Ahmaud Arbery, Sandra Bland, Freddie Gray, and Trayvon Martin haunt me. But nothing haunts a mama like a grown man screaming out for his own as he is unjustly, horrifically brutalized to the point of death. I don’t know how to come back from this. Nor do I think I should.
I felt, as many of us White people did, enraged and nervous at the same time. Enraged, deeply so, that it happened and nervous that our response would be in some way inappropriate. My first thought was, “I have so many nonwhite friends, colleagues, and even former students that I would feel comfortable reaching out to and asking as humbly as possible, ‘What do I need to know? What do my kids need to know?’” Later that day, I saw an Instagram post by a Black friend who, addressing White people in general, said, “I don’t want to bear the emotional burden of all your questions right now. Can you imagine if you had to stand up for all White people all the time, but especially in times of trauma? Please just read some books, do some research, and find the answers yourself.”
Touché.
Then, we had #BlackOutTuesday, and I was all about it. I posted my black square. Within a few minutes, I saw an Instagram post from a Black celebrity that said, “Please just stop with the black square bullshit. It only makes things worse —a whole bunch of white people now think they’re doing something big and bad about racism.”
Oops, fell right into that trap. So, I deleted my black square because I definitely didn’t want to make things worse.
My next idea was to begin assembling a reading list of books I’ve read that I want to return to (like Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson, which is now required reading for most Hamilton County freshmen) and some I want to read for the first time. I want to learn about White fragility. I want to understand and dismantle racism at whatever level I can as a human, a mom, and an educator. I want to hear the stories, see the faces, say the names. And then as I started cooking dinner, I was scrolling through my saved NPR podcast episodes to find something to listen to and saw the new Pop Culture Happy Hour: “The Limitations of an Anti-Racist Reading List.” I listened to it and felt, again, like I’d done the stupid White thing.
But being silent couldn’t possibly be right either. Not acknowledging systemic racism, White privilege, and the lack of justice foundational to the American experience fuels the evil that make them possible. I can’t NOT stand up for my Black brothers and sisters because I’m afraid I’ll be gauche doing it. That’s part of the reason we’re where we are as a country.
This is what I’ve got so far in my journey to grapple with racism. I will bow my head and mourn each indefensible death. I will let my heart break when I think about the families rent apart by racial injustice rather than turn my head. I will remain humble in the face of my Black brothers’ and sisters’ lived experiences, quashing my innate defensiveness each time it materializes. I will parent in an anti-racist way the best I can, doubling down on my efforts to introduce my children to role models like Michelle Obama and Langston Hughes without referring to them as “the best Black” anything. I will point out the wickedness of prejudice and racism to my White students and admit my stumbling imperfections regarding them to my Black and nonwhite students. I will continue to proudly attend a church where hate violence and racism are condemned in no uncertain terms by the priest and action is constantly being taken to lament and repair what racism has broken.
Regarding whatever I have missed, however I have failed, whatever my Whiteness has blinded me to, I am more than open to correction. I recognize that it is not the job of my Black brothers and sisters to empathize with or assuage me in any way, but I am completely open to admonition. It is my time to be quiet and learn. It is my time to use my roles of authority to combat racism in all its forms. It is my time to bear witness, to mourn, to be enraged into action, and to turn my energy, as it becomes time, to reconciliation and peace.
grace notes 