It’s tempting to declare that I’m not racist. I would never, under any circumstances, use a racial slur. I’ve never uttered the phrase “All Lives Matter,” and I fully grasp why that phrase is damaging and infuriating. I would never mistreat someone based on their skin color. Many of the people I cherish the most in my life are people of color. My mentor during my formative years had a profound impact on who I am today.
For years, I lacked a true understanding of racism. My education included a brief overview of the Civil War and slavery, but no one ever explained what happened to enslaved individuals after emancipation. My lessons were limited to a few quick discussions each February about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and the Civil Rights Movement, presented as a complete triumph. In my naive perspective, everything was equal and the struggle was over.
That was the extent of my knowledge. I believed racism was simply about hating and harming individuals of different races because of a sense of superiority. Since I didn’t identify with that mindset, I thought I couldn’t be racist.
I’ve always been taught to be kind. That’s what everyone told me to do.
The idea that I might harbor racist or biased beliefs never crossed my mind until a few years ago. I was twenty-seven when Trayvon Martin was tragically killed. That event prompted me to delve deeper into the topic of racism, beyond the dictionary definitions I had known. Until then, conversations about race had been mere background noise to me. I wasn’t a victim of racism, and I was convinced that I wasn’t part of the issue.
However, Trayvon’s death ignited a journey of self-reflection that brought my own flaws into sharp focus. Although I’ve absorbed a wealth of knowledge over the past eight years, I’ve primarily remained silent. I’ve listened to people of color share their frustrations, anger, trauma, and pain. I’ve made an effort to understand systemic racism and how we arrived at this point.
But I haven’t spoken out much. I thought it wasn’t my role.
I was gravely mistaken.
The death of George Floyd has sparked one of the most urgent discussions about racism and police brutality that I have ever witnessed. In recent days, I’ve seen prominent black voices urging white allies to take action: “Speak up, but don’t overshadow our voices. White silence is violence. Confront your biases. Stop being part of the problem.” While I may not have intentionally harmed anyone because of their race, I’ve been complicit in more subtle forms of racism and insensitivity.
Years ago, before I understood the term microaggression or realized how invasive it is to touch a black person’s hair without consent, a friend entered my home with her naturally curly hair straightened to perfection. I was captivated by it and, without asking, ran my fingers through her hair, exclaiming how stunning it looked. While it was indeed beautiful, I was oblivious to the countless times she had endured strangers reaching out to touch her hair as if it were public property. I didn’t understand how often young black girls have to dodge curious hands from peers and adults alike.
But ignorance is not an excuse. In that moment, I caused discomfort and harm. It was my privilege that allowed me to remain unaware.
I should have done better.
I have quoted Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., selectively adopting his more palatable sayings like, “I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear,” while conveniently ignoring the more uncomfortable aspects of his message, such as, “Let us say boldly that if the violations of law by the white man in the slums over the years were calculated and compared with the law-breaking of a few days of riots, the hardened criminal would be the white man.”
When racist jokes were made around me, I often stayed silent, feeling morally superior for not participating, yet lacking the courage to call out the offender. In the past, when people pointed to the achievements of affluent black individuals as evidence that everyone has equal opportunities, I accepted that view without challenge.
I’ve never considered myself superior due to my skin color, nor have I intentionally sought to harm anyone based on race. However, that’s not the full definition of racism. I haven’t been a blatant racist, but I have benefited from systems that oppress those I care about.
It has been a long time since I was entirely oblivious. Once you begin to learn and grow, it’s easy to forget that there is still significant work to be done. Despite my growth, I recognize that I still have much to learn.
This journey is not optional. I have three white children, and my responsibility is crystal clear. They must grow up knowing more than I did, and my husband and I must ensure that they do.
When I explained to my seven-year-old son what’s happening in the world, he broke down in tears. He listed the black individuals he knows and loves, grieving over the thought of losing them. He expressed disbelief that not all police officers are “good guys.” He said, “Eight minutes is such a long time for someone to hurt someone else, Mommy.”
My heart shattered. I want to shield him from this pain. For a moment, I considered withholding discussions about racism for a few more years, just to protect his innocent heart.
But that option is not available. These conversations must happen early and often. Black parents don’t have the luxury of shielding their children from harsh realities, as it could leave them unaware of the real dangers they face simply because of their skin color. Until all parents can choose innocence over hard truths, none of us can.
If I allow my child to grow up in blissful ignorance, he risks becoming part of the problem. He could be yet another white man who has never considered that equality is an illusion. Even if he grows up to be intelligent and kind, that’s not enough. You can be kind and still contribute to systemic issues. I was.
Although I never viewed myself as racist, I have been complicit in racism nonetheless. I can’t change the past, but I can strive to improve moving forward. The responsibility for change lies with white individuals.
This article was initially published on June 5, 2020.
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Summary
The author reflects on her past misconceptions about racism and her journey toward understanding systemic racism. Initially believing that kindness equated to a lack of racism, she recognizes her own biases and the importance of speaking up against injustice. The narrative emphasizes the need for awareness and education, particularly for her children, in order to combat racism and promote equality.
Keyphrase
Understanding Racism
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