Am I a selfish racist?
It’s a painful question to consider. I am a good person. I care deeply about others. I believe in equal rights.
But if my actions don’t reflect my beliefs, I might as well be a selfish racist.
Last week I wrote about my ability to block out the pain of the latest killings by police—until police in my hometown were killed. Only then was I able and willing to fully pay attention, to finally take a stance.
A couple days later I read someone else’s reflection that both humbled and inspired me.
Like me, Lauren was disgusted with herself for having nothing more to do than “shake my head and wring my hands.”
So she made a list of the reasons why she hasn’t spoken out against/done more to prevent the murder and oppression of black people in America.
Selfishness abounds
Many of the items on her list could have been mine (and maybe yours):
“I’m afraid of saying something wrong”
“I’m afraid of facing my own racist beliefs or having them exposed”
“I can’t relate to that level of oppression, so I have nothing to contribute”
“I did lots of social justice work in law school and as an attorney, so I’ve done my part”
“I’m afraid of alienating people I care about”
And after she made the list, she had a realization—one that carried through to me (and maybe you):
“I realized that every item on it was ALL ABOUT ME. It was all about MY fears of looking stupid, racist, or ineffectual, MY fears of ruining my relationships, MY need to congratulate myself on efforts I have made and comfort myself into thinking that’s all I can do.
“I have made it all about me, because I, as a white person, get the privilege of making shit all about me ALL THE TIME.”
Well. Crap!
Privilege abounds
I know I am privileged—that is exactly what I wrote about last week…in a post that was, yep, ALL ABOUT ME.
What I wrote was primarily about my own experience, my own process, my own revelations. In other words, selfish. In other words, I was exercising privilege, even as I declared I would no longer leverage it.
I genuinely mean well, want to raise my voice to make a difference, and I still feel like I am fumbling.
Fortunately, I can have humility. My humility is hard-earned, from years of slowly but surely realizing I do not have all the answers (nor will I ever), that my perspective is inherently biased and singular, and that my ego is overrated.
Although I am committed to speaking up, I learn better when I listen than when I talk. And there is a lot to hear.
Also, I might be selfish, but I am not a racist.
Humility abounds
The woman whose reflection I read over the weekend is not a racist either. After Lauren’s first list, she made a second one, describing actions she would take from now on to try and lessen the murder and oppression of black people in America.
The items on the second list were not about her. They included learning from others, regularly engaging in challenging conversations, and communicating as best she can.
Similarly, I observed with relief that although much of my post last week was self-centered, it had an activist intention:
I committed to learning from the people most affected how to be the most supportive, and I said I would dig into the logistics of criminal justice reform so that I could effectively communicate with my elected representatives.
I meant what I said, and I hope readers of this writing will help keep me accountable.
I hope you’ll help keep me humble, too. So far, I’m covered:
Following ShiShi Rose on Instagram (@shishi.rose) is humbling: I don’t 100% understand or agree with everything she says, but it’s clear I am listening to a voice that needs to be heard.
Figuring out who to listen to is humbling: I can’t pay attention to everyone talking, and I don’t always know who to trust. (For now I am relying on the recommendations of other people I already follow.)
Continuing to raise my voice is humbling: I am far from an expert on issues of racism and criminal justice reform (I’m not even touching gun control), yet I feel compelled to speak up.
Who am I to do so? My inner critic says I’m just another white privileged woman who feels entitled to share her feelings—and heck, even the “who am I to do so?” question is privileged, because it presupposes my ability to be heard.
Privileged with a purpose
But I’m not “just” another white privileged woman. I’m a human. A blessed one, who can afford to pay for website hosting and who can make time to write and edit blog posts. I can speak where others can’t, or won’t.
Like I said last week, “because I am not subject to the same discrimination as many of my fellow American citizens, because I was gifted an extraordinary education and the ability to write well, because I have the legal rights and the physical means to widely express my views, I am not allowed to stay silent.”
Staying silent is a privilege I don’t want. Staying humble is a privilege I need.
That’s why I will write even when I’m insecure, worried I’m adding to the noise instead of helping shine the light.
That’s why I promise to keep showing up, even when I inevitably make it about me.
Because with humility, I can also make it about more.
Love>fear,
