The mockery of George Floyd’s death on the stairs of the Capitol City Church on January 6, 2021 had me at a complete loss for words. The destruction we witnessed yesterday was inclusive of a lot more than just the mockery of Floyd’s death, but when I saw that reenactment, my body went numb.
Black Lives Matter. Black lives will always matter. There is no counter-argument for that because it is simply a declarative statement.
I am sharing one of my pieces that I had previously posted on Facebook. It deserves double limelight and to reach people who have yet to read it. It has been months since I posted it, but the lesson in this passage is timeless:
I feel validated in saying what I’m about to say because I was once an ignorant racist. If you had asked me to my face if I were a racist or labeled me as one, I would have confidently barked back proclaiming I was not.
But I have a long, much needed story to share:
I’m going to be brutally honest right now. I was someone who cracked racist jokes. I laughed at them when someone else told them, I boiled down annoying occurrences to people’s race. I consciously chose to remove myself or abstain from uncomfortable situations simply because I had the option of opting out. I was what a lot of people would consider a closet racist.
Freshmen year of college I took a class called “The History of the Civil Rights Movement”. The reasons I took it were because it fulfilled my history gen-ed requirement, and the class took place a few buildings over from my dorm. Those were the only reasons. I was not interested in the class, I had no intention of learning that much; I didn’t think twice about it.
The first day of class I walked in and noticed the professor was a White man. I literally thought to myself, “this makes no sense but okay”. I kept thinking about how backwards it was for a White man to be teaching a class on Black history and oppression. How credible could this guy be, and how could I take him seriously knowing he’s never felt what an entire race has felt over hundreds of years?
Fast forward to halfway through the semester. I had been watching documentaries, reading books, listening to personal stories from classmates and impersonal stories from prominent figures in history. I will admit, I was the most passive, uninvolved person in that class. I never raised my hand, I never shared my thoughts, and I never did more than was asked of me.
That, however, does not mean I wasn’t absorbing every single account and letting them burn through the person I so shamefully had to call myself. I would sit in class and think about everything I had learned long after I left. It ran through my mind and ate me alive. It was the first time in my life I grasped that I was not a good person… and to put it bluntly, I was disgusted that it took 19 years for me to realize that.
That semester I had to write a 15-page research paper. I wrote it about Black women who had advanced the Civil Rights Movement. In the middle of working on it one day, I stopped and decided I wanted to write my professor an email thanking him for single-handedly changing my life. I told him that I was appalled with who I had walked into his class as, but because of him, my peers, and the material that was taught, I had forever been changed. His class was where I learned I had privilege. It also took the entire semester for me to realize that a White man teaching about Black history was the most admirable thing I could have imagined at the time. He said these words, and they stuck with me forever, “If you have privilege, know that you have the power to use or abuse that privilege”. He chose to use it.
Inevitably that class ended, and it was up to me to continue fostering an accepting, inclusive mindset. I’m sure my friends noticed a shift in my mood, behavior, humor, and thoughts, but I promised myself that I would never return to being the person I had been prior.
I made a pact (with myself) to enroll in as many classes as possible that would broaden my horizons. I took a class about the Middle East and read countless books rooted in child slavery, the Egyptian Revolution, the wars in Beirut, the list goes on. I took a class on Asian American identity and the oppressions Asians living in the United States underwent/undergo. I became fascinated with Gandhi and his ability to lead others through a non-violent movement.
I’m not sitting here writing about all of this to boast about being higher and mightier than any one person. I am here saying that you don’t change or see things from someone else’s point of view or learn about trauma and generations of racism through sitting in your own bubble and avoiding voices that are screaming, begging to be heard. You have to actively put yourself in the most uncomfortable of situations to be part of the solution.
Fast forward again to my senior year. I was a teaching assistant for an introductory level class at Isenberg. I taught basic courses about how to make a resume, how Isenberg operated, how to apply for internships, etc. etc. etc.
One day I got an email from a student in my class apologizing for not handing in assignments. She went on to explain that she had been a victim of a hate crime in her dorm and was currently staying at a hotel to seek safety. She was taking a few days off from class and was too emotionally scarred to focus on academics. This is the same student who had approached me a few times after class to ask about topics I had presented on. She appeared more engaged and curious than any other student I had. This is when I decided that if it affected her, it affected me.
I went on to read about the hate crime, how UMass was handling the situation and the consequences that were dealt. I would love to sit here and say it was resolved, and everything went back to “normal”, but that is so far from the truth. I’m not numerically sure, but more hate crimes seemed to happen during the Fall semester of my senior year than any semester I was at UMass. I was outraged by this. I was literally so angry and upset all the time and was constantly calling my best friend pouring out my emotions because I didn’t know what to do or where to turn.
Hate crime after hate crime, my student was regressing. She wasn’t coming to class, she wasn’t doing her work, and I knew she was deteriorating mentally and physically. I met with her a few times to check in on her, and she was visibly unwell. I remember her saying, “We need people to talk about this. We need professors to address this. We need everyone to stop acting like these things aren’t happening when they’re so clearly in our faces”.
A week or so later, there was a forum held on campus for anyone and everyone to speak openly about anything that was on their mind. I marked my calendar and made it a point to go.
I sat in the audience, looked around at who made up the sea of people I was amongst, and realized that I was 1 of maybe 7 people who were not Black. I kept thinking about how wrong it was. The people needing to hear these messages and stories were opting out of listening because it didn’t directly involve them.
Student after student got up to the mic and voiced their struggles, their goals, their appreciation for those who supported them. It was insanely empowering and gut-wrenching at the same time. I felt nauseated, to be honest. I felt like I was carrying the weight of Whites on my back, and I wanted so badly to crawl into a hole and never return.
Then my student rose to the podium and spoke. It was so articulate, so well-said, so filled with raw emotion. The entire audience didn’t even just stand and clap. Everyone jumped to their feet and roared in support of her.
I left promptly after she spoke because I knew I was about to lose control of my emotions. I walked out not knowing what to do, who to call, or where to go. I knew if I went home, my roommates wouldn’t understand, and I knew I couldn’t call anyone who would be able to empathize with what I just sat through.
It was then that I decided I would email the Dean of Diversity and Inclusion at Isenberg and, more or less, demand that a Diversity class be added to the course curriculum I taught. I was called into the office a few days later where I was sat down by two faculty members. They began by letting me know that I was the reason a college-wide email was sent out with details of resources and support groups at UMass. I remember thinking, “are they looking for me to say thank you?” Because that is not what I wanted at all—another formal, courtesy email to check a box on administration’s list.
They then proceeded by letting me know that if I wanted to teach a class about the resources available, I could do so. They also followed that offer by saying I would have to be aware I was opening myself up to criticism and putting myself in a position of getting backlash. They warned me that if I weren’t careful with my word choice, I could find myself offending someone even with the best intentions. I sat there and thought, “saying something is better than saying nothing, and me saying something is showing that this conversation has to start somewhere to reach everyone”.
Which leads me to this… you (maybe not you specifically reading this) not saying anything is hurting way more than any well-intentioned-but-not-100%-politically-correct words could express. There have been so many times I have had to learn through my mistakes, and I’m sure this rant has many of them. My point is, you cannot sit in your privilege and swallow your “pride” because you are scared that you’re going to upset someone who is still laughing and making racist jokes or on the flip side, someone you are trying to fight for/with.
We need—let me stress this again—we NEED Whites to get involved for us to move forward as a human race. This is not debatable. This is not an “everyone has a social issue he/she cares about, not everyone has to be passionate about the same one” matter. This is human. decency. Every single person on the face of this Earth is responsible for doing his/her part. Everyone.
Comments