The workshop was designed to get White and Black people in the same room and to be honest with each other. It required White people to LISTEN to what their Black friends and participants had to say. While I wanted to believe I was ok with that, I had been in circles where people of color talked about things that White people had done that were irritating and I was afraid this was the opportunity for the tables to turn. I felt like I was opening myself up to Black people pointing out all of the ways my actions had wronged them. The thought of that confrontation made me extremely nervous.
I think I would like to tell you (and reassure you) that the confrontation doesn’t really happen in situations like that. I would like to tell you that the weekend was very pleasant and that we had a kumbayah moment. But it wasn’t and we didn’t. The weekend was just as uncomfortable as I’d expected.
At the beginning of the weekend, like many others in the room, I explained that I wasn’t taught to treat people differently. My parents raised me to be kind to everyone. I talked about the time a Black missionary stayed with us and how my parents helped him financially as my proof that I was taught not to discriminate.
The leaders of the workshop accepted my comments, but continued to push all of us on our kind memories and challenged us to go deeper.
As we sat and thought in silence and then listened to one or two others figure out some things that may have affected them in the past, my memories started coming back as well...
My aunt gave me a “n----- baby” rag doll for my sixteenth birthday. It didn’t even occur to me how wrong that was until college, when I started to tell a Black friend about my doll and stopped myself mid-sentence, realizing how inappropriate that was.
On the way to church, I heard black people jokes (and can still remember one of the jokes).
When showing pictures to my aunt and uncle after a mission trip, my uncle asked, “What are you doing with all of those n-------?”
When visiting home after living in Dallas for a little while, an adult I was very close to matter-of-factly told me, “Janet, don’t you go marrying no black person.” (I think the “n” word was used, but I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt).
A family member had hollered out a bus window at some people calling them “wetbacks.”
I was shocked at what I ultimately remembered...as well as what I had repressed.
We did another activity where Black people were asked to sit silently while the White people came up with a list of their privileges. The White people at the table sat for five or ten very long minutes trying to figure out what privileges we had. We couldn’t think of a single one. A Black lady who I had considered a friend sat beside me and watched incredulously, desperately trying not to speak and shout out all of the privileges we weren’t saying. I thought sure I had ruined our friendship.
Our friendship wasn’t ruined, but I was forced to acknowledge some ugly truths. I was forced to acknowledge that racism exists, whether I want to believe it does or not. I was forced to acknowledge that although I don’t see my privileges, my privileges impact others...and the people they impact are extremely aware of them, whether I am or not.
I was like the Emperor in The Emperor’s New Clothes. Growing up, I was sold a story. As long as I was nice to people, I couldn’t be racist. If I worked hard for what I had, then others should too...and if they didn’t have, it was because they didn’t work hard enough. The story made sense to me and I believed it.
But at the retreat, people called me out. They pointed out ways that, like the Emperor, I was not seeing how the things I had been told about Black people and how my privileges impacted my own thinking. They were trying to reveal to me what people of color already knew, whether or not I chose to listen.
I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to believe that I could be racist. It felt better when other [usually White] people affirmed that I was doing good things. It felt even better when other *Black* people affirmed that I was doing good things.
I look at that weekend and am thankful that the people in that room were willing to call me out. It wasn’t comfortable and it wasn’t fun. And it wasn’t the last time it happened. I realized I had a choice. I could leave the weekend and proceed by hanging around people who affirmed me and made me feel good about my actions or I could pay attention and use that as a starting point to go find some anti-racist clothes.
I chose to find “clothes”...but that’s not to say that I haven’t been exposed since. The reality is, whether I acknowledge it or not, my racism exists and is embedded in me. I don’t think I’ve heard a relative say the “n” word in 20 years, but often it’s the more covert stuff that is more dangerous.
In order to do different and be different, it is my responsibility to listen and learn. There are documentaries, conversations, and books all available for my consumption (even more so now than there were then...though they weren't completely absent back in 1995 either...but it took a little more effort to find). Today, if we listen, there are even people (literally) shouting in the streets.
I have learned that the shame doesn’t lie in stating that I am a racist. People of color already know that’s a part of who we are. Instead, it’s what we do with what we know.
Unlike the Emperor, I have decided that I’m not comfortable continuing to walk through the crowd naked. So when someone tells me I’m racist or have done something offensive, I believe them. (I don't like it...and it hurts...but I believe them). I then go back to the drawing board to find some new clothes...and try to have enough humility to thank them for letting me know.
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