Good White Person: Start Where You Are

For the past eight months, people in Milwaukee have been waiting for an official determination of whether a police officer would be charged with shooting and killing an unarmed man he found sleeping in a public park. From the way I phrase that, which was, intentionally, the most neutral way I could frame it, you can probably tell that I was hoping for charges, and maybe, if you are an experienced observer of police-community relations, you already know that the officer was white and the dead man was black. Such is the story that seems to be replayed like a bad, cheap movie on $5 nights in fading strip malls across the country. Same story, time after time.

Well, the officer wasn’t charged. Of course, he wasn’t charged.

So people are struggling. Not everyone, but many. Black people are struggling because this seems part of a decades’ old pattern of injustice, played and replayed even after Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, the Civil Rights Act, sit-ins, legislation, progress, and change. As my grandmother said, ‘the more things change, the more they stay the same.’ I never knew what that meant until just recently, forty years after she died.

The good white people, a new class of folks discovered and teased on the internet for their earnest ignorance, spend a lot of time baffled. They, themselves, have never shot anyone, probably don’t know how to shoot anyone, and always smile and greet black people they see on the street. Because they’ve been told, often and very emphatically by a lot of different media, they are hip to the concept of white privilege but clumsy in their understanding. Is this white privilege? they wonder when the clerk takes their order first at Starbucks. Or is this white privilege when the banker promises a loan on the phone, no collateral, oh no, won’t be necessary. It’s like pornography, we say, there’s no real definition, you just know it when you see it. Maybe.

‘All of this is polarizing,’ said in the voice of the two-bit commentator on local TV. Indeed. It’s as if we are living on different planets. But that didn’t start just last week. It’s been true for centuries.

So what do you do if you’re a good white person? I think you start. You start listening. Here are three things that you could do this week to start closing the gap between white and black in your own life.

1. Look at the list of your Facebook friends. Scroll through their profile pictures. Are all of them white? Most? You know the answer. No need to look. Make a goal of sending friend requests to ten black people this week. As I type that, I see how silly it sounds, as if making Facebook friends could address institutional racism in our country. Actually, I think it can. A recent Washington Post article says that three-quarters of white people have no non-white friends. Racism, even passive racism that acts as avoidance, is rooted in ignorance and assumption. Facebook is a way to expand networks and build loose associations that feel deeper than they are. Loose associations can eat away at stereotypes and is a big step up from polarized. It’s a start and it can lead to something. Like friendships.

2. Read the comments made in response to news articles. Make sure you read comments pertaining to the President and his family and those made in response to articles about protests against police-involved shootings of black people. You will run into a lot of anonymous commenters who use pretty hostile sounding handles and you’ll wonder whether any of them are people you work with. As a white person, reading these comments will make you wince and be weirdly embarrassed. That’s why you should read them. You will see right away that racism is so much more virulent than you imagined, the gap from here to anything resembling a post-racial society is enormous and there is tremendous change needed. Reading the comments will make you sick and then maybe make you determined to be a stronger advocate for racial justice.

3. Read history. To paraphrase your car’s side view mirror, the past is closer than it appears. Spend time reading the history of slavery, Jim Crow, and the Civil Rights movement. What is happening right now didn’t spring from the earth like a sunflower grown from a single seed dropped from someone’s pocket. There is a deep, thick, buried web of reasons why race plays such a wicked wrong role in so much of American life. This history isn’t taught well in schools, conveyed as points on a timeline, this happened and then that happened. If you invest some serious time in reading and reflecting, it will change your perspective and make you wonder why no one ever taught you this stuff. Children of Fire by Thomas C. Holt is a good place to start.

It is a struggle being a good white person who goes beyond just staying out of people’s way and not causing any trouble. It’s so much more comfortable watching from the sidelines, nodding in agreement with folks on TV leading demonstrations but wanting to stay anonymous and out of the fray. I get that, that describes me much of the time, it feels safer to stay benevolently divided. Sympathetic but silent.

Let’s not do that. Let’s make ourselves uncomfortable. Us good white people, let’s go toward what we don’t understand instead of shrugging our shoulders or waiting for other folks to figure it all out. We can shy away, thinking we’re harmless and not part of the problem. Racism is too complicated, too institutional, too impossible, too messy.

All that is true. But we have no choice. Nothing changes if nothing changes. We can’t change everything but we can change ourselves. Let’s start.

Renewal

The wonder of Christmas Eve is:

Twelve eggs cracking

Eleven chains tangling

Ten shirts unraveling

Nine people crying

Eight glaciers melting

Seven cities crumbling

Six children leaving

Five arguments flailing

Four mistakes repeating

Three gifts returning

Two people quitting

One more chance appearing

Bringing the Box

“I don’t want to go all the way to Chicago with your dad in a box on my lap.”

“Where am I supposed to put him? If I put him in the trunk, the box could tip over. Just hold him, it’s not that big a deal.”

It’s a big deal. Maybe I should drive and my husband can hold his father on his own lap. But he wants to drive. It’s what will make it feel right, being in control of the car, of himself. I feel the weight of my father-in-law’s ashes on my legs, the cardboard box too flimsy for its job, if I lifted the lid, I’d see the heavy plastic folded over the gray dust. It feels too familiar, too familial. How well did I even know him? How would he feel about me holding his ashes? Be careful where you put your hands, I tell myself.

On the way out of town, we stop where my son and his girlfriend are living. The August air is hot and thick even with the car’s air conditioning running. The box sticks to my pants so I lift it up, my pants wrinkled and stuck to my legs. Finally, they stumble out of the house, our son tucking his polo shirt into his pants and his girlfriend limping in very high heels, both looking put-upon as if two days’ notice of when we would meet wasn’t nearly enough. We caravan onto the interstate, their car rumbling behind us. I know without looking that neither of them is wearing a seat belt. So typical of my son, risking his life when I am already holding a box of ashes on my lap.

At the cemetery, I sit while my husband comes around to get the box. I won’t carry my father-in-law to a crowd of people waiting at his grave site. There could be glory in it, faux importance as if he’d picked me to be his single pallbearer, but everyone would know the truth. I was better than the trunk, that was my qualification. Besides, it is his sad son’s job.

The cemetery is flat and treeless. Efficient to mow but you could be anywhere or nowhere looking for someone’s grave. When did it become too much trouble to mow around a headstone?

My mother-in-law is here already, buried in one of the flat indistinguishable graves, a plot with her former husband’s name on it right beside her. I have to hand it to her, she never gave up on reconciliation. He may have wandered off but she’s got him now and for eternity.

I can feel her telling us we should have made better arrangements to bring him here, some transport more distinguished, a hearse with a driver in a black suit. How cheap and casual to bring her beloved to his grave in a box on my lap. My husband would shrug this off but her imagined words sting me.

At the end of the service, my husband shovels dirt on the box in the grave. He hands the shovel to someone and that person to another. From the back of the crowd, my son’s girlfriend steps up and asks my husband if she too can shovel and he says yes, although he looks puzzled. She plants one foot forward, shovels a small mound of dirt and sprinkles it on the grave. It occurs to me that she is serious about my son, maybe she loves him and wants to honor his grandfather. And I’m glad for that and for this day.

Done with U-Turns

If you look in the rear view mirror too long while you’re driving down the highway, you’ll end up in the ditch. I know that but it doesn’t change anything.

I won’t be five minutes out of a meeting before I’m putting into rank order my list of regrets about my presentation. Sometimes, I get a jump start on it, noting even while I’m stuttering or searching for a word more correct than the one I should just go ahead and use that this stumble will end up on my ‘why didn’t I do that right?’ pile along with regrets about my attire, mortification about the typo on my PowerPoint and, now the newest wrinkle, wondering how much critical conversation I might have missed because of my hearing loss.

However, there is nothing I admire more in others or want to cultivate in myself than the determination to forge ahead. And I do forge ahead. I got my Intrepid Girl badge at the jamboree years ago, the same day I got my certification in second-guessing myself. Both have been hanging on my sash for a very long time.

Today, after a meeting at which I presented proposed changes to our city’s plan to end homelessness, I texted my husband: “I wasn’t great but I got the job done.” The revisions were approved with no amendments and included several new goals with important implications for our community. There was good discussion and what seemed like a new commitment to tackling this very difficult issue. The revised plan means big changes in how we deal with homelessness and how we measure progress so I’m very proud of that.

But still, sitting in my car later, the ratcheting down began. This was wrong. That was wrong. I rewired an entire house but did it in dirty overalls and used too much duct tape.

I think it’s a female thing. I hate saying it but I think it’s true. The constant second-guessing, the endless circling back, the instantaneous fault-finding with an otherwise perfectly good meal, event, party, project, interview, I think it’s something in the water that only women drink. Men, many who probably ought to engage in some self-criticism, learn early to ‘rub some dirt on it’ and move on, a skill I really wish I had.

I get it about hindsight being 20-20. It’s also a giant pain in the ass. I’d like to get rid of hindsight and just have foresight. Maybe that’s my goal for 2015.

Getting rid of the rear view mirror.

In response to The Daily Post’s weekly writing challenge: “Hindsight is 20-20.”

Hello Mine

Lying on a plastic sheet, the hair on the back of his head worn away from never sitting or standing up, the blanket of Nicaraguan heat making him small, weak, fatigued, he looked in every direction but at me, his new mother.

Blue Shoe

You could lose your shirt, your heart, your mind, sacrifice your time and your plan, forget your goals and the order of your day, erase what you thought mattered, end the life you have if you decide to adopt someone else’s baby.