Our Racial Justice Group at Church

In the fall we started a book group at church discussing The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander. We would meet in the church parlor once a month following the 11:00 service and discuss one or two of her enormous and complex chapters on how the current system of mass incarceration in the US is a means of proliferating white supremacy by creating a lower class of Black folk - a new form of segregation and oppression - a new Jim Crow.
In our first meeting, our Reverend asked us to chat with the folks next to us about our initial reaction to the content in the book, specifically to rate on a scale of 0-5 how much of this information was new to us and how much of it was old news, with zero being brand new information and five being common knowledge to us.
I turned to the three elderly Black women on my left and listened as they all gave fives - mass incarceration was not new. Targeting Black folks for petty crimes and labeling them as felons in order to keep them down was not new. The war on drugs as a means to create a lower class system of people of color was not new. Five.

Then I was to speak. To identify what I knew and what I didn't know. To reveal my knowledge or my ignorance.

I said one. And that might have been generous.

I said something along these lines: I've known that we have a huge prison population but that was it. I didn't know that our prison population does not whatsoever reflect our national demographic statistics - that black and brown folks make up a huge amount of our prison population. I didn't know that the war on drugs was a means of rounding up Black men and imprisoning them, even though statistically white folks are more likely to use and sell drugs as Black folks. I didn't know any statistics on the racism of stop-and-frisks.

I had a sense, but I didn't know. Which is why I said one.

These women were not surprised. Of course I didn't know. I didn't have to know. I didn't have to live this reality. For I am white and one of the perks of my whiteness is the privilege of ignorance.

This book group has been kind and patient with a learner.
I need to know. I need to listen. I need to learn.
For if I don't know that something exists, then it does not exist in my world.
If I don't choose to learn that their are extreme racial disparities in this country, then to me there are no racial disparities in this country.
They will not exist.

Probably in the second and third week of our meeting together, someone mentioned the dearth of white folks.
"Why aren't there more white people in this group?"

As one of the only white folks there, I responded "because we don't have to be here. To learn about race and racism is a choice we get to make, not a requirement. And since learning can be uncomfortable, we often choose not to do it."

I try not to talk at all in our discussion groups. I try to limit my comments to once or twice, and those only after listening for a good long while to the rest of the group.

As a white person, I approach this group as a learner and a listener. For it is through listening and learning that I can change myself. And in changing myself I can hopefully change my world, including my white folks.

Of Mistakes: On Learning How Anti-Racist I Really Am

It's been a while since I wrote anything.

Since last posting many more Black lives have been lost, many more streets have been shut down in protest, many more guilty cops have been acquitted, many more racist acts committed.

Including one of my own.

Well, I guess I should clarify. It wasn't a racist act but it wasn't an anti-racist act either. And therefore I allowed racism to live and thrive.

As you know by now, the DMV has been shut down by a big blizzard. And I've enjoyed every day trying to find something fun (and exhausting) for my 1.5 yr. old to do. Most days that's been outside in the snow. But as the piles have been melting, it's kinda disgusting right now to play outside, so we've been finding all the free indoor play spaces possible. Yesterday that was a Chick-fil-a north of our home.

I don't like to support Chick-fil-a, but anyone with kids will know that they must play hard or they will not function properly.

So I took my two nephews and son up to the Chick-fil-a where they played in the play area for about an hour before we got some sandwiches, played some more, and then headed home.

Since it was lunch time and since, let's be honest, (homophobia aside) Chick-fil-a is delicious, I got us lunch.
The line was a decent length since I had waited until actual lunch time to order, so I had my three boys sit in a booth and entertain each other while I ordered.

There were three white men in front of me in line, all dressed the same. I assumed they worked together doing something that required camo.
They ordered. I ordered. Then we all stood off to the side while we waited for our food to be ready.

When I ordered, the cashier asked for my name. Same went for the other customers waiting for their food.

When the food for the three white camo guys came, it was delivered by an older Black gentleman, probably in his early fifties. He called out the name of the owner of the food - "boss."

What happened next in my mind took about 4 milliseconds: I assumed one of these three white men was the boss of the other two and that's why he gave the name "boss". How kind and unassuming of me. Would I have been so kind to a person of color doing anything?

The slight pain on the older Black gentleman's face, combined with the snickering of the other two white men, proved that this was a racist act and an assertion of power.
One of the three white men took the food and they began walking toward the door. As they walked, one of them repeated the word quietly to themselves, reliving the hilarious high of racism to his racist buddies.

This was when I almost followed them out the door.
This was when I almost spoke up and called them out for their racism.
This was when I almost used my white privilege for good.

It was a public place, full of people, well-lit, and day-time. I had no excuses except for my fear.
And I was afraid.
And I said nothing.
And I took my food and fed my kids and went home.
And I regret this.

I write this story not for your sympathy, for who really cares about my self-disappointment when this older Black gentleman was humiliated again by racists.
I write this story because I must remind myself every day to be an anti-racist, not just a non-racist. A non-racist would see what happened and shake her head and sigh and share the story with other people as a sign of the deep problems in society these days. How we're still so backward, etc.

But a white anti-racist would speak to her white people. A white anti-racist would call them in, would ask them why they thought it was ok to humiliate and shame another person in such a public way, a person who has likely suffered enormous pain at the hands and words and minds and decisions and pockets of white folks.

Why did you do that? Why did you give the name "boss"?

But I didn't.
I wasn't an anti-racist that day.


PS: I am white. I am writing for white folks. Please do not take this story as an important one. It's not an important story in the movement for Black Lives. Please read Black stories more than white stories. They're actually important. But if you're a white non-racist thinking of moving into anti-racism, and this story stuck somewhere inside of you, cool.