand. He shook his head, took the joint and told me to go back to the
dance. Even as he saw the bigger stash I had in my pocket. This was my white
privilege.
After I graduated high school, some friends and I were
driving to the beach. The music was loud, I’m certain the car was full of smoke
(cigarette and otherwise) and we had a six pack of beer that we got by flashing
a Heineken truck on Route 50. The windows were covered with super-elastic-bubble-plastic
bubbles. I got pulled over. Four underage girls with questionable behavior and
liquor in the car were let go with a warning. This was our white privilege.
As a young professional, I had a great job with a shitty boss.
A boss who verbally crossed a line more than once. After I was fired, after I
hired an attorney and after I was deposed – they believed me. This was my white
privilege.
As a single mother by choice, I entered parenthood on my
own. A bit defiant and a lot scared, I forged ahead in the path of many a mom
before me. More than once, I was given kudos for parenting on my own with many
acknowledging how hard it must be and they didn’t know how I did it. More than
once, a day care provider, car repair, service folks would give me discounts if
I played the single mom card. This was my white privilege.
Just last week, my daughter quit her first job. She had been
working for almost a year and had been talking about quitting for more than a
month but decided to wait until school started. Then, her boss posted something
on social media and we saw it. It was racist and the comments that followed
that post showed neither remorse nor understanding for a newer and more
empathetic point of view. It was her line in the sand and I let her draw it.
She quit a paying job without another. That was her white privilege (and yes, I
talked about this with her.)
I am almost 56 years old. I have experienced my fair share
of misogyny. When I worked in retail, I had a customer offer me a detailed definition
of my name, been called a cunt and received countless comments about my boobs.
As a member of the executive team at a nonprofit, I’ve sat in a boardroom and
listened to a colleague tell us that male member of his staff was more
deserving of a raise than an unmarried woman because he needed to support his
growing family (uh, that didn’t work.) As a single mother, I had a boss ask me
if I could just leave my child with a neighbor when I was unable to take a last
minute business trip. In each of these instances, I was able to push back or
get support knowing that I would be okay. This was also my white privilege.
As a mother, I’ve had plenty of talks with my daughter about
safety. About keeping herself safe. About making safe decisions. But, never,
have I had to tell my child to fear being pulled over by the police or not to wear
her hoodie. I have never had to tell to not stand up for herself or not to push
back against an injustice. And, this too, is my white privilege.
I don’t share this with pride. I share this as an admission
and acknowledgement of the work I have to do. I have benefitted from white
privilege my entire life. This doesn’t mean that I didn’t encounter hardship or
experience grief. It means that the color of my skin does not add to those
hardships. It means I am afforded belief, admission, kudos and access to things
that people of color – women of color – may not.
Though I have not nor will I be able to experience the type
of fear, trepidation, judgement and injustice that people of color experience –
that will not stop me from trying to understand, to learn and to empathize with
a society that places greater value on white lives than black or brown lives. I
do not get to be colorblind – as that tells people of color that I do not see
their distinction, their culture, their unique contributions, value, and the
injustices they face because of their skin color. I do not get to be colorblind
to the systemic racism that permeates our lives simply because it has not
affected me personally.
My late father used to say that my siblings and I were so
close that you could cut one of us and all of us would bleed. That is how I
feel about racism. People of color have been fighting long enough – they have
marched and shouted, protested and pleaded, fought for and fought back. They’ve
been cut enough. I will bleed for them now.
If you are interested in learning more about becoming
anti-racist, I recommend the following:
White Fragility by Robin Diangelo
Me and white supremacy by Layla Saad
Following @Nifakaniga, @garychambersjr and @caroranwill on
Instagram
Following Emmanuel Acho, Ally Project PHX on Facebook
If you’re in the Phoenix area and are interested in
encouraging our young people to vote, follow Tomorrow We Vote on both Instagram
and Facebook
#BlackLivesMatter
