“I can’t breathe.”
Standing among 5,000 strangers in the biting cold of downtown Manhattan last Thursday, I felt as if I were suffocating. Instinctively, I placed my hand over my heart to steady its rapid beat, but tears streamed down my face uncontrollably. I managed to regain my composure just before we began to march, spreading across the city in our collective anger and sorrow.
“We can’t breathe.”
This potent phrase became the rallying cry, resonating powerfully through the crowd as we chanted over bridges, through storefronts, and in train stations, awakening us from our complacency and confronting us with the grim realities of systemic racism. It’s all too easy for white individuals to dismiss the existence of racial inequities, especially given the election of a president with brown skin a few years back. Until now, many white people have comfortably believed we had moved beyond prejudice, blissfully overlooking the fact that our neighborhoods and schools remain largely segregated.
Upon arriving at Foley Square that night, I locked eyes with a woman holding a sign that read, “Telling me that I’m obsessed with talking about racism in America is like telling me I’m obsessed with swimming when I’m drowning.” I took her picture and told her, “That’s beautiful,” feeling deeply aligned with her sentiment. But in truth, it’s heartbreaking that, more than 250 years after the Declaration of Independence and over 150 years since the Civil War, black lives continue to be in grave danger.
Yet, within a mere 24 hours, I transitioned from fury to a flicker of hope. When the verdict in Eric Garner’s case was announced, I had just returned home from yoga, preparing to work when I erupted in frustration at the television. My social media feeds exploded with outrage—everyone seemed to share the same disbelief, even voices like Glenn Beck and John Boehner condemned the ruling. It felt like a watershed moment, a collective awakening that could not be undone, uniting people of all backgrounds in a shared sense of urgency during the holiday season. Rev. Jacqueline J. Lewis poignantly noted that we had been “cracked wide open around race.” It was a necessary reckoning.
I have participated in numerous protests over the years, from a march on Washington for reproductive rights in 1992 to demonstrations against war and for Occupy Wall Street. Yet this emerging movement feels unique. It’s organized, efficient, and raw—an expression of collective vulnerability as we marched in frigid temperatures, our throats raw from chanting, driven by the urgency of our message.
Across cities like New York, Boston, and Oakland, protestors have staged powerful demonstrations. After returning from our march, I learned that some of my fellow New Yorkers had laid down in the middle of Broadway for 11 minutes of silence—the same number of times Eric Garner gasped, “I can’t breathe,” before losing consciousness.
#BlackLivesMatter
In the wake of Ferguson, the phrase #BlackLivesMatter emerged as a poignant reminder of the ongoing struggle for justice. As writer Roxane Gay expressed, the depth of this reality didn’t fully hit me until the tragic killing of Trayvon Martin in 2012. Despite my awareness of various social issues, I had never truly comprehended the fear a black parent must feel when their child leaves home for even the simplest of outings—understanding that their child is viewed as a target in a way that white children are not. This anticipation of danger must lead to a profound sense of trauma that I can scarcely imagine.
After Trayvon’s death, I began to grasp the weight of “The Talk”—the essential conversation that black parents must have with their sons about navigating a world filled with implicit biases. If you were sending your child into a battlefield, you wouldn’t do so without equipping them with the necessary training and protection. This conversation is the only armor black families possess in a society that often sees their children as threats.
That realization forced me to confront my own white privilege more than ever before. While I thought of myself as an ally—having attended rallies and stood in solidarity—only now did I truly feel the impact of understanding that innocent boys of color are perceived as dangerous. If I had a son nearing 12, his primary concern might be preparing for his bar mitzvah, while a black child faces a different, harsher reality.
The sorrow and despair expressed by my black friends after the deaths of unarmed black men resonate deeply. Following yet another tragic incident, one friend remarked that it felt like it was “open season” on men of color—a sentiment that is hard to dismiss when the news is relentless. The night of Ferguson’s upheaval, I was reminded of the heartbreaking story of 12-year-old Tamir Rice, whose life was taken by police.
Moving Toward Empathy
What does it mean to be a white ally when we can never fully understand the experience of living in black or brown skin? I realized that merely attending rallies was insufficient; I needed to actively listen and engage. Just listening, even when I think I know the narrative, is critical.
White individuals often dominate the spaces we occupy, accustomed to being seen first. On the day of the Garner verdict, a well-meaning hashtag, #CrimingWhileWhite, began trending—intended to highlight white privilege, it unfortunately overshadowed #BlackLivesMatter at a moment when the grief of people of color should have taken precedence.
Being an ally is an ongoing journey. I didn’t just watch 12 Years a Slave with my family last Christmas; I initiated discussions about how we are still contending with the legacy of slavery. When I read Ta-Nehisi Coates’ influential essay “The Case for Reparations,” I made it a point to bring it up in conversations with white friends. While some may push back, it’s crucial to advocate for a world where black bodies receive the same respect and love as those that share my skin color.
In conclusion, being an ally means embracing the discomfort of confronting our privileges and engaging in the difficult conversations necessary to foster understanding and change. It is about listening, learning, and taking action, ensuring that we stand in solidarity with those whose voices have been silenced for far too long. For more information on pregnancy and resources for home insemination, check out this excellent resource.
Summary:
This article explores the journey of understanding and confronting racial injustice through the lens of white privilege, urging readers to listen, empathize, and actively engage in conversations about race. The author reflects on personal experiences during protests and the importance of recognizing the struggles faced by the black community, ultimately advocating for ongoing allyship and solidarity.
Keyphrase: Being an Ally in the Age of Ferguson
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