Thoughts on Black Lives Matter

I’ve been stalling on this post for several reasons. Not only is it a sharp contrast to my previous posts on travel, it’s a heavy topic. I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing, of putting myself out there, and most especially of rocking the boat – my biggest fear in life. Though I know it’s impossible to please everyone, I still spend energy trying and sometimes it keeps me from saying things I need to say. That’s not how I want to be. Like my favorite writer, Brené Brown, says: I am not here to be right, I’m here to get it right. We can’t get something right if fear keeps us from trying in the first place. Mistakes are part of learning. A willingness to make them while keeping an open mind and open heart is how we change and become better people.

With that said, I am obviously no expert on this issue nor do I pretend to know every statistic and fact. I am in the early stages of learning and seeking to understand more because a light has flipped on in my brain and it’s telling me to wake up. I realize my fear surrounding the subject of racism has stunted my growth in this area, and it’s raised a lot of questions for me. Why does it feel like the civil rights movement is happening again in the year 2020? Why is there still so much anger and divisiveness on this issue? But mostly, why have I been so oblivious to racism when I grew up in a place where slavery existed? I think it actually might be because I grew up in a place where it existed, but more on that later.

I first heard about the Black Lives Matter movement several years ago, and without knowing anything about it, my knee-jerk reaction was to blow it off. Of course black lives matter, I thought, everyone matters – why wouldn’t black lives be included in that? I didn’t know then how surface my understanding was, and truthfully, I didn’t care. I didn’t have to think about it because it did not affect my life. I had no idea that my ability to let the meaning behind those words – black lives matter – dissolve into the background as I went about my day was the very definition of privilege.

Yes, I mean white privilege and yes, it makes me uncomfortable too. Let’s talk about it. It’s become a hot button word in recent months that instantly evokes defensiveness in people who are white and have privilege but don’t understand what those words, when used together, really mean in today’s context. I’m raising my hand here, that was me. For one thing, white people don’t really like being described or defined by their race in a seemingly negative way because, well no one does. Also, privilege suggests having an easy life full of unearned advantages, which feels dismissive and offensive to white people who have struggled and fought hard for what they have. For many people, that’s enough to shut it down right there. “I’m not racist and I don’t come from privilege,” they think. End of story. Not only is that sorely missing the mark, that thinking blocks the path to real understanding. Excusing ourselves from the conversation because we refuse to identify with white privilege only perpetuates the problem. People of color continue to feel unheard and underlying tension grows stronger. That tension has reached a boiling point in recent months which, to me, proves that the way our society has been dealing with racial injustice is not working. Something needs to change, and that requires us to plow through our discomfort and look deeper.

For me, white privilege means I’ve rarely had to think about life from the perspective of someone of color, because for my entire life almost everything around me has catered to my skin color. I am the norm in society, and that comes with many conveniences and advantages that many people of color do not have. For example, I know that whenever I injure myself, I can choose from entire aisles of bandages that match my skin tone. I can easily find tv shows and movies where people of my race are widely represented. I can go shopping alone and not feel that I’m being followed or watched more closely. I can do well in something and not have it considered a credit to my race. And, I have a basic trust that law enforcement will help or protect me whenever I need it, and generally give me the benefit of the doubt.

These privileges are granted to me mostly because I am white. It’s the same as knowing that because I am straight, I won’t have to worry about legal issues if I want to get married. I am the mainstream, the status quo, and that means my life is smoother. Because the majority of us in this country have a smoother ride, not only have we not seen a need for change, we haven’t wanted one. Maybe that’s why people angrily shout “All Lives Matter” in response to protestors at rallies, or insist that gay couples wanting to marry somehow infringes on their religious freedom. For people who expect life to flow in their direction, it feels like a road block when someone different stands up and refuses to move. But listening to new voices and supporting their rights does not take away from our own. It simply levels the playing field. Just like love, there’s enough freedom and justice to go around, which means we don’t lose anything by giving the same rights to others.

I heard a quote recently that resonated with me: To people with privilege, equality feels like oppression. It’s like this. When I lived alone I was used to having complete control of the thermostat. Now that I live with Charlie, it feels like my right to comfort has been stolen when he sets it on 76 degrees. It hasn’t, of course. I still have my right, but so does he, and we have to figure out how to make it work. Bullying him into submission never works, though I’ve tried. It only breeds resentment, which means the next time the issue arises, the conflict will be worse. Once we try to see things from the other’s perspective, it’s clear we both want the same thing. Not only to be comfortable, but to know our comfort matters to the other person.

Black Lives Matter is here because African Americans in this country are being killed in situations where they should not be, and likely would not be if they were white. The killing of George Floyd in police custody and the failure of law enforcement to arrest Ahmaud Arbery’s murderers for months are red flags in the air, waving in a sea of other red flags that have failed to bring about change. Excusing these senseless killings as isolated or unfortunate is just a way for those of us who aren’t affected to stay out of it, to avoid having to really see the truth, because once we do we can’t unsee it.

I saw it when George Floyd took his last breath under the knee of that officer. It opened my eyes to a disease that has been passed down through every generation since slavery. It still exists because those of us with privilege continue to turn our heads and look away. We deny systemic racism exists. We insist that despite the fact that people of color are disproportionately sicker and poorer, that everything is fair and everyone is equal. We downplay the problem by saying that because slavery was a long time ago, it’s not relevant anymore. What a flippant thing for a white person to say. Slavery was abolished in 1865, but African Americans were far from being treated as equals in this country; they were far from free. They endured another hundred years of blatant racism, including Jim Crow laws and the KKK, until the civil rights movement raised enough awareness to facilitate change. Why did those injustices persist after slavery was illegal? Because no law can erase bigotry or change the attitudes and beliefs ingrained in people since childhood. That kind of change must happen on a personal level. Things have improved in 60 years, but the work is not done. Until each of us digs down, pulls out and examines the roots of our beliefs, racial injustice can live on.

I’ve done a lot of inner work in my life, but I’ve never applied it to my beliefs around racism until now. I grew up in Columbus, Ga where the population is around 45% African American. Nearly half the people in my hometown are black, and yet my neighborhood, school, church, dance classes, gymnastic classes, softball league, favorite restaurants and so on were at least 90% white. Things changed some when I got to middle school, and students were bused to specific schools to even out the ratio. But for the most part, things felt very segregated. White families lived in certain neighborhoods, mostly middle to upper class, and African American families lived in mostly lower income neighborhoods that included government housing. Those areas experienced a concentration of gang violence, drugs and crime, and were not considered safe places to be.

This division inherently created a sense of “us” and “them” that was present throughout my childhood. I was taught by every adult that racism and discrimination were wrong, that we were all the same and color did not matter. The outward message was clear, yet unspoken messages told a different story. It did seem to matter. Why else would the occasional racist comment or joke be allowed to casually pass in conversation unchallenged? Why did a friend’s mom always lower her voice and whisper the word “black” when describing someone of color, as if it weren’t safe to acknowledge it?

The real answers to these questions were too uncomfortable, so racial tension remained an elephant in the room. I learned that racism wasn’t safe to talk about, it was better to pretend it didn’t exist. Any discrepancies I saw were to be considered individual cases, not systemic. The idea that good, not-racist, justice-loving people could somehow be inadvertently contributing to a larger problem was not possible. Good people have no part in racism. So I did what I learned to do when what I felt and knew on the inside did not align with what I saw and heard on the outside; I internalized it. I think many people have done this with racism; it’s why we harbor a place inside that’s easily triggered, highly charged and defensive. It’s the reason we want to run, change the subject, turn the channel, lash out or blame someone else when we’re confronted with racism. Deep down, we’re afraid. I know I was, and I know I’m not the only one.

I believe the world has slowed down for a reason. It’s given us time to process the George Floyd video, to consider its connection to a deeper problem. It’s given me an opportunity to self-examine, to sit in my discomfort long enough for it to change me. I see now it’s okay to acknowledge that there was racism in the air I grew up breathing. It’s okay to accept and learn about white privilege and the way it contributes to systemic racism. Those things do not make me a bad person or racist. My fear was never a signal to run, it was telling me to follow it. When we normalize our discomfort, we’re free to ask questions and look deeper, we’re free to see the bigger picture, and we’re free to change.