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

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

In my last post I wrote about what it might mean when White people say “I don’t see color.”

In this post I want to talk about another thing we often say and give you some examples of how Black folks might respond.

I don’t see you as Black

There’s only one interpretation I can think of for that statement:

I believe the negative stereotypes about Black people, but you’re not like them. You don’t act the way I expect Black people to act. You’re an exception.

I wouldn’t even know where to go from there. It’s just bad. Try not to say it.

Following are conversations I heard in three different workshops on racial healing. I always took detailed notes and sometimes made recordings, so the dialogue is reproduced here fairly accurately.

Conversation #1

A White woman gave a long speech about how she was free of all prejudice. Then she looked at a Black woman and said, “For example, I don’t see you as Black.”

“What do you see me as?” asked the Black woman.

“I just see you as Lakisha.”

“And if you had to describe my physical appearance, what would you say?”

“Well,” said the White woman, “I’d say you were medium height, middle-age, with very curly hair.”

“You wouldn’t mention my brown skin?” asked Lakisha.

“Heavens no!”

“Why not?”

“Because that would mean you were . . . “ And that’s where she stopped talking.

Lakisha finally said, “If you don’t see me as Black, then you don’t see me at all.”

Conversation #2

White woman: “I don’t like all this emphasis on differences. We’ll never get past racism if we put so much focus on that. We should be talking about all the ways we’re the same.” Then, looking at the Black woman seated next to her, she said, “You and I are more alike than different. When I look at you, I see another human being. I don’t see you as Black.”

Black woman: “What do you mean by that?”

White woman: “Just what I said — you and I are alike.”

Black woman: “You mean I’m like you?”

Ww: “Yes! Exactly!”

Bw: “So how do I get other White people to treat me the same way they treat you?”

Ww: “Well . . . it’s just that . . . “

Bw: “Or do you mean you’re like me?

Ww: “Not that so much . . . “

Bw: “Why not? Why doesn’t it work both ways?”

And that’s where the conversation ended, because the White woman started crying.

Conversation #3

Susan, who’s White, said to Alan, whom she’s known for many years, “To me, you’re just my friend Alan. I forget that you’re Black all the time.”

Alan said, “What about all these incidents we just been discussing — things that happen to me on a daily basis because I’m Black. Do you forget that too?”

“Oh no, of course I don’t,” said Susan.

“Why do you think I experience racism constantly?” he asked.

“Well, because you’re Black,” she answered. Then, “Okay, I get your point. I guess I can see you as Black, but I don’t have to like it.”

“I love being Black,” said Alan.

End of conversation.

Do you see how problematic this is? No matter how we spin it, if we who are White aren’t able to see Black people in their full reality — not only the beauty of their color, but also their experiences — then we’re useless as allies. If we claim we want to do the work of dismantling racist systems and building just communities, we have to see everything.

Does “I don’t see you as White” mean the same thing?

In 1968, during my sophomore year in college, I had a Black roommate. She was from the South Side of Chicago and had been active in the Civil Rights Movement there. She and her friends held a Black Sisters gathering regularly in our dorm room to talk about the changes they wanted to see on campus and how they would go about making their demands.

I came from a 99.98% white suburb of Chicago, and I heard things in that dorm room I’d never heard before. Often they were angry. They talked about Black Power and used unfamiliar words for White people. The first time this happened, I sat on the floor in the corner (my bed, desk, and chair were occupied by Black women) and tried not to look shocked.

During the second Black Sisters gathering, I asked, “Would you be more comfortable if I left the room? I can go study in the lounge.”

One student asked, “Are you uncomfortable with us?”

I said, “No, but I don’t know how you feel about having a White person listening to everything you’re saying.”

“You stay here,” she said. “We don’t think of you as White.”

I was not insulted; I was grateful. The education I received sitting with those powerful young women has served me throughout my life. Some of the things they said were really difficult to hear, so I got to practice facing my fragility. When I said something stupid — which happened quite often — one of them would say, “Well that was stupid.” If I talked too much, they told me to shut up and listen. It was a tough start to my race education, but I wouldn’t change anything. They were among my first teachers and I honor them.

I would love to hear about your experiences. Have you said dumb things in a conversation about race? What happened? What did you learn?

Photo by Emily Rose: https://www.pexels.com/photo/woman-in-blind-fold-2893996/

As you may have figured out by now, I spend a lot of time thinking about race. Specifically I think about my racial conditioning as a White woman and how I can replace it with truth. I find it helpful to look at the things we White people commonly say and their underlying assumptions. Two of the most predictable are “I don’t see color” and “I don’t see you as Black.”

Let’s examine these statements and try to uncover what we really mean when we say them. We’ll look at the first one in this post and the second one in the next.

I Don’t See Color

I’ve come up with three different things White people might be trying to say when we speak those words.

• God doesn’t see color, so I shouldn’t see it either. Color doesn’t matter. We’re all the same on the inside.

I do believe that God sees us as colorless souls. But we are dual-natured beings, both spiritual and material, at least as long as we’re living in this world. Bodies have skin, which have color, and our society has assigned meaning and hierarchy to those colors. We are given or refused advantages based on color. We experience oppression or entitlement based on color. We have to be able to see these differences if we hope to work for justice.

Try this experiment: extend your arm straight out in front of your face, with your thumb up and at eye level. Close your right eye. What’s behind your thumb? Now, keeping your arm perfectly still, open your right eye and close your left. What’s behind your thumb now?

What you see behind your thumb is different, depending on your literal point of view. Nothing else changed. My bookshelf is directly behind my thumb, and my printer is directly behind my thumb. Both views are true, even though the objects are 18” apart.

So let’s say that one is your spiritual eye and the other your material eye. When you look at a person through your spiritual eye, you don’t see color; you see another human soul who is just like you. However when you look at her through your material eye, you see the color of her skin, as well as what that color means. It’s not dichotomous; one does not cancel out the other.

So we don’t see color and we do see color, both at the same time. Besides, if you believe in God, then you must believe She/He made humans colorful on purpose.

• I look at you and I truly can’t distinguish your color at all.

I assume this one could be true if you have a certain kind of color blindness. But if your eyes perceive color normally, it’s more likely a statement designed to convince someone you’re not racist. I grew up thinking that if I noticed dark skin color, that automatically meant I was racist. It seems to me that younger generations have moved beyond this idea. Let’s hope it dies out with us old people.

• I do see your color, but I don’t let it influence how I think of you. I treat everyone the same.

This is a worthy goal, but in our current society it’s not possible. Anyone who thinks they’re free of color/race bias can go here for a reality check. https://implicit.harvard.edu/implicit/takeatest.html

This is Harvard’s Implicit (as in unconscious) Association Test, and it will mess with your mind. There are 15 different tests — I recommend the Race IAT and the Skin-tone IAT for our purposes. Once you’ve been sufficiently humbled, you might want to try some of the others.

When I took the Race test several years ago, my results surprised me. Here’s the test description:

“Race (‘Black — White’ IAT). This IAT requires the ability to distinguish faces of European and African origin. It indicates that most Americans have an automatic preference for white over black.”

My results show “a strong automatic preference for Black people compared to White people.” Only 2% of all respondents have this preference. (I made a screen shot of my report and I keep it on my phone, just in case I ever have to prove that I’m not making it up.)

I was thrilled! I finally had official proof that I’d succeeded in overcoming all my racist attitudes. The following day I reported my score to a dear Black male friend, who knows me very well.

“I’m in the TOP two percent!” I boasted. I wouldn’t have said this to anyone else, Black or White. It can come off all wrong. In fact, I’ve told only a few people about my results. Up till now, that is.

“The top?” he asked.

“Yep! Top two percent, that’s me.” (If we could use emojis on Medium, I would place a face-palm here.)

When he finally stopped laughing, he said, “I don’t think that’s the goal Phyllis. I believe the ideal would be to show no preference for one over the other.”

Ego is a tricky devil. Mine got crushed when I took some of the other tests.

What could we say instead?

The best I’ve come up with so far is “I notice and appreciate differences of color and I’m working hard to overcome my unconscious racial biases.”

What would you say?

Photo by pawel szvmanski 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