And I didn't say a word
On a rainy weeknight this past spring, I attended an event called "Stand Against Racism." Roxane Gay was speaking, and there were about 100 or so people in attendance.
Since none of my friends were available, I went by myself. Most of the attendees were women. These details feel important.
So, yes, If you're starting to put the pieces together, I was indeed called a racist and an ignoramus at an event that I attended by myself called "Stand Against Racism."
Well, truthfully, no one outright called me anything. But I'm sure you'll agree with the implication.
It was at the end of the event, and participants were waiting in line for Dr. Gay to sign our books. The two women in front of me were talking quite intently with one another, so as we got closer to the front of the line, I asked if they wanted me to take their picture with Dr. Gay. The first woman looked at me quizzically, and said, "Oh, we don't know each other."
I responded, "Oh. Okay. I just thought you did because you were talking to each other."
They looked at one another and after a brief pause, of of the women looked at me, and said, "It must be the hair."
And then they both laughed.
I didn't understand what she meant at first, but when I looked more closely, they did indeed have their hair similarly styled. And then I realized she was mocking me - as if I thought they looked like friends because they had the same hairstyle.
And was she also implying that I thought they were friends because they are both black?
No. It couldn't be.
(I'm still hopeful that someone will tell me that I misinterpreted this!)
And yet, it gets worse.
Shortly after this exchange, one of the event's hosts was approaching people on the line and asking them how they enjoyed the conversation with Dr. Gay. These same two women began to tell her how much they loved Dr. Gay's response to the young woman who shared her experiences with racism working in the cosmetic's industry. In response, Dr. Gay mentioned that she had a family member who worked in the cosmetic's industry, and alluded to the what sounded like a particular "brand" of racism that is rampant in the industry.
I chimed in (although after my first attempt at conversation, I should have stayed quiet), that I didn't know anything about the cosmetic industry -particularly if there is anything unique about how racism operates there, and that I was curious to learn more.
This time it was the event host who said to me condescendingly without missing a beat, "There is racism everywhere."
Now, this I know. And it was the second time I was put back in my place.
I definitely felt offended, and then more than a little bit embarrassed as I wondered exactly what I said or did wrong. But this wash of shame didn't last long. . . .
Because very quickly, words and phrases began running through my mind from everything I've read, watched, and listened to over the years. I was thinking about white women's tears, and "white fragility", and how my words could have been interpreted as microaggressions.
I then thought about how I might seem to these women - A well-intentioned white woman attending an anti-racist event who thinks she belongs, and thinks she gets it, but really doesn't have a clue. And how they likely have to deal with inane comments from white women like me all the damn time.
I also remembered reading this article, When Black People Are in Pain, White People Just Join Book Clubs" - and the juxtaposition of our experiences crystalized. The author, Tre Johnson writes:
"I am 10 and watching my grandfather’s back stiffen and shrink as an officer pulls us over on the way home from the mall. I am 16, facedown on the hood of a cruiser in Ewing, N.J. I am 22 and sitting in the back of a car at night with my palms pressed against the driver’s seat headrest in an empty lot off a feeder road outside Houston as two officers shine flashlights into our eyes. I am 36 in a Main Line Philadelphia neighborhood, crying in my car when an officer taps my window because someone in a nearby house has called about me. I am 42 and watching the news of George Floyd, the latest racial killing, unspool across TV and social media. And as I watch, I am 10, 16, 22, 36 all over again, all at once."
And then he writes about his "white, liberal, educated friends", and here I know he is talking about me:
"What they do is read. And talk about their reading. What they do is listen. And talk about how they listened.
And I realized that at this "Stand Against Racism" event, I should just shut the hell up.
One thing I will say about all of the reading, watching, and listening. It can help you know what to do or not to do next. In particular,"the more we identify with ourself as it exists through the eyes of others, the more disconnected we become and the less energy we have to draw from."
I understood that it was not for me to worry about what these women thought of me or to defend my honor as a well-meaning white woman. Instead, it was my responsibility to render myself silenced by their retorts. I could hear Claudia Rankine's words on repeat in my mind:
"Though the white liberal imagination likes to feel temporarily bad about black suffering, there really is no mode of empathy that can replicate the daily strain of knowing that as a black person you can be killed for simply being black: no hands in your pockets, no playing music, no sudden movements, no driving your car, no walking at night, no walking in the day, no turning onto this street, no entering this building, no standing your ground, no standing here, no standing there, no talking back, no playing with toy guns, no living while black."
And the phrase echoed: There is "no mode of empathy".
Johnson does acknowledge in his piece that white people may feel that the messages they receive are confusing, yet he feels confident that we can find our balance. He writes:
"The confusing, perhaps contradictory advice on what white people should do probably feels maddening. To be told to step up, no step back, read, no listen, protest, don’t protest, check on black friends, leave us alone, ask for help or do the work — it probably feels contradictory at times. And yet, you’ll figure it out. Black people have been similarly exhausted making the case for jobs, freedom, happiness, justice, equality and the like. It’s made us dizzy, but we’ve managed to find the means to walk straight."
So, instead of wallowing in my own shame, I'm choosing to be grateful for the privilege to "figure it out".
It's the very least I can do.
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