When the Black kids jumped in, all the other White mothers pulled their kids out.

My story takes place in the summer of 1951 in Austin, a Chicago community where my grandparents lived. It’s the story of my very first interracial experience. Maybe it’s what inspired me to work for racial justice later in life.

When Grandma and Grandpa moved there in the mid 1940’s, Austin was still almost exclusively White. But when Black families started moving in, many White residents fled westward to the suburbs. That’s where I grew up, in a town where over 99% of the population was of European descent.

On this particular summer day, my mom put me into some kind of child restraint device — I think it was a blue canvas chair that hung on the car’s front passenger seat — and drove the 20 miles to visit her parents in Austin.

The table fan in their apartment gave little relief from the oppressive heat of Chicago’s summer, so we spent the afternoon at the neighborhood swimming pool in a little park right next to the train tracks. I was 2½ years old.

We must have gone there when I was older too, because I have very vivid memories of playing in the water while the train roared by and looking up at the embankment to count the cars. The following events, however, happened when I was too young to remember them. I’m recounting here the story as my mom told it to me.

At first everything was peaceful. The pool was filled with happy (White) children laughing, splashing, and doing all the things kids do in a swimming pool. I was sitting in the shallow end, where the water was just up to my armpits, looking all cool and cute.

I don’t know what Chicago’s pool policies were in 1951. Racial segregation in public places became illegal in 1954, but some cities had already made efforts to integrate swimming pools years before that. Chicago may have been one of them.

Whether or not it was legal, on this day several Black families came together to the little neighborhood pool to swim. Mom said the adults looked really nervous, but the kids just ran ahead and jumped into the water.

Then all hell broke loose. The horrified White parents snatched their children out of the pool, as if the water had suddenly become boiling hot. The way Mom told it, you’ve never seen dozens of adults move so fast and with such collective purpose.

Within minutes, all the White kids were standing in the grass, looking very confused, while their parents hovered protectively over them.

All of them, that is, except me. I continued to sit in the shallow end of the pool, where the water was just up to my armpits, surrounded now by happy Black children who were shouting, splashing, and doing all the swimming pool things.

My mother — God bless her beautiful soul — stood near me with her arms crossed and her expression resolute. And I stayed in the water and played until it was time to go home.

I won’t write about why White people feared being in a swimming pool with Black people, because the stupidity is too infuriating. This is a story about my mom standing up for what’s right, and I want to keep the focus on her. Wikipedia has a good article if you want more information.

Every time Mom told me this story, I asked what the other White parents said to her. She always claimed she didn’t remember, but here’s what I imagine: a White woman shouted, “Your child is marked for life!” and my mom shouted back, “I hope so.”

I also try to imagine what those Black parents must have been feeling. I doubt I would have the courage to do what they did. How devastating to have to weigh your desire to take your kids swimming against your fear for their lives.

I don’t know about you, dear reader, but I’m the kind of person who assigns big meaning to events whenever possible. I like to think that on a summer day in a swimming pool when I was very young, I was inoculated against some of the more toxic strains of racism.

Or maybe it was more like a baptism — I was dunked into water filled with laughing Black children and thereby welcomed into the human race.

Although I was too little to recognize it at the time, my mom’s refusal to pull me out of the pool was an act of fierce resistance. She always thought of herself as timid and insecure, and I think that prevented her from recognizing her own strength.

I came to see it clearly though. Throughout her life, my mother intentionally sought out friendships with people of diverse backgrounds. She served her community and promoted the oneness of humanity until six days before she died at age 93.

Now that she lives in the world of spirit, I call on her to help me stand against injustice. Sometimes, when I’m the only White girl in the therapy pool at the Senior Center, I imagine she’s smiling.

Photo by Ben Vloon on Unsplash

For 15 years, my husband and I traveled around the U.S. and facilitated workshops and dialogues about racial justice. We made detailed notes and regularly updated our materials based on the questions people asked. Over and over, in every part of the country — in workshops, over coffee, in emails and phone calls — we heard White people asking some version of this question:

What should I do about racism?

It was expressed in many different ways:

• “I want to help, but I don’t know how.”
• “I want to help, but my life is so complicated/I’m too old/I don’t get out much.”
• “This is all new to me; just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
• “What do you/they want from us anyway?”

Often this question was asked of us or another White person in the room who had experience with anti-racism initiatives. We had lists of many different ways to engage, based on a person’s circumstances.

Sometimes this question was directed to a Black participant in the workshop. Their answer depended on a number of things; the sincerity of the person asking, the feeling in the room, and the quality of the relationships were important factors.

Mostly the answer depended on how that particular Black person felt about the question.

Often they were tired of teaching White people about race.

In this case, they might say something like:

• I shouldn’t have to be the one to tell you this. Ask another White person.
• I’ve been telling White people what they need to do for my entire life, and no one’s listening. I’m done.
• I’m exhausted by this question.
• I feel exploited by this question.
• Not today.
• Haven’t you been listening for the past two hours?
• Google it.

If you’re Black, do these responses seem familiar? Do you have any others to add?

If you’re White, do these responses seem frustrating or unhelpful?

Do you want to respond with “How am I supposed to know what to do if you won’t tell me?”

If you are a White woman, maybe it will help if I share what I do when I don’t know how to react to something a Black person has said. I take race out of the picture for a minute and pretend it’s about gender. In the above example, I would frame it like this:

I’m engaged in an open, honest conversation about sexism, chauvinism, and misogyny. I’ve been triggered several times by people’s comments. I’ve shared my own experiences with oppression and discrimination. At some point, a man (it has to be a White man for this to work) asks me, “What am I supposed to do?”

My response is likely to be, “Really? You’re kidding, right?” Not very gracious or helpful. But I know me, and that’s probably what I would feel like saying.

So the truth is, as a woman who has been hurt by sexism my whole life, I understand why a Black person would respond unsympathetically to a question like that. And how I react to their response is the same way I would want a man to react to me. I would want him to say, “Oh. I get it. Okay. Thanks.”

Sometimes they were willing to teach a White person about race.

Maybe the question was asked of a Black person who was ready to offer suggestions. When that happens, dear White readers, PLEASE TAKE NOTES!

And now I’ve come to the main point of my story and the reason I wrote it in the first place.

Here is an explicit answer to “What should White people do?” It was shared following the Charleston church massacre, described as follows by the website This Day in History:

“On the evening of June 17, 2015, a mass shooter took the lives of nine African American people at a Bible study at Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina. The massacre at a historic Black church deeply shook a nation already jaded by frequent gun violence and heralded the return of violent white nationalism in America.”

Three days later, a Black friend, Dr. Phillipe Copeland, wrote a Facebook post in the form of a thank-you letter.

June 20, 2015 
“To those of you out there who demonstrate on a daily basis that there are #ManyWays2BWhite I want to say thank you. To those of you who fiercely speak up, stand up and act up to counter white supremacy I say thank you. To those of you who demonstrate in action a deep and abiding love for black humanity without apology or equivocation I say thank you. To those of you who put your privilege to work to dismantle the system that unjustly grants it simply because of your skin color I say thank you. For those of you who welcome and honor black grief and rage no matter how bad it makes you feel, I thank you. For those of you who struggle for justice honorably without fear of loss or desire for reward, I thank you. You offer living proof that neither demography nor history are destiny. You are the kind of white people this world so desperately needs. Thank you for being who you are. It does not go unnoticed.” ~ Phillipe Copeland (quoted with the author’s permission)

What you choose to do with Phillipe’s message is, of course, up to you. As for me, I copied it onto my phone, with specific phrases bolded:

• fiercely speak up, stand up and act up to counter white supremacy
• demonstrate in action a deep and abiding love for black humanity without apology or equivocation
• put your privilege to work to dismantle the system that unjustly grants it simply because of your skin color
• welcome and honor black grief and rage no matter how bad it makes you feel
• struggle for justice honorably without fear of loss or desire for reward

This is what White people should do. This is how we can help. These actions are as vital now as they were in 2015. Consider how you might share them with others who are not sure how to show up in the struggle for racial justice.

Gratitude to Phillipe Copeland for his potent words and his friendship.

************

Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

I’ve been thinking a lot about fragile things recently. When we were packing for our move a few months ago, I was surprised at how many of my boxes needed a “FRAGILE” label. Fortunately the movers were good at their jobs. The only item that broke was a hand-blown glass teapot, which cracked in spite of being enveloped in bubble wrap and cradled in packing peanuts.

The glass was remarkably thin, especially where the handle was attached. I don’t think I ever used it for tea; I was afraid it would break from the heat. It sat on a shelf in my china cabinet and never had a chance to fulfill its purpose. I was a little sad to see it go, but there was no room in my new home for a china cabinet anyway.

. . .

In 2013, I wrote an article entitled “Fragile White People Syndrome.” I know, it’s not a very elegant title. The SEO results were abysmal. But Robin DiAngelo had already coined the term White Fragility a couple years earlier, so I had to find a different way to say it. Back then I thought it was clever.

My article was about White folks’ fear of discussing race. Now here we are, nine years later, and I’m still writing about the same thing.

I’ve been talking with individuals and groups about race for several decades. Sometimes the conversations are frustrating or emotional, but I always learn something. I never hesitate to engage, even when passions are running high. Maybe that’s because I’ve been called a racist by a Black person — more than once — and lived to tell the story.

Assuming for a moment that there won’t be an actual brawl, what are we afraid of? Is it really that someone will call us a racist? Are we White people so fragile that being called racist utterly destroys our self-esteem? Is the word so devastating that it completely undermines our ability to engage in conversations about race?

Personally, I find this excuse embarrassing. Certainly we’re resilient enough to face this possibility without crumbling.

What if we had the courage to start with a given: If we’re White and living in this country, then our minds, attitudes, and behaviors have been molded by racist conditioning. That’s an inescapable fact, regardless of what word we use to describe it.

We didn’t ask for this conditioning, but if we pretend it doesn’t exist, we have no hope of freeing ourselves from its power to jerk us around. As with any other unconscious pattern of thought, recognition is the first step in reclaiming our freedom. So let’s say we agree to come to the table acknowledging that we bring our conditioning with us.

We have so much to gain by participating honestly and vulnerably in the conversation about race — from becoming more authentic versions of ourselves, to creating solid cross-racial relationships, to contributing to systemic justice.

When we don’t participate, we lose out on the those opportunities. We also reinforce the belief — both in our own minds and in the minds of others — that we’re simply too afraid, too fragile. And I’d like to be better than that. Better and braver.

What I know, from my own experience, is that at some point we will likely say something insensitive, clueless, or downright offensive. And a Black person might call us racist. We will not melt or implode or fall apart.

We will lose face only if we become defensive. We can best maintain our dignity by responding with something like, “I hear what you’re saying. Are you willing to talk with me about it?” This kind of response engenders respect and trust, both of ourselves and our conversation partners, and creates the possibility for something real to happen.

What might happen if we change the stories we’re telling ourselves as White people about what we’re capable of? What if we reject White fragility as an undignified attitude that prevents us from expressing our inherent human nobility?

I believe we are perfectly capable of staying present in difficult conversations. We can acknowledge any fear or discomfort we’re feeling and then move ahead. We have enough strength of character to resist feeling defensive or falling apart, even if we are called that awful word. I know we can do it.

I want to end with a disclaimer and a couple observations.

I know there are many White people who are deeply committed to anti-racism and constantly engaged in difficult conversations about race. Much has happened since I wrote that original article. People of all backgrounds have arisen in response to incidents of racial violence. I honor you and I thank you. Please know that this article was not written for you. Feel free to ignore it, or pass it along to someone who needs to read it.

Also, you may wonder why I write only about interactions between Black and White people. It’s because that’s what I know. I hope you will seek out authors who write about racial dynamics among other groups of our human family.

Finally, sometimes it’s a fellow White person who wants to call us a racist. That’s a whole nother story. I need to build up more grit before I tackle that one.

. . .

Photo by Dylan Hunter on Unsplash

Twenty or so people had gathered to hear me and my husband talk about race unity. At least that’s what the flyer said. The topic has a positive vibe—one envisions diverse folks coming together in love and harmony, which of course is the ultimate goal.

However certain things have to be addressed in order for that goal to be achievable. For example, White people need to understand and work hard to overcome our racist conditioning. But if we’d put that on the flyer, probably no one would have showed up.

We were gathered under a pavilion in a park in North Carolina. Our White audience had welcomed us warmly and listened intently as we told stories of awakening to our own unconscious attitudes. Encouraged by our transparency, several people shared how they were raised with racist ideas.

At some point during the talk, I spoke—as I always do —about racial conditioning. I claimed that as White people, we have absorbed this conditioning from the beginning of our lives, that it’s in the air we breathe. We have been told lies about those who are not White, and about Black people in particular. These lies, along with the emotions they generate, sit at the unconscious level in our minds and dictate how we interact with others.

I went on to say that we can free ourselves from our conditioning only by realizing it’s there and bringing it to the conscious level, where we can replace it with the truth. Though I don’t have notes from the talk we gave that day, I’m quite sure I said the same thing I usually say:

Freeing ourselves from this unconscious racist brainwashing is an act of moral courage.

When our talk was over, people came up to ask questions or share personal anecdotes. An elderly lady waited on the sidelines until everyone else had left, then approached me with a concerned face. [Note to my readers: this happened about 20 years ago, and the woman was probably around the same age I am now. So I use the term “elderly” loosely.]

She leaned in close to me, as if preparing to share a secret, and whispered, “I think I have unconscious racial conditioning.”

“Yes, yes! Of course! We all do!” I said out loud, and Hallelujah! I said to myself.

“I would like to get rid of it,” she said, more boldly now. “Would you please give me an assignment that will help me do that?” Perhaps she was thinking I would suggest a book to read or video to watch. Certainly she wasn’t expecting what I said next.

“Okay, here’s your assignment,” I said. “This is what I want you to do. The next time you step into an elevator by yourself, before the doors close, I want you to look at the people nearby. If you see a Black man, I want you to say, ‘Excuse me, sir, are you going up? I’ll hold the door for you.’ Could you do that?”

Her eyes got huge, and her body went rigid. Then she started trembling. “Oh my,” she said quietly. Then again, “Oh my.”

I said, “Wait, have you been attacked by a Black man in an elevator?”

“No,” she said.

“Do you know someone who’s been attacked by a Black man in an elevator?” I asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“Have you ever even heard of a Black man attacking someone in an elevator?”

“No, I have not.” she said, quite emphatically this time.

“Okay,” I said, “so that’s not actually your assignment. Do you feel what’s happening in your body?”

She nodded. “I feel terrified.”

“Yet you’ve had no experience that would cause you to feel so much fear,” I said.

She nodded again and looked very relieved.

“So here’s your real assignment: see if you can figure out where that fear comes from. Who taught it to you? How has it influenced you? What would have to happen for that fear to be replaced with attraction?”

“Okay, okay,” she said, “that I can do.” Then she turned abruptly and walked toward her car.

I wanted to hug her and celebrate her courage, but she was already gone. She probably wanted to get far away before I said anything else.

This is the first time I’ve written this story, although I relate it often. It gets told pretty much every time I give a talk about race. Sometimes I wonder if it was unnecessarily cruel to make the woman so afraid.

But here’s the thing. If our minds and bodies are flooded with fear, then the rational part of our brains are bypassed. We’re not able to choose our thoughts and actions based on our true values.

How often has a White woman called the cops on a Black person because she was afraid for her safety —not because she’s had an actual negative experience, but because she’s been taught to be afraid?

Bad things can happen to Black folks when White folks are acting on unwarranted fear.

So I will continue to use every reasonable means at my disposal to challenge that racist conditioning. I would love to hear my readers’ thoughts. What are your strategies for addressing this issue?

. . .

Photo by Ono Kosuki from Pexels

I thought I knew a lot about racism and White privilege, so why was I was surprised when it happened right before my eyes?

I was shopping for clothes at a major department store in southern California. It wasn’t a high-end establishment — I’m not a high-end kind of person — but it wasn’t a discount place either. Their annual spring sale had drawn a large crowd of shoppers.

I found a couple flattering shirts and a new pair of flip-flops, then headed for the nearest checkout island. There were several people in line, and I queued up behind a Black woman holding a large pile of clothing. She was clearly going to need some time to pay for all that stuff. For a minute I considered going to a different cashier but changed my mind when the woman nodded a greeting.

We exchanged a few pleasantries before it was her turn at the register. She stepped up and was about to put her pile of clothes on the counter when the White saleswoman looked right past her, directly at me, smiled, and said cheerfully, “Hi! Can I help you?”

I was pretty confused at first. I figured maybe she just had wandering eyeballs and couldn’t focus where she wanted to. I smiled back and then looked away, assuming she must be addressing the Black woman.

But no! “Ma’am, hello? Can I help you?” She actually had to lean sideways a bit to see around the person who was standing right in front of her face.

“Me?” I asked.

“Yes, you. Can I help you?”

“Well sure you can help me,” I said, “after you help the lady whose turn it is.”

The Black woman looked back and forth between me and the cashier, and I saw that “you-can’t-be-serious!” expression on her face. If she had been White, I would have thought this was some kind of joke – maybe a hidden camera.

She wasn’t White though, and this wasn’t a joke. If I’d been thinking more quickly and clearly, I would have suggested to my fellow shopper that we go look for clothes at a different store. Then I would have reported the clerk to the management on my way out.

But I was still a little stunned, so I just stood there with my mouth open. By the time I got my wits together, the woman had dropped the clothes on the floor and walked away without a word.

“Why did you do that?” I asked the cashier.

“Do what?” she asked. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You ignored the woman in front of me because she was Black.”

“That’s not true!” Her voice got louder. “You were here first and she cut in front of you. I saw her!” Then she added, “I’m not a racist!”

Her words rattled my brain and stripped away any semblance of civility. “That was the most crass expression of racism I have ever witnessed coming from a sales person,” I nearly yelled.

This behavior was way out of character for me. Once again I had allowed myself to be triggered and had lost my ability to make effective choices. The cashier felt attacked and defensive, and I’d missed an opportunity to help her learn something new.

Another White woman hurried over and introduced herself as the manager. “What’s going on over here?” she asked. “Can I help in some way?”

I explained what had happened in as few words as possible, because I felt tears of frustration welling up and I didn’t want to cry. I sputtered and repeated myself several times. I finally quit talking and looked at the saleswoman.

“I don’t know why she’s so upset. No one disrespected her,” she said to her manager; then turning to me she asked, “Why are you so angry?”

Why was I so angry? Because I hadn’t said anything to the Black woman. Because I’m supposed to be an educator and I messed up. Because I’m so sick of seeing Black people hurt by White people.

Because I was the beneficiary of White privilege and I can’t make that go away.

The manager was doing her best to fix the situation. “So let’s just think this through,” she said. “Sometimes things can get a little crazy when people are checking out. And we all make mistakes from time to time. Is it possible the, um, the …” She paused and looked at me with raised eyebrows. Was she asking me which words to use??

“The Black woman,” I said.

“Yes, the Black woman . . . is it possible the Black woman was first in line? And you just didn’t see her?”

The cashier was clearly ready for this to be over. “That’s it,” she said, “just an honest mistake. I really didn’t see her.”

As if this were any kind of coherent explanation. A beautiful, brown-skinned, large-as-life woman — a woman with a credit card and an armful of items to purchase — had suddenly became invisible.

This is only one of the dangers of the social construct of Whiteness. It can make us blind.

Maybe my readers are wondering how I remember these conversations years later. After I left the store, I sat in my car and dictated the whole story into my voice recorder, which I kept with me at all times for this very reason. Now I use my phone. I have hundreds of stories like this one, all waiting to be transcribed. I share them with the hope that they will be useful examples in our struggle to become better humans.

. . .

Photo by Ryoji Iwata on Unsplash

Imagine reading this story:

A Black man runs a red light at a busy intersection, driving erratically and well over the speed limit. He swerves off the road into a parking lot. A cop pulls in behind him and screams at him to stay in his car, but he gets out anyway. The man runs to the back of his car; the cop puts his hand on his gun. Then the man pulls something out of his trunk.

What do you think happens next?

. . .

Here’s my story:

I was rushing around my kitchen, gathering cookies, cans of soda, and paper plates to take to a community picnic. I finally got everything loaded into several bags and headed to my car. As I was locking my front door, a yellow jacket flew in my face. I made the mistake of hitting it away, and it stung my hand.

So I went back in the house, scraped out the stinger, and covered the spot with a baking soda paste. It hurt like crazy, but I was in a hurry and too excited about the picnic to give it much thought. I tossed my purse and goodies in the trunk and took off.

Five minutes later, about a quarter mile before a major intersection, I had an asthma attack that came on so suddenly I knew I was in serious trouble. Up to that moment, I had no idea I was allergic to bee stings. My rescue inhaler was in my purse in the trunk, and there was no place to pull over out of traffic so I could retrieve it.

Those of you who have asthma know what this feels like. Your lungs close up instantly and panic sets in. You know you should stay calm and breathe slowly, but the terror of not getting enough air causes you to gasp, which triggers more spasms. Within a minute your vision starts to blur, your head pounds, and you break out in a cold sweat. Your life depends on that rescue inhaler.

I knew there was a parking lot just past the intersection, so I pushed the accelerator to the floor. The yellow light was just turning red as I sped through at perhaps 50 mph, then swerved off the street into the lot.

The cop was right behind me. He jumped out of his car and said something, but I couldn’t hear him over the pounding in my ears. I didn’t care what he was saying anyway. I only cared about getting my inhaler.

I hit the button on my dashboard to pop the trunk, then opened my door and got out. I was jittery and wild-eyed, and I probably looked a little crazy. Now I could hear the cop clearly. He screamed, “Get back in your car! NOW!” But I still didn’t care. I couldn’t tell him what was happening, because I couldn’t get enough air to speak.

Then I saw him put his hand on the gun in his holster. At this point everything seemed unreal, and it occurred to me that I might die from a bullet before asthma could kill me. I didn’t care about that either. I just ran to the trunk.

“Don’t do it! DON’T DO IT!!” he yelled.

I grabbed my purse, pulled out my inhaler, and sucked the life-saving drug into my lungs.

The cop finally realized what was happening. He stopped screaming at me and took his hand off his gun. When I was able to breathe again, I explained everything — the picnic, the bee, the panic, the purse. I showed him my now swollen hand and apologized several times.

“You were speeding, you ran a red light, and you ignored my commands,” he said. I should give you a ticket.” He watched me still trying to catch my breath. “I think you’ve learned your lesson though, so I’m just giving you a warning this time. But from now on, always keep your inhaler within easy reach.”

In spite of my illegal driving, erratic behavior, and flagrant disobedience, I was given the benefit of the doubt. The police officer saw me doing things he probably didn’t expect from middle-aged white woman, so he didn’t have an automatic, knee-jerk reaction.

You already know what my question is: What would have happened if I’d been Black?

Maybe that particular cop had been trained to recognize — and not act on — his unconscious bias, and everything would have been okay. Or maybe not.

Initially I was reluctant to post this story. I didn’t want to give the impression that I think all cops are racist, because I truly believe the vast majority are fair and principled. I also didn’t want to appear insensitive to Black people’s experiences with the police. But in the end, I decided to take the risk.

I hope my readers will find it useful.

. . .

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

A lively group of people gathered at the New England home of our friend Kiara. The festive, boisterous atmosphere grew as more guests arrived for the evening’s program of devotions and fellowship. I could see only one subdued spot in the whole room. On the couch, Laura and her two children sat still and close together, creating their own little island of quiet in a sea of buzzing activity.

I had met Laura a few days earlier. She was interested in the Bahá’í Faith and had been coming regularly to meetings at Kiara’s house. Her son and daughter, who always accompanied her, were young and close together in age — maybe five and seven years old — and they never left their mother’s side. They were so physically attached to Laura at all times that I had started thinking of them as the Velcro kids.

During an earlier conversation, Laura told me she was also attending Quaker meetings. When I asked what drew her to that particular church, she said, “I just love the quiet, contemplative atmosphere there!”

And now the three of them sat like statues in Kiara’s living room. In this mostly African-American group, they were — along with me, my husband Gene, and one other man — the only White people present.

After an uplifting hour of prayers, readings, and music, people were serving themselves from the luscious array of desserts and returning to the living room to eat and socialize. In the kitchen, Kiara chatted with two of her close friends. They were very animated, and as they talked and laughed, their voices became louder and their gestures more enthusiastic.

I was seated across the coffee table from Laura, and as the kitchen conversation became increasingly exuberant, I watched her children closely. They were still securely fastened to their mother, but they looked over their shoulders anxiously at the three women. Their eyes were wide and their little mouths compressed; they hung on tightly to Mom’s arm.

“They sure are loud,” whispered the little boy. Laura was engaged in conversation with the woman sitting next to her, and she paid no attention to her son’s observation.

“Yeah, they sure are loud,” I agreed. “Those are about the loudest ladies I ever heard!”

“How come the brown people are so loud?” asked the girl. She and her brother looked really frightened.

I watched Kiara and her friends and thought about how I could help these two impressionable kids see things differently. “Well,” I said, “I guess they just love each other so much that it has to come out loudly.”

I could see their struggle as they considered my explanation. I was an adult and they wanted to believe me, but they were having a hard time. “You mean they’re not mad?” the boy finally asked.

“Turn around and take a good look at their faces,” I said. “Do they look mad to you?”

They watched the three women for a long time, and then I actually saw their grips on their mother’s arm relax.

“Hey I’ve got a great idea!” I said to them. “Why don’t we go into the kitchen and get some cookies? It looks like your mom’s going to sit there and talk all night.”

I don’t know if I really expected my strategy to work, so I was a little surprised when they both got up, took my hands, and followed me to the plates full of goodies. As they served themselves, they looked around shyly at the three laughing women. When we returned to the living room, they sat down next to their mom and ate without touching her.

At first I was unsure if I should tell Laura what had happened as she talked with her new friend, apparently unaware of her children’s feelings. But by the end of the evening, both kids were going back to the dessert table by themselves, and were even interacting tentatively with other adults. This was such a dramatic change in their behavior that it deserved some explanation.

“That’s, um, quite amazing!” Laura said. “I couldn’t figure out why they suddenly let go of me.” She gave a little laugh. “They’re normally so clingy, in case you hadn’t noticed.” She looked at her two kids, who were having a very quiet conversation with an older Black man. “Hmmm,” she said, “I need to pay attention from now on. This is very good.”

Later, when I told Kiara the story, she declared it a miracle. It was the first time she’d seen the children leave Laura’s side. To me the miracle was the sight of a young boy and girl smiling at people they’d been afraid of only minutes before.

This was one of my first and most powerful experiences with rewriting the story we’re telling ourselves. Until very recently, the children had only been in quiet, White spaces. It wasn’t surprising that they connected loud voices with anger. They could have carried that association subconsciously into adulthood and never understood their negative reaction to groups of Black people.

That evening, they realized that loud also means joyful and loving. If only it were that easy for adults to reassess their assumptions.

This is a hard story about me and a Black woman I’m calling Lauren. We met at a conference on race relations where we were both presenters, which fostered mutual respect from the beginning. Lauren and her White husband were leading a session on the ancestors of enslaved Africans. I and my White husband were facilitating a workshop about building authentic cross-racial friendships.

Working with your spouse is challenging. Talking about race is challenging. Doing both at the same time requires a lot of patience, tact, and detachment, and I was eager to learn how Lauren and her husband managed this in an interracial marriage. Plus I was drawn to her calm energy and unpretentious way of relating.

We attended each other’s sessions throughout the weekend. In both settings, participants and presenters engaged in open, frank conversations about race. We often sat knee-to-knee, Black and White, and shared painful experiences. People were courageous and vulnerable, which created a sense of intimacy. I was feeling a heart-connection with Lauren that she seemed to be feeling too.

On the last day of the conference, we found each other to say goodbye. “I think we could develop a deeper friendship,” I said.

“Me too,” she agreed. “Here’s my contact info. Let’s get in touch soon.”

We both reached out for the hug. It was one of those really great hugs, where it seems something valuable is being exchanged. I put my hand on the back of her head, as I often do with my loved ones, and stroked her hair. My gesture had nothing to do with curiosity or wanting to touch an interesting texture. It was simply an expression of what I was feeling, without giving a moment’s thought to how it might affect her.

I did not detect any reaction — nothing that would have alerted me to the inappropriateness of my behavior. We said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.

But during the following week, I had a dream in which she was looking at me but refusing to speak. The dream was so vivid that I described it to her in a voicemail message. A week later I had the same dream two nights in a row. I figured I had subconsciously picked up on something that needed resolution, so I sent her the following email (yes, I still have it in my archives):

Do you remember me telling you about my dream in which you hovered on the periphery and didn’t interact with me? Well that’s happened again twice . . . In both dreams you were not part of the story line; you just kept appearing off to the side of the action, looking at me but not speaking. Usually when I have dreams like that, it means that the person has something to tell me or teach me. Sometimes it means she’s waiting for me to tell her something. Of course maybe it just means that I’m wishing we could hang out together — you never know with dreams. But I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask if you have something you’ve been wanting to express. If not, I’ll try to pay more attention the next time you appear and see if I can get a sense of what’s needed.

I look forward to hearing back from you and hope that we can stay in touch. I would love to talk more about the rewards and challenges of doing this work as a married couple.

When I opened her return email, I was hoping to read something like “How mysterious! I wonder what that means.” But she responded with her phone number and the days she was free for a talk. I got that itchy, butterflies-in-my-belly feeling. I knew this was going to be hard.

After “How are you?” and “How’s the weather?” and “How’s your husband?” there was a long stretch of silence. “I do have something to express,” she finally said. “It made me extremely uncomfortable when you touched my hair. I know you were just trying to be affectionate, but it was not okay. You can’t do that. You can’t touch a Black woman’s hair.”

My mind was racing. Was I hearing this for the first time? I think I said, “Please tell me more.” I don’t remember the rest of her words, but I do remember how I felt — embarrassed, regretful, foolish.

Somehow I managed to stay present and to listen without getting defensive or trying to explain myself. It’s not something I’m always able to do. Maybe this time I had help from an unseen source. I apologized, several times, and promised never to do that again. And I thanked her for telling me. Lauren took a risk, not knowing how I would react. She gave me the gift of honesty and trust.

Should I have known better than to touch a Black woman’s hair? I’ve been doing racial sensitivity training for many years. I even wrote a book about it. I know a lot about race, but maybe at the time I didn’t know this particular thing. Or maybe I knew, but I forgot. Can you see that my intentions were good? That I meant no harm?

Ah, but here’s the thing: it’s not about my good intentions. It’s about her feelings. My job, in a situation like this one, is to focus on humility, learning, and healing a cross-racial relationship.

My phone conversation with Lauren was so painful for me because I really hoped I had gotten to a place where I would never again do or say something that hurt a Black friend. But that’s pretty unrealistic.

I think that the work of achieving true racial healing has more to do with how we behave after we realize we’ve screwed up. We’re afraid of losing our dignity if we admit we were wrong and apologize. But actually we stand to lose something much more precious if we don’t.

My gratitude to Liz Dwyer. This story was originally published as a comment in response to her article about a White person touching her hair. You can read her luminous writing at Word in Black.

photo by Leo Ell’ on Unsplash

In case you’re wondering what an elder White woman might bring to this conversation

“Why do you care so much about race?” a White acquaintance asked me once. “I mean, it doesn’t really affect you directly. You seem a little obsessed. What do you get out of it?”

Yes, I guess I am somewhat obsessed with the topic of race, although I prefer to think of it as being passionate and focused. I’ll be grappling with these questions for as long as I’m able to speak and write, but for now I’ll share briefly my reasons. This is why I care and how I’m affected.

The heart reason

My husband and I lived on the road in an RV for 15 years. We travelled around the country facilitating workshops and dialogues on racial justice and healing. Now there are Black women, men, youth, and children that I love in every part of the U.S. They are my teachers and my friends. My heart is torn and battered by the racism my Black friends experience day in and day out. It would be unbearable to stand by idly while loved ones are being hurt. My heart demands that I do something.

The spirit reason

The central teaching of my religion, the Bahá’í Faith, is the oneness of humanity. We are directed to eliminate all forms of prejudice and build a society founded on justice and unity. We’ve been given explicit guidance on how to create authentic relationships between Black and White Americans. Because I’ve committed my life to these teachings, my soul demands that I strive continually to make a difference.

The mind reason

Here’s where my passion/obsession gets really fired up. I can explain it best with a story, taken from the book my husband and I co-authored.

“[When I was in my 30s] I attended for the first time a workshop that directly addressed the dynamics of racism. There I saw a documentary that explained how stereotypical images of African-Americans had been intentionally created by the media.

To illustrate their explanation, the filmmakers used excerpts of cartoons from the 1950s — the same ones I had watched after school and Saturday mornings throughout my childhood. I knew exactly what would happen next in each animated scene; my memory of the images was so vivid that I heard myself saying out loud what was coming, describing to the others in the room what each character was going to do seconds before we saw it played out on the screen.

It was as if I’d just found out I had a mind-control chip implanted in my brain — only this was my real life, not some science fiction horror movie. In an instant everything changed from theoretical to personal. I realized that those images had been dished up with my milk and cookies and fed directly into my hypnotized brain as I sat on the floor in front of our TV.

My mind had been poisoned without my consent, and the pictures were still in there, manipulating me subconsciously, robbing me of the freedom to choose my own thoughts. I was shaking with rage by the end of the workshop.” (Longing: Stories of Racial Healing, p. 70)

How could we White people think that racism doesn’t affect us? Our minds have been — and are still being — manipulated by toxic conditioning that dictates our thoughts, emotions, and behaviors. I want to be free of that control. I want to choose what I think, feel, and do based on my true priorities and convictions. My mind demands that I reclaim my freedom to make those choices.

What do I get out of it?

This is what my acquaintance wanted to know, and I think his question was sincere. I can tell you that the benefits, blessings, and rewards are far too many to recount here. You’ll find examples scattered throughout the stories I’ll be sharing.

For now, though, I’ll say this: When I speak and write about racial justice and healing, I know that I’m doing what I’ve been called to do in this world. And given the chaos, confusion, hopelessness, and doubt we’re all immersed in, that’s no small thing.

photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash