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 to Israel three times on pilgrimage to the Baha’i World Center in Haifa. The most recent trip was in 2004 with my husband, our son, and my 79-year-old mother. Even though I’d been in the Tel Aviv airport before and knew what to expect, I was still intimidated by the young soldiers who seemed to be everywhere, carrying rifles slung casually over their shoulders.

At the Customs checkpoint, I handed my passport to an agent, who took his time examining every page. He verified my name and birthdate, compared my photo to my face, then started with the questions.

Agent: “What is your purpose for coming to Israel?”

Me: “I’m making a pilgrimage to the Baha’i World Center in Haifa.”

Agent: “What locations will you be visiting while you’re in Israel?”

Me: “Haifa and Akka.”

Agent: “What will you do at these locations?”

Me: “Visit Baha’i shrines and holy places.”

Agent: “How long will you be staying in Israel?”

Me: “Ten days.”

There may have been more questions that I’ve since forgotten. I tried to monitor my tone, but I’m sure a note of defensiveness crept in. Did I look like a criminal?

Did my 79-YEAR-OLD MOTHER look like a criminal? Then I reminded myself that this was Israel after all, a foreign country where soldiers walked the streets with rifles.

Things are different here. We’re accustomed to a certain level of freedom in the U.S. We can go where we want without being questioned or regarded with suspicion. People in authority don’t assume we could be criminals.

Oh, wait. Let me try that again.

I’m accustomed to a certain level of freedom in the U.S. I can go where I want without being questioned or regarded with suspicion. People in authority don’t assume I could be a criminal. Because I’m White.

. . .

Now our scene is set in a very White town on a barrier island in Florida. We’re at the end of a bridge connecting this town to a racially diverse city on the mainland.

My friend F.G. is on his way to an art studio on the beach, where he teaches drawing and drumming.

F.G. is a tall, slim Black man in his 70s. He hands his driver’s license to the police officer who stopped his car before it left the bridge. The cop took his time examining the license. He verified F.G.’s name and birthdate, checked his car title and insurance, then started with the questions.

Officer: “Where are you headed, Mr. G?”

F.G.: “To the art studio on Main Street.”

Officer: “And why are you going there?”

F.G.: “To teach my art class.”

Officer: “Will you be going anywhere else on the island?”

F.G.: “No sir.”

Officer: “About when do you think you’ll be heading back home, Mr. G?”

F.G.: “Well that depends on whether or not I decide to stay in town for dinner.”

Officer: “Now don’t try to get smart with me. I asked you a simple question.”

F.G.: “5:30. I’ll be heading home around 5:30.”

Officer: “Well thank you so much for your cooperation, Mr. G. I’ll be looking out for you. Have a nice day now.”

F. G.: “You too, sir.”

And my friend F.G. now has to go about his day, teach his class, and interact with his students as if everything is fine. “If I let it get to me,” he told me once, “I’d be angry all the time. That stress would kill me. I have to let it go.”

It’s hard for me to imagine what it would be like to experience this in my own country — to have a person in authority challenge my right to be somewhere, to have to defend that right, to have to choose, based on how much energy I have that day, whether to be deferential, ignore the indignity, or stand up for my rights (which could end up with me being jailed, or roughed up, or worse).

Yet this is the reality for countless Black men and women, day in and day out, all over this country. I wold be grateful to hear what my readers and their organizations are doing to address this. Do you know of any successful initiatives?

Photo by Micky Fritzsche on Unsplash

I thought they were coming over to ask for directions, but they were moving so fast. Their car was painted flat black all over — no trim or markings of any kind. The two of them came flying at us the instant the car stopped moving.

Two White cops, both young, one tall, one short. The short one looked so angry. They weren’t wearing normal police uniforms, but rather some kind of commando outfits — black bullet-proof vests, black pants covered with zippered pockets and chains, from which various deadly-looking objects swung. At first I didn’t realize they were cops.

Up to a point, their actions made sense. They’d been parked down the block and had seen what looked like an older couple being accosted by two young men.

They came to our rescue. If my husband and I had been in trouble, we would have been grateful for their presence.

But we weren’t in trouble. We were hanging out on a corner in Chicago, late at night, with our son and one of his friends — a friend we’d known and loved since he was a toddler. We’d been to a concert and dinner together. My husband Gene and I are White, as is our son E. Our friend TB is Black.

TB and I had been engaged in an intense conversation since dinner. We’d taken a walk around the block while Gene and E stood talking on the corner. It was after midnight when we got back. I was tired. Our RV was parked in a suburb south of the city, an hour’s drive away, and I wanted to get going. I also wanted to let the boys head home to their apartments before it got any later.

I walked up to my husband and son while TB leaned against the wall of a brownstone. They clearly weren’t finished talking, and E waved me away when I interrupted them. I waited a couple minutes, then told them again it was time to go. They ignored me. I gave my son a little push and he pushed me back. Then we tussled, a short mother and her taller son, just goofing around, while the father kept talking and the friend laughed at their antics from his spot next to the building.

That is when the cops saw us.

Everything happened so fast, and I didn’t understand what they wanted. The tall cop rushed to where the three of us stood and started asking questions. The short, angry one went straight for TB. Screaming.

“We thought you were being attacked ma’am,” the tall one explained.

“No, no,” I assured him, “it’s a misunderstanding! We were just playing. Everything’s fine. This is my husband, this is our son, and this is our friend.” It took several repetitions, but he seemed to finally believe what I was saying.

I turned around just as the short cop yanked TB’s hands behind his back and then threw him against the car, made him spread his legs. The guy’s face was red and contorted with rage. He screamed threats and obscenities at TB, who complied with slow, measured movements.

“STOP!” I yelled at the cop. “He’s our friend! He’s our friend! He didn’t do anything. What are you doing? STOP HURTING HIM!”

He was like an out of control child having a tantrum, and I wanted to grab his arm and shout, “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Only he wasn’t a child and he had a gun. I would have kept shouting at him, but E was suddenly next to me.

“Mom, stop talking to him,” he said. “Don’t say anything. You’re making it worse.”

I hadn’t thought of that. If I made him angrier, he wasn’t going to come at me with all his rage. He would take it out on TB. I stopped shouting, and the three of us watched, powerless to do anything, until finally the tall cop intervened.

“That’s enough,” he said. “Leave him be.” The crazy cop kept shouting. “I said that’s enough. Time to go. Let’s go now. Come on,” said tall one. And just like that, it was over. They got in their car and drove away. Our friend was alive.

At first, TB asked us never to mention the episode again. “It’s not the first time this has happened,” he said, “and it won’t be the last. But I wish you didn’t have to witness it.” So we kept the story to ourselves. Later he gave us permission to include it in the book we were writing.

This story is about more than police brutality. It’s also about the danger of white ignorance and privilege. It never occurred to me that by playing a pushing game with my son, I was risking the life of our friend. What seems harmless to me could be deadly to someone who’s Black. If I forget this, it’s because my white privilege allows me to forget.

TB’s story didn’t make it into our book. I think it was still too raw and too hard to write. This is the first time it’s been shared publicly.

Photo by Lorenzo Messina from Pexels

My mom used to tell a story about my love of drums when I was little. Apparently she would take me to a parade and then lose track of my whereabouts! This happened in the Days of Yore, when children wandered off from their parents and no one was concerned. She would eventually find me marching down the street alongside the drum line.

When I was in elementary school and the music teacher asked which instrument I would like to play in the band, I said, “DRUM!”

“Oh I’m sorry,” I imagine he responded, “but only boys get to play the drums. Girls can play the flute, clarinet, or bells.”

I still get a lump in my throat when I remember that day. I may have shouted, “That’s not fair!” which would have had no effect. I wasn’t interested in any of those other instruments, so I became a singer instead. But my love of drums never wavered.

Someday soon I will write the whole story of how that love drew me to West African drums — djembes and dununs — and to my teacher, Master drummer Mamady Keita. He, and the other teachers at his TTM Academy around the country, taught me how to play these drums. He gave me one of my life’s most precious gifts.

Mamady Keita dedicated his life to assuring that the Mandingue (Malinke) traditions would be honored and preserved. As his student, I made a promise to play djembe rhythms in their authentic and historically accurate forms. In response, Mamady named me an ambassador of Mandingue culture, as he did everyone who studied with him. I do not take this designation lightly.

In San Diego, where my husband and I spent many of our winters in the RV, I played my djembe with the San Diego Women’s Drum Circle. One year, a few of us were invited to perform at a national convention for women in psychology. Our little group of drummers included one Black woman and probably six or seven White women.

In an odd parallel, the convention participants included one Black woman and maybe a hundred White women. We drummed for them at the end of their morning session, right before lunch break. As we played and our audience swayed and clapped, I kept watching the lone Black woman, who sat in the middle of the third row. She didn’t move or look at us.

We finished playing, and our group started packing up equipment, while the psychologists gathered their belongings and left for lunch. Only the Black woman remained seated, still looking at the floor. I sat down next to her and asked if she was okay.

“No,” she said. “No, I’m not okay.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked.

“I see all you White women playing those African drums,” she answered, “and I don’t know if I love you or hate you for it.”

I’ve forgotten what I said in response, but it must have been something that encouraged her to continue. I did make notes later as I sat in my car, and to the best of my memory, this is what she said:

When my ancestors were stolen from West Africa, they had to leave their drums behind. Those drums were an integral part of their daily lives — their grief and celebrations, births and deaths. They arrived here without their drums and were not allowed to build new ones. Their rhythms were lost to them. Their identity was stripped away from them. This is who I come from — people who lost their drums. And now, everywhere I look, I see White women playing my ancestors’ drums. It’s brutal. Do they even know the history? Is it because they’re the ones who have money to buy the drums and pay for the lessons? The lessons with African teachers? Does anyone see the irony here? I’m enraged that White women are free to play my ancestors’ drums. I resent them. I resent you.

But. At the same time, if it wasn’t for White women, these rhythms would not be spreading all around this country. You are the ones who have the means and the opportunities to do this. You are the ones keeping the traditions alive, making sure they’re not forgotten. You White women are the ones who brought the sounds of my ancestors to this room, to me. I am grateful to White woman for that, and I’m grateful to you.

I monitored my own emotions closely as she talked. There was guilt when she spoke of resentment, followed by relief when she expressed her gratitude. I did my best to keep my reactions to myself, although I wanted to cry more than once.

When I take notes after an interaction like this one, I write down what the other person said but often fail to record my own words. So I can’t remember how I responded to her. What I can tell you is that our conversation was the beginning of a friendship. And when my husband and I left Oregon on our book tour several years later, she was the first person to schedule a reading for us.

I often hear her words in my head when I’m drumming. Then I hear Mamady Keita’s words: “The drum knows no color. The drum knows no gender, no age, no nationality. Do not ever allow this drum to become an instrument of separation or discord.”

I want to honor Mamady’s instructions, yet when I have an opportunity to play with African American drummers, I feel uneasy, like I shouldn’t be there. Like I’m imposing my whiteness into their sacred space and using something that doesn’t belong to me. Although I’ve never been made to feel unwelcome in such settings, I often choose not to participate. It’s painful that something that feels so good can also feel so wrong.

How do I hold these contradictory truths at the same time? And my friend — how does she hold both resentment and gratitude? There are no easy answers here.

I’d love to know your thoughts.

Photo by Lee Pigott on Unsplash

I haven’t written much about my RV days on Medium yet. Those stories will come later. During the month of August I’’m posting daily articles about race. Today’s story, however, would never have happened if my husband and I weren’t full-time RVers.

When you live on the road, decisions about where to go and when to go there are frequently determined by geography and climate. We discovered early on that campgrounds and RV parks in the northern states usually close down in October or November. One day I’ll write the story about using a hair dryer to thaw out the door of our RV, which was frozen shut because we were parked in Illinois in January.

During the 15 years we lived on the road, we spent most of our winter months in San Diego, Phoenix, or Florida. We tried southern Texas once, but it turns out we were not well-suited to that environment. The year this particular story takes place, we were parked in an RV resort on a barrier island in Melbourne Beach, Florida. It was populated mainly by “Snowbirds,” retirees who live in the North part of the year and migrate to the South in November. Most of the Florida snowbirds came from New York.

Their dwellings were called “park models,” mobile homes that had become permanent. Only a few spaces were left for full-time travelers. This place had many advantages: it was relatively inexpensive, always warm, and across the street from the ocean. The main drawback — at least in our opinion it was a drawback — was that everyone was White. In the five months we stayed there, during which I walked around the entire park daily, I never saw a resident person of color.

Across the bridge, on the mainland, were pockets of diversity. Black Americans and people of African descent from the Islands lived in one neighborhood, Cubans and Puerto Ricans in another. The White majority was a mix of Northerners and native Floridians. There were very few places where these populations interacted with each other.

My husband and I were in the process of writing our book (which includes an embarrassing story about my encounter with two Black construction workers at the RV resort and a disturbing story about a Black friend who visited us there). We decided to join a writer’s critique group in hopes of getting useful feedback to help us refine our manuscript.

The group consisted of five White women and one White man. They welcomed us warmly, and our first meeting was enjoyable and helpful. We were given an assignment to write the 25-word blurb that would appear on the back cover of our book. The following week we showed up with the result of our considerable efforts:

“A white couple’s personal account of a journey that took them into the lives of African Americans, where they discovered their greatest challenge — their own racial conditioning.”

We were quite satisfied with our blurb, but when I read it, there was an immediate and uncomfortable reaction among the members of the group.

“Why do you have to say that you’re White?” asked one woman.

Her question stumped us for a minute. When we explained that our whiteness was a crucial element of our book, she got upset.

“I don’t like that,” she said. “It makes me feel like I have to think of myself with a label. I don’t need a label. I’m just a human being.”

Then another woman said, “I certainly wouldn’t buy the book if I read that blurb. You’re calling attention to your whiteness; that tells me your book will be lecturing and condescending. I know you’re going to accuse me of something.”

There were more comments in the same vein. Try as we might, we were unable to help them see the illogical nature of their argument. How could we write a book about our racial conditioning without talking about being White?

They were not having it. They were fine with labeling others but wanted none of that for themselves. I think we went to one or two more meetings before admitting that we weren’t going to get what we needed from this particular critique group.

White privilege tells me that in almost all situations, I’m not required to identify myself as White. I can think of myself as “just a normal person,” and our society lets me get away with that.

I will never forget the first time I attended a Martin Luther King Day pancake breakfast at a Black church in Atlanta. The sign-in sheet had boxes to check for ethnicity. The only option that applied to me was “non-Black.” That was the first time in my life I was ever forced to think of myself as “non” something.

It’s very good for us White people to experience that kind of challenge to our assumptions about our identity. It actually happens to me often here in Atlanta, which is why I choose to live here. I think it makes me a better human being.

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash