White Privilege: Starting a Difficult Conversation at a Moment of Reckoning
“Start now. Start where you are. Start with fear. Start with pain. Start with doubt. Start with hands shaking. Start with voice trembling but start. Start and don’t stop. Start where you are, with what you have. Just… start.” ― Ijeoma Umebinyuo
(Photo credit: The White Supremacy Iceberg, Safehouse Progressive Alliance for Nonviolence)
In my waspy middle-class family, we avoid difficult conversations.
We don’t talk about the elephant under the rug. We serve cocktails on its back, engaging in “polite” conversation about “safe topics” as the pachyderm looms ever larger through lack of acknowledgment. Through lack of witnessing.
It’s like if we don’t talk about it, it’s not really there.
With all that is going on in our country — all that I am witnessing — I can no longer sit in silence about an elephant hiding in plain sight under our red, white, and blue carpet. An elephant that at this point is the size of a mammoth. The mammoth that is white privilege.
Because silence is complicity.
Because silence is violence.
Because silence is death.
Because silence in the face of racial injustice in and of itself is a white privilege.
I have huge reservations even broaching this topic in private conversation much less attempting to write thoughtfully and intelligently about it for public consumption. I’ve only just begun to really look at it, to learn about it, to reflect on it.
It’s telling that the first real conversation I had about race and white privilege with my African American brother-in-law took place two days ago. I’ve known and loved this man for 20 years.
It feels way too early to speak about it and simultaneously far too late. I have so much more to learn. So much more work to do.
Like many white progressives, I was aware of and acknowledged my white privilege without fully understanding it or its societal ramifications — it was both conscious and unconscious.
I would never have characterized myself as a racist or a white supremacist.
I believe with all my heart that Black lives matter.
I’ve always thought of myself as an ally.
And then I saw the Amy Cooper video. Saw white privilege in action. Being wielded as a weapon. Writ large on a tiny screen. The calm serenity of her threat-free context providing the starkest of contrasts.
I’m grateful that this video came to light because it turned an intellectual concept — white privilege — into something shocking, something visceral.
Evoked a profound discomfort that inspired me to begin a journey of listening, learning, and reflection.
Showed me that being anti-racist is necessary but not sufficient.
Like many of my fellow white progressive females, I’d like to think that I’d never be Amy Cooper. Never weaponize my white privilege like she did.
And yet in myriad, micro ways — every damn day — my white privilege stands in the way of equality, both racial and economic.
Stands in the way of dismantling a system in which racism is institutionalized and white supremacy guaranteed.
Stands in the way of liberty and justice for all.
What I am only just starting to see and sit with is how white privilege is really a covert form of white supremacy and racism. That all of us born with white skin exist on a continuum with the Amy Coopers of the world. A continuum from white privilege and other forms of covert white supremacy and racism to their more extreme overt variants (see infographic above).
I had to see and accept that I am more like her than not and this is a deeply uncomfortable awareness. Awakening, to paraphrase Carl Jung, is anything but painless.
To be truly awake, we must recognize the racism and white supremacy inherent in our white privilege.
To be truly awake, we must first listen and learn about what it means to be Black in America, reflect deeply then take action in a supporting role.
To be truly awake, we have a lot of hard work to do.
As the twelve steppers say, the first step is admitting you have a problem. And the problem that we are admitting is massive and it’s going to take a committed, concerted, sustained effort by all of us to solve.
The second step — and this is a really important one — is to seek out and deeply listen to Black people giving voice to their experience and showing us the way forward.
Take in what they are saying.
Amplify via social sharing as I and others have been doing on Facebook and Instagram this week.
These are the voices that need to be heard.
A few of the voices that I’ve found powerful include Layla F. Saad, Michael Eric Dyson, Rachel Cargle, Ibram X. Kendi, and William Spivey who I discovered here on Medium. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s recent op-ed for the LA Times sheds light on the protests happening in cities across America. I also recommend you read this before commenting on anti-racism posts.
Too often well-intentioned white people like me get stuck in self-reflection, getting lost in navel-gazing and introspection even self-flagellation. Self-awareness is necessary but insufficient unless it leads to curious exploration — listening to and learning from the voices of those who are suffering injustice.
So here I am. Taking some very awkward first steps.
To start the conversation.
To point you in the right direction.
To bring the mammoth out into the open where we can shine light on it.
I see you. I stand with you. I support you.
#blacklivesmatter
If I can be of service to you on your journey, please book a curious conversation with me to explore what the Vulnerability Doula can do for you.