The Undercover Introvert

Racism 101: Colorblindness

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I’m worried about a large swath of white folks here in America. It’s shameful that no one is talking about this issue when there are literally thousands of people struggling with a disability that should have been addressed by medical professionals long ago.

Apparently, many Caucasian Americans aren’t able to properly see color. Just imagine how hard this makes day to day life. Driving, picking out matching clothing, becoming fighter jet pilots. Is this some kind of epidemic that only afflicts the melanin-deficient? What can be done about this obviously crippling affliction of colorblindness?

Fortunately, there actually is a cure: education.

I wish I had a dollar for every white person who told me she doesn’t see color after being called out for saying or doing something racially insensitive. I’d have a whole lot of dollars. Whenever I hear this tired refrain, if I’m in a good mood, I reply with: that must make navigating stoplights difficult. If I’m not in a good mood, I reply with something more along the lines of: bullshit.

What is the source of this seemingly convenient affliction? The culprit seems to be a deliberate misreading of a portion of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s most famous speech (and often the only MLK the white person in question has ever heard and/or read):

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

Beautiful, right?

But to these white folks who have chosen to believe they don’t see color, what they hear in that single line of a single speech MLK gave in the 1960’s is that he had a dream that, one day, no one would notice that he was black. That he would be whitewashed and everything would be great in America in this post-racial version of Orwell’s 1984…

Um, no.

What the man was actually saying — and I have had to school dozens upon dozens of white folks over the years on this very point — is that he dreamt of a time when his children would be judged by who they show themselves to be through their actions and not automatically by who white people think they must be based solely on their skin color.

Acting like you don’t see color isn’t an excuse for racist fuckery. Racism is interwoven into the cloth that makes up the very fabric of America. That’s what makes it systemic. No one grows up in this country without either benefiting from or suffering because of these systems of oppression. So, just because you have a friend who is black or you voted for Obama (twice!) doesn’t mean you aren’t a product of a racist society that has had a hand in shaping your every thought and action.

Stop using Martin Luther King, Jr. as a weapon against black folks, y’all. Stop. He was a radical thinker who was hated by the establishment back in his day. Let’s not forget, the man was assassinated for crying out loud. That’s how much of a threat he was to the white owned status quo. You don’t get to use a single line from one of his speeches to absolve your racist and insensitive behavior.

Look, there’s nothing wrong with acknowledging that people are different colors. I’m black and I’m proud, as the song goes. The trouble starts where your preconceived notions come into play. You see a black person and make judgments based solely on skin color about criminality, sexuality, intellect, etc. Your prejudice is the problem MLK was talking about, not the actual color of my skin.

Colorblindness only when it pertains to skin color is not a thing. Stop pretending that it is. And stop using this made up affliction as a shield to deflect from all insinuation that your words or actions, no matter how unintended, actively work to uphold systems of oppression.

You see color. We all do. Claiming otherwise is willfully absurd and ignorant. And, y’all, stop dragging MLK into this foolishness.

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Thanking John Lewis

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Yesterday, I met Congressman John Lewis. I shook his hand, spoke with him, and posed for a few pictures. I listened as he told a group of students about his life growing up in rural Alabama, about his father who was a sharecropper, about the way he always questioned segregation, though his mother warned him to stay out of trouble and stop asking questions.

We’re all fortunate that he never stopped asking questions. That the innate sense of injustice he felt as a boy drove him to act as a young man. We still have a long way to go in this country, but people who look like me wouldn’t be as far along as we are without people like John Lewis. People willing to risk their lives for a movement from which they might never benefit.

My origin story — how I got involved in political organizing and campaigns — pales in comparison to his. Rep. Lewis held the entire room in thrall as he told us that meeting Rosa Parks at 17 and Martin Luther King, Jr. at 18 is what turned him into an activist.

He talked about marching in Selma and barely making it out alive.

He talked about the importance of voting, how it was life and death in those days.

It’s still life and death, but it’s not as visceral and immediate, so folks seem to have forgotten. Rep. Lewis urged everyone to vote, to do their small part to save our democracy. It’s precious, that vote. A flame we have to hold in cupped hands as the winds lash around us. Because that flame can go out.

As I listened to this powerhouse of the Civil Rights Movement, I thought about how annoyed I am whenever someone tells me they don’t plan to vote, or they ran out of time, or they aren’t even registered and don’t care. It infuriates me, but I can’t even imagine how frustrating it must be for someone like John Lewis. I never rode into the segregated south to make sure people had the rights I take for granted every day. I have never been beaten on my way to the polls. As flawed as race relations in America still are to this day, I have never feared for my life when exercising my right to vote. That is a gift. And people like John Lewis are the ones who bestowed it upon every person of color in this country. But gifts can be taken away.

One woman asked what made Rep. Lewis decide to run for office. His eloquent response was immediate, and it brought tears to my eyes. Recounting it here would not do it justice, but as my activism is a mere echo of the fire of John Lewis’s activism, so too can my words be a distant echo of the ones he spoke not even 24 hours ago.

He said that he watched as John F. Kennedy was assassinated. And then he lost his friend, Martin Luther King, Jr. He was with Robert Kennedy when he heard the news. They were friends too, and they mourned together. And then, Bobby Kennedy was assassinated as well. He said that of the 10 speakers at the March on Washington, where MLK gave his famous ‘I Have a Dream’ speech, he was the youngest, and he is the only one still alive today. That loss of life, the threat to the movement, is what compelled him to run, to serve, to keep pushing for what was right. He urged us to heal the division in this country, and quoted his friend:

‘ We must learn to live together as brothers, or perish together as fools’.

And, oh, what fools we’ve been. Not bothering to vote. Watching as a group of motivated members of one political party make all the rules for the rest of us. Allowing hyper partisan politics to divide us into even smaller, less effective groups.

I’ve always voted, but I haven’t always been involved. That laziness, that distinctly American acquiescence, stopped on November 9th, 2016. John Lewis’s activism started in his youth, when he questioned segregation, and those burning questions led him to action. I had questions too as very young woman, but there was no spark, no inferno, until I feared the prospect of losing the rights Rep. Lewis’s generation fought so hard to secure.

History is a wheel. The same things happen again and again, and only the players are different. We stumble into the same mistakes because we don’t listen to those who came before us, those who saw the impending darkness of tyranny or lived the reality of brutal racism firsthand. I’ve tried to listen well in the last two years, but it’s so hard to know, in the moment, if you are helping the cause or hurting it. And it’s a cushy kind of activism when you never have to worry about losing your life. Does that make it less worthwhile? Or is that another thing for which to thank activists like John Lewis? Even in the semi-enlightened age of 2018, not everyone my color can protest without swift, sometimes violent repercussions. But many of us can. And that is a gift too.

Before he left for the airport, I thanked John Lewis for everything. He smiled and thanked me. I’m sure he hears so much of what I said from the thousands of people he meets every year. But I meant every unoriginal word. So much of what I have, so much of what I take for granted, was only available to me because of the sacrifices he and many others made. The ones who risked their lives and safety. The ones who did not make it to the promised land.

I wish I could have found a way to say all of this to him, and to promise that there are so many of us trying hard to continue the work that he started at 18. But words failed, and I could only say thank you.

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Why She Waited So Long to Report

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The short answer? She didn’t.

Growing up, I had a creepy, handsy cross country coach who made all the girls on the team uncomfortable. For months, we all talked about it, but no one did anything. I told friends and the boys on the team. Finally, I went to my mother. We ended up talking to the vice principal who made it clear this wasn’t anything he cared about. The coach was only removed from the team after massive, prolonged pushback from my mother. If not for that, he’d have continued to coach our team for the remainder of the season. He still coached the girls basketball team in the winter, though, and also stayed on as a special ed teacher until, years later, he was caught abusing one of his students.

Here’s the thing, besides this article and one other I wrote about this asshole, I haven’t spoken much about this incident, or any of the other men who have made me uncomfortable or touched me when I gave them no permission. But I can guarantee you that if I saw one of these fuckers running for political office or up for a Supreme Court appointment, I’d be on the phone to any media outlet who would listen. I would shout what happened from the rooftops. And people hearing my story would likely wonder:

This was years ago. Why did she wait so long to report?

Well, I didn’t. I just happened to be born female in a world that neither values women and girls nor believes their claims of assault, cruelty, or rape when reported.

I can’t count the times a friend has told me about an incident in confidence that ends with: I told my mother/father/uncle/aunt/friend/teacher and wasn’t believed.

It happens ALL THE TIME.

And sometimes you are believed, but you’re shamed into not telling anyone else. Think of his family. His future. Are you sure you didn’t ask for it? Were you drinking? What were you wearing? Did you say no forcefully enough? And on and on.

The grown ass vice principal sat across from 16 year old me and had the balls to tell me he hugged students all the time after I told him this coach continued to touch me after I asked him repeatedly to stop. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d gone to my mother and she hadn’t believed me. Or, worse, if she’d believed me but told me it was no big deal. Actually, I do know what I would have done — I’d have sucked it up and let it go.

And that’s society’s message to women and girls: suck it up and let it go. It’s not a big deal. Boys will be boys. Locker room talk. He’s only pushing you because he likes you. Over and over again from cradle to grave. Women are discounted and their experiences minimized. We’re told to be grateful for male attention, no matter the form, no matter how unwanted.

So, I don’t ask what took so long for a woman to come forward. I know that, in some way not evident to the general public, she already told her story to someone. Not every unwanted ass slap and rape attempt results in a criminal conviction or police report. For some reason, we as a society equate that to the objective fact of the incident’s occurrence. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. These things happen every day, and no one is brought to justice. No one is prosecuted. Women and girls suck it up. They let it go.

The next time you start to wonder aloud about why a woman waited five, ten, or twenty years to report an assault, just STFO instead. Because speaking up is hard when you live in a culture working every day to silence you. Talking becomes a revolutionary act, and the punishment for opening your mouth is severe. Remember that before you heap on scorn and disbelief. Just listen. Hear her. And believe her.

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When You Can’t Tell the Difference Between Sexual Harassment and Flirting

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To hear some guys tell it, the world has become an unforgiving minefield. One misstep, no matter how well-intentioned, can cost you an extremity, leading to the complete ruination of your professional and private life. This transformation of the collective landscape was rather sudden, they claim, and it was ushered into existence by the strength of the #MeToo movement. Now all men have been painted with a broad, negative brush, these guys complain, and it’s difficult to know where to safely step considering how irreversibly the world has been changed.

*Insert concerto for the world’s smallest violin.*

That was lovely music, wasn’t it? Now, let’s address some of the aforementioned concerns.

I’ve actually heard a variation of the above cascade of male tears dozens upon dozens of times since Harvey Weinstein took his abrupt nosedive from grace, and a parade of other men followed suit, their creepy skeletons dancing out of the closet as though on cue. Here are some of my favorites:

How can men ask women out on dates without being accused of sexual harassment?

Is flirting not allowed anymore?

Should I ever be alone with a female colleague?!

And so on.

These are presented as legitimate concerns from seemingly earnest individuals. My first response is always the same: if you can’t tell the difference between flirting and sexual harassment, you are not safe for women to be around. Full fucking stop. And, further, if you view your professional life as one big dating game, with female coworkers playing the part of unwilling contestants, you are not safe for women to be around.

Look, I know it’s hard to be expected to take responsibility for your actions as an adult human male. In your defense, society has never demanded that you do that before. Women, on the other hand, are taught from a young age that they are responsible for the actions of men and boys. If you are sexually assaulted, what were you wearing? Did you say no? Did you mean it? If you are harassed at work, are you sure he meant it that way? Maybe it was a joke. Don’t you have a sense of humor? Also, what were you wearing? The responsibility for male behavior always sits on a woman’s (hopefully not bare, because OMFG) shoulders…but that’s changing.

Now blindingly powerful men are being held responsible for their own actions and y’all regular men are losing your damned minds, because if captains of industry can’t get away with this kind of behavior, what are the chances that y’all can grab asses without repercussions?! The male tears are ENDLESS. I have to be honest, I’m here for it, because it’s way past time that you joined the rest of us in Actions Create Consequences Land.

Let me be clear, you can absolutely flirt, and ask women out, and have close, fun, and appropriate interactions with female coworkers.

Here’s what you can’t do: take advantage of women in the workplace because you are in a leadership role. Treat women as though they owe you something sexually simply because you find them attractive. Blunder through life fueled on testosterone viewing women as mere conquests that you can win if only you push hard enough and refuse to take no for an answer.

Women aren’t here for your amusement. Women aren’t here to bear the weight of your unwanted sexual advances. Much like yourself, women are autonomous human beings with thoughts, dreams, hopes, and desires. If you treat women like the human beings they are, I think you’ll find that you can safely walk through the minefield of life without worrying about having your leg blown off.

If you are still confused and horrified at the partial loss of your masculine manifest destiny where women’s bodies are concerned, you are part of the problem.

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On Losing and Hope

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I’m a pessimist. Just ask anyone who has known me longer than 15 minutes. All can attest to my penchant for envisioning the worst in an effort to stave off disappointment, which I invariably end up suffering regardless. I’m a glass half empty kind of gal, a negative Nancy, a real downer at parties, a perpetual storm cloud in a world of annoyingly sunny days.

Or am I?

Since the devastating results of the 2016 election, I’ve found an odd source of power that keeps on chugging along no matter how low chances seem for success. When the world sucker punches me in the stomach, inviting me to curl up in the fetal position and stay there, that power orders me to walk it off and keep going. The worse things get, the brighter it shines. If I had to name this power, I’d call it hope. And that motherfucker really does spring eternal.

What the hell do I have to feel hopeful about, you might ask? Good question, because the last 2 years have been a doozy.

I watched a quarter of my country embrace the racist, sexist, POS candidate in 2016, propelling him to victory. I’ve seen Republicans in Congress attack every facet of what it means to be an American in their single-minded frenzy to bolster the 1% by lining their pockets with tax cuts that would cripple the dwindling middle class and further victimize those living in poverty. I’ve witnessed the rising tide of overt bigotry in all its forms. I’ve worked for months for a candidate I truly believed could lead my state in a positive direction for the first time in 20 years, only to watch him lose his bid for office. I feel the country moving under my feet, teetering on an edge beneath which lies utter destruction for people who look like me, for immigrants, for those who identify as LGBTQ. The country is on fire, and yet I’m sitting at a table in the middle of all of it, drinking coffee and thinking: this is fine.

But it really is fine.

Or, at least, it’s going to be. That’s something I firmly believe, and that belief is locked safely away in a place where no logic can penetrate, spreading its pessimistic blackness.

If we work hard, if we keep on keeping on, if we create change with every exhaled breath, with every ounce of blood, sweat, and tears we have to spare, I really think we can hold the encroaching chaos at bay. We can win big in November. We can make this country into a place that also works for people of color, for women, for the LGBTQ, for immigrants, for the disabled, for the working class, for all those struggling to make ends meet.

This kernel of positivity is an unexpected gift, born of utter despair and powerlessness. It’s the hope Barack Obama called so audacious. And it took disaster for me to understand the kind of enduring strength that can truly create change. I see it in the hardworking people around me in the trenches — the ones who are closer to me than folks I’ve known for over a decade. I see it in candidates running for office. I look in the mirror and see it — that flicker; that flame — and I know we’re really going to change things.

One loss is nothing. One setback. One punch to the gut that hurts but teaches us how to avoid the next blow.

We’re going to change things. It’s our time.

I believe it. And so I keep fighting. I hope you believe it too.

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