Fighting the messages that fuel our racism

An acquaintance once asked me to summarize what I like to write about. I told him the writing that gets my blood flowing and my thoughts moving generally falls into two categories: Humor and Empathy. The funny ones are fun. I’ve always had a self-deprecating sense of humor. Each day offers me a plethora of thoughts, missteps and questions about my own psyche that could keep me busy writing for a long time.

 

The empathy posts are harder. I have always been a deeply feeling person, and it’s very obvious to me when others are hurting. One of my faults is I’m always giving people the benefit of the doubt, but I think it’s one of my strengths as well. There are two sides to every story, and what is creating hurt for someone on one side you can bet is being caused or directed by hurt on the other side.

 

Empathy requires vulnerability and a willingness to be questioned, and that’s one of the reasons I don’t write empathy-related posts very often. But I know I should. I frequently give the advice that God doesn’t call us to be careful, and it’s advice that I need to heed.

 

My childhood friend, Erika, motivated me to write this. And I'm mad at myself for passively watching news reports and reading opinion pieces without acknowledging what I know to be true.

 

I am a white woman, I am privileged, and I am racist.

 

I live in a state where less than 4% of the population is African-American, and less than 12% of the population (after the last Census) is not Caucasian.

 

I was not raised to be racist. I was taught to love others. I was taught to be open-minded and fair. I was taught we are all created in the image of God. I was taught that it’s not our job to judge other people; it’s our job to love them.

 

I don’t want to be racist. But there are times when I catch myself treating black and Latino people differently because I’m trying so hard not to treat them differently.

 

My racism is learned, but it was subtly taught. Each day, we’re bombarded with messages that we absorb over time – messages we’re unaware of until one day we realize have become part of our fabric. Messages that question my strength, beauty and worthiness because I’m not a size 2. Messages that whisper that women aren’t capable. Messages that tell me imperfection is a personality deficit and is not to be tolerated. Messages that bombard me with the idea that I need material things to make me happy and relevant and worthy. Messages that say people of a certain age or certain weight don't have anything significant to offer.

 

Those same messages tell me things like this: Black women are sassy. Black men are to be feared. Black teens are gang-bangers looking for trouble. Black children have limited opportunities. Black people are inferior. Black people have ulterior motives. Black people are the supporting cast to our white main characters. Black people could have a place at the table if they just tried a little harder. Black people are different. Black people who are successful deserve a “good for them,” because they obviously fought hard to get there.

 

I don’t have broad-sweeping advice about what to do about the messages. But I do believe it helps acknowledging that they’re there, and they’re there for a reason.

 

Erika motivated me to write this because she and her husband have two young sons of color. They are in Kindergarten and 2^nd grade. Erika has cried pools of tears and lost years of sleep because she doesn’t know how to keep them safe.

 

I can’t imagine the fear in the hearts of the parents of black children each time there is another news report of a black person killed during a traffic stop. And no, I can’t imagine the fear in the hearts of public servants and law enforcement officers and their families each time they go on duty, but I don’t feel empathy for these two groups needs to be mutually exclusive.

 

I want to do a few things in writing this. First, to acknowledge that my fear and prejudice exists. Maybe a few people reading this will say to themselves, “me, too.”

 

I want to acknowledge the fear, anger and helplessness that our brothers and sisters of color feel.

 

I want to acknowledge that while we have come a long way fighting prejudice that there is still work to do, and that we can never love our neighbors enough.

 

There is power in awareness. Let’s work on putting that power to good use and good works. If we can't change the messages, let's work on fighting them. I can do better. We can do better.