I'm Racist

Was that so hard?

I have racist ideas. I have racist feelings. I have racist instincts and racist responses to things. Unwanted and often misunderstood thoughts flood my mind in moments of racial confrontation, no matter how mild or generic the point of contact is. If I could wish them away, disappear them from my mind, I would. But they are as much a part of me as my arm or leg or DNA. I’m a cup of tea, brewed in white supremacy.

Why can’t you admit it, fellow white person? Why is it so hard, so threatening?

Imagine how maddening it must be to experience racism virtually every day (if not every day) of your life and be told by everyone committing it that it isn’t happening. Racism was the first gaslighting in America as white person after white person denied black people their truth. You’re soaked to the bone and ol’ whitey says it’s clear skies cause they’re holding the hose. You don’t get to decide what counts as wet.

I was born in Dorchester and when I was young my parents left the city to the suburbs. That’s where I grew up. And let me tell you, it was WHITE. Like Wite-Out white. A vanilla ice cream and mayo sandwich on white bread white. There were a few minorities. But they were often background characters in my life. The few exceptions being my cousins, several of who were of different ethnicities. If not for them, I don’t know how often I would have seen black people.

I didn’t see them at school. There weren’t any black teachers. Or black principles. Certainly no superintendents. The only black employee at my high school was my guidance counselor, Ms. Marcia Gill-Bass, an extremely influential and important person in my development. She gave me a safe space to begin unraveling my privilege, though I think she knew better than to call it that. Being “in” with her also got me “in” with the five or six black kids who went to my high school. I’d go down to her office sometimes and hang with her. I was always jealous of how she interacted with the other black kids. There was a distance between us, no matter how understanding and patient she was. I would sit there and want to engage with the discussions but couldn’t. Partially, I lacked a frame of reference for what they talked about. Music artists I’d never heard of, styles of clothing utterly foreign, and personal care products I never used. But there was another part that was afraid. I didn’t really understand at the time what that fear was, why it was hard to look them in the eyes, why I feared for my safety. It was because, though I wouldn’t admit it at the time, I was a racist.

I have black friends now, as I did then. Not many, not as many as I would like, but that’s true of every race. I just don’t have a lot of friends in general. That aside, when I am with my friends of color there is an uneasiness within me. I so desperately want them to know I am an ally. I want their acceptance, their love. I want them to feel as comfortable with me as Ms. Gill-Bass was with the other students. From that anxiety, racism can sometimes sneak by the guards disguised as support.

If you suddenly find yourself talking to your black friends with a different inflection or accent, that’s racist! Don’t do that. Maybe there is a part of you that feels comfortable with people of color. Good. That’s a good way to feel. But that doesn't change your voice. Do you think your friends can’t understand how you normally talk? Mimicry isn’t nice. Just be you. That’s who they like. But I’d be a liar if I said there weren’t times something came out with a hint of racism. It’s embarrassing and I hope my friends don’t notice it or feel bad about it. They’ve never said anything but that might also because they didn’t feel they could.

White fragility has made it so that people of color cannot even help their friends. White supremacy instructs white people to reject their claims because it doesn’t fit a narrow definition (established by the white power structure) of what racism is and isn’t. White people should be more concerned with creating an environment in which our fellow citizens of color can safely call out racist behavior when they see fit; not to fight against what is and isn’t racism. Call me out. Please. It is the only way I can improve. It’s not your job by any means, I am responsible for my own racism, but do it if so inclined.

Why am I like this? Why am I so racist? It’s a complex mixture of culture, society, and economics. But I think I can simplify it a bit.

Growing up, it wasn’t just at school that I didn’t see any black people. I didn’t see them at the grocery store. I didn’t see them at the hardware store. All the tellers at the bank were white. And guess who ran the bank? White guy. There weren’t any black librarians. There weren’t any black cops or firemen of color. All the government officials were white. The restaurants all had white waitstaff. The pizza shop was Greek, does that count? Our church was mostly white. A few families of color went but it was a very small percentage. The vast majority of my parents’ friends were white. Our neighbors were all white, except for one Muslim family down the street. For most of my life, I was denied ever seeing black people in positions of power or authority.

It’s not that I didn’t see people of color. They were on TV and in movies and on the nightly news. It wasn’t always great though. They were villains, criminals, ignorant, or foolish. They were comedians or actors, rappers or singers. Ballplayers and hoopers. The only time I saw people of color was superficial and transactional. I was getting something from them and that was it. Nothing was required of me. Thank god I had my diverse family to spend time with or my exposure to minorities would have been minimal.

To be clear, this is not because my mother avoided black people or was actively racist. She was one of the most open-minded, accepting people I have ever met. She had a different life than I did. In Dorchester, she was exposed to people of color all the time. She saw them as equals. I can say that I have never heard her say the n-word, in any context.

This is what is so insidious about white supremacy. Even well-intentioned white people are susceptible to being participants in it because they do not realize their racist behavior. There is a divide between whites and people of color and it is there intentionally. Until you can see it, acknowledge that it’s there, and want to tear it down, progress cannot be made. This is a burden white people must exclusively bear, address, and rectify.

We were all born into white supremacy. It is woven into the fabric of our flag. The red, blood from the violence inflicted upon citizens of color; the blue, the bruised bodies on which this country’s enormous wealth was built; and white, the oppressors stitching it all together. It is time to begin to dismantle white supremacy. It is time for white people to acknowledge their positions of privilege.

I am racist. Isn’t it time for you to say the same?