Twenty-six taps

So whatever comes next has been sitting heavy on my heart the last three years or so, but heavier still the last two weeks.

I am not outwardly vocal in my life or on social media regarding politics or religion, and certainly not social justice issues. I think posting memes and engaging in what’s new and trendy to show support are empty gestures unless I’m going to follow it up with something real. I won’t argue a point with someone online because I’ve seen that spectacularly implode for the good of no one. But if I’m honest, the actual reason I don’t share my opinion is because I’m scared to be a polarizing figure in any sense of the word. Also, I can conveniently ignore anything I want to. 

I live on a hill, literally, in a mostly white community, and it’s easy for me to tune out and let the rest of the world burn for all I care. And it’s tempting sometimes, because I have a chronic and intense fear of disappointing others, especially those I love who may or may not have created an image of me that is pristine and without flaws. Like a pretty little porcelain doll. But today is a different day. I can’t isolate anything in particular that prompted me to write on this, apart from a growing feeling of disappointment and shame in myself. I’m ashamed that I’ve been silent and have consciously omitted a stance on this matter that is just as real in my lifetime as it was “fifty or sixty or four hundred years ago.” 

In 2014 I made an idiotic post on Facebook following the Ferguson riots. Something about how everyone matters and everyone deserves love and isn’t it nice to be color blind and not see color and if only we could all be that way everything would be fine. It was sugary and sweet, and I remember at the time not feeling very good about it because it only got like 24 likes, and was somewhat contrary to what others were posting on both sides. We post for likes, right? I thought I should have felt better or gotten more recognition after sharing a message of love and acceptance. I didn’t understand #BlackLivesMatter because in my heart of hearts I felt that everyone should be afforded equal treatment, like duh? and in thinking that, I assumed for the most part, everyone was afforded equal treatment. I did not get the essence of it, the hashtag or the movement, and I didn’t have to. Because I love everybody.

I remember watching the riots with my Grandma. I lived with her at the time while doing my internship at the VA in a very rural part of America. She said it reminded her of the 1968 Chicago riots, the catalyst at that time being the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. The larger-than-life figure I learned about in school for a second and then I got a day off, every year. I remember thinking, “Really? But that happened back when racism was really a thing…how can unrest like this be happening now? And in Missouri?” I was 33 years-old, had a fully functioning frontal lobe, was a doctoral candidate in psychology, and this was my thinking. I had taken course after course on “multicultural sensitivity,” and this was my thinking. 

I was peripherally aware of the terms “white privilege,” “white fragility” and “systemic racism,” but genuinely did not think these applied to me. Nope. I was maybe onto these terms right out of college. I even bought a book called “Up Against Whiteness” when I moved to Milwaukee to be a school psychologist in 2007. I thought it’d be important to explore the topic given that 99% of the students I’d be working with were of a minority, mostly African American. I never read it, but it looked good on my shelf. I never overtly “saw” racism in real time, like a white kid (that one white kid) not allowing a Black kid to sit at the lunch table with him, because that’s racist. Unless of course you count the daily incidences that happened at my school that would have garnered national news in my hometown, but were just chalked up as another Wednesday on the corner of Meineke and Buffum. Or if you considered the 40%+ of special education students and the racial disparity among those who qualified for special education, who were labeled learning disabled, but mostly “emotionally-behaviorally disordered.” Or the fact that we needed a special classroom to house these kids who were too bad to be with the other kids. Or that time I went to pick up a teenager for therapy at the school for adjudicated youth, because of course we had a whole school with a waiting list for those kids (you’ve heard the myth about the school to prison pipeline right), anyway I got to the door and his teacher told me he was shot over the weekend, and in her next breath asked me what was for lunch. Or the ratio of 1 teacher to 40 sometimes 50 students. Or the revolving door of superintendents, or the start one day, end the next day initiatives to quell poverty, infant mortality, or homelessness, which were largely ineffective due to lack of investment, financial and otherwise, by people who could actually do something about it. Whew. But everybody sat together at the lunch table. 

My first year there I went to a professional conference. I felt very wise at the age of 24 and was happy to learn so much more to help me be good at my job. To be the best school psychologist and reformer of poor schools ever. The keynote speaker was a white activist preaching social justice and the impact of white oppression. Listening to this guy made me want to dig a hole, bury myself, and not emerge until he was safely away from my professional conference. I remember thinking, what a self-righteous jerk, who is this guy trying to score points with? And get a hair cut! I was here to learn about behavioral strategies and reading interventions. That’s what makes a good school psychologist! Not this. When confronted with the possibility that I, too, by virtue of just being white could be racist I thought, “It can’t be, this can’t be me. Nope, nope, nope. He’s not talking about me, but maybe other white people in this room. That suit over there looks racist I guess. I am a kind person. I give to charity. I go to church. I work in Milwaukee and I love it. I love all my students and my African American colleagues. I would never discriminate against someone.” My white privilege was so privileged that I was able to move this man’s ideas to the far reaches of my brain, shut the door, not to be fully noticed by me again until, oh I don’t know, the last three years or so? In. My. Mid. Thirties. So many other instances happened that knocked on that door, but I never really answered the call. Not really. Not even after the day in 2008 when I picked up my basketball team, all Black girls from my school, to head to Washington High School for our Saturday game. That day seven or eight 12-and 13-year-old girls piled into my tiny Ford Escape. I remember telling them I was uncomfortable because not all of them would be able to buckle their seat belts, and it’d be a big deal if I was pulled over, and oh gosh, what if we got in an accident and someone was hurt? Jalisa, a point guard, said without hesitation, “You won’t be pulled over, Coach, you’re white.” A 12 y/o reminded me of my privilege. And I knew she was right. I knew it. If I was pulled over I would explain I was their coach, and we had a game! and…isn’t it cute, a white coach with a car full of Black girls heading to play some inner-city hoops? We’d be sent off on our merry way with a “good luck!” “win another one!” or “go get ‘em!” A Norman Rockwell moment to be sure. Then I forgot about it. Lately, the memory of this resonates with me all the time, and serves as the tiniest microcosm of all of the things I don’t have to worry about being a white woman. Yes, I’ve endured struggles and hardships, but NONE of them happened or came to pass because of the color of my skin. None of them. My skin will never, ever be a factor in any trauma I may face in the future. Ever. 

Today I had a meeting with my colleagues. I work in Integrated Care, in other words I’m a mental health professional embedded in a primary care medical team, all white. My job is very important, and it’s important I be a welcoming figure because I am one of the gatekeepers to the behavioral health department. Which may be worrisome to those who have understood white privilege and white oppression for a while, knowing I am perceived as someone who knows all about what it should mean to be truly welcoming, to understand racial bias and inequity and how to combat it, but really I don’t. There are eight of us, all white, therapists and psychologists alike. I’d say after today’s discussion I am one of the eight behind the curve.  We saved 30 minutes to discuss the state of the world and this is the first time, we, as a team of counselors have ever talked about the impact of racism in our society and where we fit in repairing it.  One of the psychologists was asked to go on TV and speak briefly about what is happening around the country and what we can do about it. She shared with us what I think we (my team) all feel when talking about race and racism, i.e. not wanting to say or do the wrong thing, not wanting to continue to be a part of the problem, etc. When we think that way, as in if there is a danger of giving offense, some of us just stay quiet. Too quiet. It’s almost as bad as not giving a shit who you offend and saying any ole inflammatory thing that’s good for a laugh or two. For us behind-the-scenes types, it’s far too worrisome to think that we’ll upset someone or be “accidentally racist.” That’s white fragility. It took me a very long time to realize that.  “Please, I’m porcelain, don’t tell me I’m part of the problem. It’s too uncomfortable for me to sit with this or acknowledge it for even a second. I might crack and my fully-formed ego will not be able to support the fissure that is running through me and eventually I’ll break! I can’t take it! And I shouldn’t have to!..it’s not my problem after all, because I love everybody.” My colleague, who is braver than me, made a point to say to the news-person interviewing her, “Thank you for asking me to talk on this, but you really should have asked a Black member of our community to share their thoughts, ideas, and experiences,” like it was the most novel notion in the history of novel notions. 

I have found the knee-jerk response to getting in touch with our white fragility is defensiveness. It sets in like a disease and can metastasize if we let it. Some of our defensiveness looks like silence, some of it looks like posting angry memes about Colin Kaepernick and that damn knee, and some of it looks a lot worse. Now as you read this, if you feel affronted, if you feel taken aback and your response is, “that’s not me!” or “I have every right to feel this way!” or “What about reverse racism?” or “But the looting is not the answer!” or “Don’t resist arrest and you won’t be shot!” Be assured, the discomfort you feel is not an indication of something fatal, you’re not dying, and if you’re white, you’ve never actually experienced racism, it’s just your white fragility talking and your porcelain skin showing in all its delicate glory. White dudes have literally shown up to government buildings with semi-automatic weapons and cargo pants from Lands End and are allowed to stay there. Black dudes are shot if they are suspected of having a fire arm. This point is indisputable. But, if you’re feeling a need to argue that point, stop, breathe, and check that defensiveness. Analyze your privilege and assess your fragility. Hold onto that discomfort longer than you normally would. Keep it there and let it weigh heavy on you in all its enormity and grotesqueness. Feel mad, feel embarrassed, feel confused, feel ashamed, feel curious. Don’t be afraid of it or what it makes you feel like. It’s okay to be uncomfortable and feel things. 

Speaking of discomfort and our general difficulty as a species in tolerating discomfort, I follow this guy on Twitter whose candor on this topic makes me feel really uncomfortable. He’s a Black, queer man, and shares his very to-the-point thoughts about what it is to be Black in America, and what it is to be a Black and queer man in America. He also does not mince words about his thoughts on white oppression. He is not gentle and he is not forgiving. And he does not have to be. He does not owe us that. He likewise does not give any leeway to either side of the aisle, parties that are both responsible for perpetuating institutional racism. Someone who thinks critically like that and makes no bones about it is someone I can get behind. Full stop. His father was a police officer, so his experience is doubly unique. I came to find him because he’s a part of the writing community, and his memoir is called, All Boys Aren’t Blue. I figure since most of his posts make me want to curl up with shame or embarrassment or log off with righteous dismissiveness, I should keep following him, and keep sitting with all of that discomfort. And since I’ve allowed it, it’s teaching me some very valuable lessons. For example, he argues the idea that white “allies” and “advocates,” or gay “allies” and “advocates” may not even exist. Because how have we really shown up for the Black community or the LGBTQ+ community  before? When I read his stuff, I think, “hey, if I won’t be perceived as an advocate or an ally, then what’s the point of even trying? Give me a break, I love everyone!” Still…missing the point. Then a year ago or so I worked up the guts to comment on one of his posts, and said, “then what’s your advice for us who are trying to figure it out?” Side note: It’s not the responsibility of Black people to educate us on how to be anti-racist. For the love of God I have 839 years of education, I should be able to problem-solve how to learn about stuff. Nevertheless, he responded, and I’m paraphrasing, “listen first, ask first what your community needs from you and don’t just assume you know the answer or know what you need to do to help. If you don’t have the emotional range or voice your community needs then amplify the voices that do know.” And I filled in this blank myself, they should be Black voices. 

Anyway, here I am, now 37 years-old, approaching forty; as in occupying space as a sentient being on this earth, with so many opportunities to understand this a lot sooner than I have, and I am just coming to the understanding of what it means to be Black in America, and that, in fact, Black Lives Actually Do Matter. I am coming to understand the brevity of the situation, in that Black lives are devalued still, Black people are dehumanized still, as much as they were in 1968, and as much as they were in 1619. And I, someone who loves everybody, am perpetuating it further by ignoring its existence and my stake in this claim. It makes no sense to try to apply some rationality or measure to the racism of today, like, “okay it’s bad, but not that bad. It’s like a 6 out of 10,” because until Black people are acknowledged to be the same kind of human as the rest of us, and until we, the people who benefit the most from the system that was built, then racism will continue to exist in its most abhorrent form. 

So what can I do to be part of the solution to the breakdown the systemic racism that still exists in my beloved country and around the world today? This knowledge and understanding and work will evolve for me until the day I die. I know for sure I won’t be posting memes or arguing with anyone on social media platforms. But I will allow my porcelain facade to be broken bit by bit, by my own hand, with acts of anti-racism. This will start with being honest and forthright with my opinions and challenging racism within my family first, in real time. This will be hard, because the people I will have to challenge, I love with all my heart and soul. And maybe they won’t like this side of me and call me a “libtard” or “too sensitive” or unfriend me or ignore me at family gatherings. But if I stay silent and pretty, racism stays loud and ugly.  I will listen first and continue to engage in this discussion with others, amidst discomfort, where the learning actually happens, and be uncomfortable for as long as it takes. And I don’t think the goal of dismantling racism is not to make ourselves feel better about it (okay, now I know I’m privileged, I’m good) or to tout any contribution we make to the cause. This piece is open-ended for me because I’m not educated enough yet to articulate what the goal is. I get the feeling, though, it’s gonna be a marathon with no finish line. And I hope I don’t drop out when I’m feeling tired. As a white person, I have the privilege of that option. 

One last story before I go, and this one is etched into my very skin like some kind of memory tattoo. The last six months of my post-doc, at another VA in an urban setting, I was fortunate and honored to work with a 80-something, Black Veteran of the Korean War. This guy had me at hello. His wife refused to let him do therapy alone, so she sat in the corner and knitted, pretending not to listen. I learned early there was no way I could get her to leave, and I didn’t know that what she was knitting was a winter hat for me to take back to Wisconsin. But at first, she didn’t trust me, and why should she? A white woman, a non-Veteran from Wisconsin with a pink notebook being able to help her man with a problem she’s never been able to really fix? You see, Mr. B suffered from complex and enduring PTSD, but not all from combat. This man was the real deal. He served on the front line and saw his buddies, white and Black alike, reduced to globs of blood and tissue on the ground next to him, but continued to string the wire for the communication towers that were vital to the war effort. He pulled other soldiers, white and Black alike from harm’s way, and volunteered to tuck and crawl into a tunnel “the circumference of a basketball hoop” to confirm presence of explosives for the fellow soldier who was supposed to do it; who was literally shitting his pants out of fear. He did all this, and it was okay. “Sure I was terrified, sure, but I was okay.” 

Then he got home. He remembers being with those same white comrades at a highway diner en route to Cleveland. They were joking and laughing and salivating at the thought of having a good, old-fashioned American cheeseburger and an ice-cold Coke. He was not allowed in, though, to eat a cheeseburger and drink a Coke, even all spiffed up in his Army uniform. His fellow white soldiers were allowed in, as this diner and all the others in America were built for them. His comrades gave him a “sorry, pal,” and went on in. He didn’t cry telling me about the blood and tissue on his boots, or his friend shitting his pants and walking in it for the next umpteen miles, or establishing what he thought would be lasting friendships with people who never made it back to camp, or about those who lived and forgot all about him that day at the restaurant.

He cried when he told me about the good, old-fashioned American cheeseburger and the ice-cold Coke.  

To my family, I hope we can talk. I am not sorry if what I’ve written hurts or surprises you, I am sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.

Love,

Savannah