From One White Suburbanite to Another

In this past week, the United States surpassed 100,000 COVID19 deaths (105,557 as of this writing, although there’s some evidence that thousands of deaths should have been included in that number and were not.) Also in the news was the horrifying video of the murder of George Floyd after a white police officer kneeled on his neck for more than eight minutes. This follows closely on the video of an incident in which a white woman refused to put her dog on a leash in a leash-only section of Central Park and then called the police on the black man who was bird-watching and asked her to do so. These events come at the heels of the recent murder of Amaud Arbery by two white men because he was running and black. And the murder of Breonna Taylor, also black, when police raided her apartment for a crime she didn’t commit and shot her.

 

It’s been a dark couple of weeks in America even if we don’t talk about “politics.”

 

I want desperately to be able to write something to help make sense of all of this, but I’ve been reading some very compelling narratives from black men and women about times they’ve been harassed, accused, and endangered because their skin is darker than mine. They live in a world where it’s not safe to go running, to sit in a car, to sit in their home, to watch birds. I have nothing to say more eloquent or relevant or true than what they say. I am grateful to them for their stories and grateful for the people who have been amplifying those stories.

 

For some reason, God saw fit to make me a white woman born into a middle-class suburban life. Maybe She thought I was too tender to take life as a person of color. Or maybe She intends for me to use the circumstances of my birth somehow. I am ashamed to confess that, due to my continued residence and employment in an area that is largely white, most of my friends, colleagues, neighbors, and acquaintances are also white middle-class suburbanites. It turns out that in allowing myself to stay in my comfortable life, I have not put myself in a position to be very helpful to the people of color whose lives are obscenely more dangerous and complicated than my own. I believe, though, that God can use us from any place at any time. It’s not too late for me. And so I start with my own people. 

 

This is for my white middle-class friends who, when I listed the deaths in the first paragraph said in their minds, “But what about the riots?” This is for you who felt as much or more anger and indignation over those riots as over the killings, who think they are equivalent crimes. I write to you with full knowledge that minds and hearts are hard to change and that the people who need to read this either won’t start reading it or won’t make it to the end. I get why the black community is cynical about white allies. I’m cynical too. And yet, I’m not being a better person for not trying. So here goes.

 

Do this for me: look around you and find the most valuable item you own. Maybe you have a really nice car. Maybe you have a really sweet media room with a big TV and surround sound and multiple reclining seats. Maybe you have a really nice phone. Heck, maybe you have ALL of those things. That’s fine. You don’t have to choose. Hold them all in your mind, if you like.

 

Now walk into your bathroom and get close to the mirror. Look into your own eyes. Look until you really see yourself there. 

 

Now decide: which is more important to you, your valuable item(s) or your life? If you could keep one or the other but not both, which would you choose?

 

And here’s an extra credit assignment. Do you have a son? Go look at him sprawled out on your couch or shooting hoops. Or, if he’s not with you right now, look at a picture of him. There’s probably one in your house, right? Now decide: which is more important to you, your valuable item(s) or your son? If you could keep one or the other but not both, which would you choose?

 

If in either scenario you chose your car or your TV, OK then. Let the fury over the riots build in you like boiling acid. Go out into the street and scream. Search for, read, and post more about the riots. Raise awareness about the sanctity of shop windows and Target merchandise. Also, you can stop reading now.

 

If, however, you chose your own life and the life of your son, I’m with you. Me too. But here’s the thing you need to hear: if you chose your life and your son’s life and yet spent more time and energy condemning the riots than the murders that sparked them, you are a racist. I bet you don’t feel like a racist. I bet you feel angry that I’m accusing you of such a thing. But the riots that you think are repulsive are about things, and the murders are about lives. Calm down--I’m not endorsing looting, and I’m aware of the news reports that the evolution from peaceful protests to riot seems to coincide with the interference of outside forces, including allegedly white-supremacist groups, and I don’t endorse that either. Focus. Don’t let yourself look away from this just yet. This essay is about you, my friend. If you are willing to say your life and your child’s life matters more than any possession but you are more upset about someone’s possessions being damaged or stolen than someone’s LIFE being stolen, you need to ask yourself why. Why does the one upset you more than the other? Why do riots raise your righteous indignation more than murders? Why do the riots demand more of your attention? Is it because your things could be stolen but those kinds of murders would never happen to you? Because you never go running? Because you never sit in your home watching TV? No, the difference is something else. 

 

Imagine living in a country in which most of the police, lawyers, judges, governors, senators, and president are black. Really pause and imagine. Does it make you feel uncomfortable? I confess: I feel weird about it. Why? What if every time you saw one of those policemen a story ran through your head about how he could kill you on the spot? Because you’ve seen it happen over and over again on TV. Because it happened to your neighbor. Or your son.

 

We are talking about racism, friend, and you and I need to do the first hard thing and call ourselves out for it.

 

I doubt you set out to be racist, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t soaked into you. There are plenty of books and articles and talks about where this came from, and I’m going to continue to read and listen so that I can understand better, and I invite you to do the same. You can do it secretly if you’re embarrassed. Just start somewhere somehow. Seeing it is the first step. Or maybe the first step is just wanting to see it, even if you don’t yet. Maybe someday you and I can talk about it. And maybe we’ll know more about what to do next when we know more about what we’re dealing with. And maybe someday our sons and daughters or grandsons and granddaughters will live in a world where they don’t even have to ask themselves which is more important, stolen items or stolen lives.