The Undercover Introvert

Racism 101: White Privilege

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I post a lot about race, and not just because I’m a glutton for punishment, although I’m sure that plays a significant role. I’m a black woman in a country that was built with the unpaid blood, sweat, and tears of people that looked like me. Those same people were ‘liberated’ after the Civil War, only to be crushed beneath the bootheel of Jim Crow for the next hundred years, a campaign of abject oppression and terror, the echoes of which we can still feel reverberating to the present day.

When you’re black in America, you can’t forget it. It’s transcendental — the condition upon which all other experiences are made possible. Your color informs your every waking movement. The moment you draw your first breath, it sets boundaries you might never overcome. It creates an alternate set of expectations and limitations, all unwritten but strictly enforced, and you disregard them at your peril. Thinking, talking, and posting about race isn’t so much an option for me as it is a requirement.

Like clockwork, in response to one of my many posts about race, a white individual will respond with a lightly admonishing comment that goes a little something like this: Why all of this divisiveness? We need to focus on one race, the HUMAN RACE.

Quaint, right?

What I feel upon reading dismissive, somewhat Pollyanna responses like this to my lived experience as a black individual in this country isn’t so much annoyance (or shock, because this is a pretty standard response, if I’m being honest), as it is bone weariness. The kind of weariness you feel after working a long day only to find your car won’t start and your phone is dead, meaning you’ll need to walk a few miles home in pouring rain and lashing wind. This mental and emotional exhaustion can be all consuming, because it feels like no matter how many times you explain slavery’s enduring legacy, how systems of oppression work (and how this is distinct from individual racists), why it’s damaging to say you don’t see color, there will always be responses like this aimed at making you feel ashamed for always dwelling on race.

White folks, let me tell you, living your life without needing to take race into constant consideration is the very definition of privilege. It’s a magical realm of existence that’s completely closed off to black folks, to Hispanic folks, to Asian folks, to indigenous folks. We have to think about race all the time. Our lives depend on it. Our freedom, our livelihoods, our very opportunity for happiness. We exist in this country at all times as nonwhite. There have been whole systems of oppression constructed to penalize us for being nonwhite. These systems have worked so well for so long, white folks no longer even see them. What they see is that nonwhite people struggle because they don’t work hard enough. They don’t value education. They are just more likely to commit crimes. They don’t speak English well. They are lazy. They waste the limitless opportunities doled out equally to every American at birth. It’s sad, really, how those nonwhites are.

White privilege is the ability to exist as a person while the rest of us exist as nonwhite people, together with all the negative stereotypes that, thanks to our deeply racist institutions, too often become self-fulfilling prophecies.

I can already hear the grumbled complaints from aggrieved white people:

That’s not fair! I’ve faced real struggles in my life!

I had to work hard for everything I have! I wasn’t given anything on a silver platter!

I grew up poor too! How can I have privilege?

Let me tell you what white privilege doesn’t mean. It doesn’t mean you haven’t struggled in your lives, white folks. It doesn’t mean you haven’t known poverty. It doesn’t mean you haven’t worked hard or faced difficult situations or gone to bed hungry or survived without healthcare, a place to live, or a job that pays a decent wage. It doesn’t mean you haven’t watched, heartbroken, as your kids go without. White people can struggle. They can live difficult lives and never get ahead. But the reason for that difficulty is never their race. There aren’t centuries’ old systems in place to make sure that they fail based solely on the color of their skin. There’s a real issue of economic inequality in this country that desperately needs to be addressed, but imagine that layered on top of racial inequality, which is systemic. It is purposeful. It was put in place by white folks that did their best to make sure black and brown folks never got ahead in this country. Can you see how that’s different?

So, no, we can’t pretend we live in some post racial utopia where we all receive the same opportunities as Americans. We can’t pretend we are all just one race, the human race. That’s how the world looks through the rose-colored glasses of privilege. Not considering race in every facet of your life, with every breath that you take, is a privilege. Not fearing for your child’s safety simply because of the color of his or her skin is a privilege. Have you ever sat your child down and discussed exactly how to interact with the police because you’re afraid there could be a shoot first, ask questions later scenario, all because your child happens to be black, and sometimes that’s enough of a reason for an officer to open fire? No? That’s privilege.

No one’s asking you to apologize for slavery. But the founders of this country that built prosperity on the backs of the enslaved looked like you. The architects of Jim Crow looked like you. The folks that carefully crafted the New Deal in a way that wouldn’t benefit black Americans looked like you. The folks that waged the War on Drugs and lay the groundwork for every iteration of getting tougher and tougher on (black) crime looked like you. These white folks made damned sure to put systems in place that barred people that looked like me from ever being able to achieve the fabled life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness that they enshrined for themselves. We were meant to toil, to obey, to die when we were no longer useful. The very foundation of this nation was constructed upon that baseline inequality, and it has flourished in the centuries since those founding documents were created.

You didn’t ask for your privilege, but you have it. So, now what?

Step one: accept that this privilege is a real thing.

Step two: use the fuck out of it to challenge racism in all its forms.

Lean into your privilege like the shield of legitimacy it is and tear down the systemic inequality that still festers, relatively unhindered, in this country and all its institutions. No matter where you find yourself on the ladder of social status, you have power that black and brown folks don’t possess. Instead of pretending that power doesn’t exist, use it. Challenge other white folks. Be rabidly anti-racist. Don’t just share delusional platitudes about little black children playing with little white children and folks being judged by the content of their character instead of the color of their skin. We aren’t there yet. We’ve never been there. We aren’t even close.

Just by virtue of your skin color, you are endowed with the unique power to tear down systems that benefit you as white and oppress me as black. If black, brown, Asian, and indigenous folks could destroy these systems ourselves, trust and believe it would already be done. We need you to step in and step up. Your privilege is a battering ram that opens doors. Use it to knock down the status quo instead of buttressing it.

No one is asking you to apologize for being born white. But, goddamn it, open your eyes and see this country for what and how it is. Stop berating marginalized people for pointing out inequality because it makes you uncomfortable. Step into this fight in a meaningful way, because the fabled Promised Land isn’t guaranteed. Racism isn’t something that just fades away if we ignore it. It’s the kind of thing that metastasizes in dark spaces. It stretches out. It grows. Think of your privilege as a spotlight. Point at racism and shine the fuck away, white folks.

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Everything We Love is Trash

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When you’re willing to keep learning new things every day, it sure does make it harder to burrow into your ignorance, no matter how warm, snuggly, and persistent it seems. Evolution of thought, though a necessary prerequisite of growing as a person, can also be uncomfortable and stress inducing. The things you once accepted without reflection are now problematic. Popular attitudes have shifted beneath your feet, and, suddenly, you are faced with a radically altered landscape. You can either get with the program or risk becoming one of those individuals constantly talking about how things were better in your day. What you usually mean is that they were better for you, and screw everyone else. But occasionally something happens that shines a harsh spotlight on your past ignorance and complacency, making it impossible to ignore.

Such a thing recently happened to me, in fact.

I was on Twitter the other day — mostly because I’m a glutton for punishment, but also because I adore pettiness in all its online forms — and I happened upon a tweet that went something like this:

You’re trying to tell me that Willy Wonka sent Golden Tickets around the ENTIRE world and five white children got them ALL???

I have to tell you, I was shook. I read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory as a child and loved it. I watched Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka more times than I can count, rapt with glee as I imagined myself wandering through the chocolate factory, avoiding all the booby traps and ending up in the glass elevator, an everlasting gobstopper clutched in hand, victorious. But how exactly did I see myself in that story when there wasn’t a single person that looked like me represented in the book or the film? And, seriously?! No kids from Asia, South America, Africa? Not even one? And why didn’t I notice that glaring absence before that devastatingly simple tweet?

I’m not joking when I tell you that single sentence shook me to my core. It made me reevaluate everything I consumed as a child — books, movies, television shows, EVERYTHING — and take a full assessment of the appalling lack of diversity.

I had another such moment of sudden clarity when watching the Last Jedi in the theater a few years ago. I’ve been a Star Wars fan since childhood. Some of my fondest memories involve watching the original three movies on television with my dad and brother. Sitting in the theater, watching the final battle between the resistance fighters and the First Order, there were the obligatory close ups of the rebel pilots in their cockpits, dialing up the drama as you wait for one of them to suddenly burst into flames and explode after getting hit. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a closeup of a black female fighter pilot filled up the screen. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was enough to sit me back in my seat. I clearly recall saying: WHOA! And I was flooded with real elation…until I realized my excitement was born of the nearly complete lack of black people in the original movies. We had Lando, but he betrayed Han Solo, and he was never a central character. All the central characters were white.

And if something I loved as a child isn’t completely devoid of diverse characters, it’s chock full of sexism or stereotypes of what various POCs are supposed to be like. So much of what many of us adored decades ago has not aged well, leaving us struggling to come to terms with the trash we once believed was treasure. When we know better, we do better, but that’s complicated when large portions of our childhoods are bound up in the soft, sentimental feelings all these books and films stirred up in us back in the day.

I wanted a Golden Ticket with every fiber of my being when I was a kid, years before anyone knew about letters to Hogwarts. I wanted to be a jedi, even though there were no black jedis (and don’t start with me that Samuel L. Jackson’s Mace Windu was a black jedi in the prequels, which technically predated the original trilogy, because that storyline didn’t even exist when I was a kid, so sit down), no female jedis, and definitely no black female jedis. My imagination filled in the gaps in what I saw in the world. And, eventually, the world began to catch up with me. But what does it say that I didn’t even identify this as a problem? That I just considered it normal to never see faces that looked like mine represented in the media I consumed and loved?

I say it all the time and, despite the repetition, it’s never any less true:

Representation matters.

I have no idea what eight year old me might have thought at the sight of a little black girl or boy walking into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Who knows how I might have reacted at the appearance of a black jedi as the central character in one of the original three Star Wars movies or, hell, just a black female fighter jet pilot rallying with the rest of the resistance fighters. And if there were fewer movies and cartoons where the long and short of the female lead’s life revolved around pleasing a man or finding a husband, by any means necessary, what then?

Seeing myself reflected in more of what I watched and read as a child might have changed the way I thought of the world and my place in it. It might have expanded my idea of what was possible. I’ll never know, because I didn’t have that wealth of representation as a girl, but it’s encouraging to see more of it for the kids coming up today. When we know better, we do better.

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2020 Burn Book: Men, I’m Lighting You Up

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I already compiled my resolutions for the new year, but in light of recent events, I’m adding one more and moving it to the top of the list:

Men, if you commit sexual harassment, assault, or just general unwanted creepiness, I am calling you the fuck out.

I’m done. Time to burn this motherfucker all the way down. And y’all are on notice. Don’t act surprised when I tell folks how you really are.

First, let’s set some parameters. There’s definitely a spectrum when it comes to creepiness. On one side is unwanted messages from men we don’t follow on social media asking for dates, pictures, to know more about us, etc. Gross, but that’s what the block function is for. On the other side is full on life-shattering sexual assault. In the gray area between these two poles lie microaggressions, gaslighting, unwanted sexual advances, pressure for sexual favors, victim blaming, retaliation, and the list goes on. And on. And on.

Men, if you do any of this shit going forward, get ready to be exposed for the disgusting POS you are. I plan to go out of my damned way to make sure people know.

Why the sudden need to put all of this out there, you ask?

I just got off the phone with a close friend who called me first thing in the morning to tell me about some creep that sexually harassed her at a business meeting. At one point, he followed her into the bathroom, locked the door, and attempted to go even further. Thankfully, she was able to escape. Though shaken emotionally, she said nothing and tried to continue doing her job, which was why she was there in the first place. But this dude wouldn’t stop. He kept making advances and being handsy. When it was finally clear that she wasn’t interested, he ended by calling her a bitch in front of another man involved in the meeting. She left the situation as quickly as possible.

When we spoke, she was angry, frightened, and at a complete loss as to how to move forward. This meeting was about future consulting work. Should she tell others involved in the project? Should she pull out of this business opportunity so she wouldn’t have to see and work with this attacker moving forward? Should she make a big deal out of this? Or just get on with her life?

This helplessness, this terrible, roiling fury that too often ends up turning inward to eat away at us, is such a fucking textbook response to the kind of situation that can happen to women anywhere and at any time. We are always in danger of harassment and assault. We learn to live with it, because what other choice do we have? We teach our daughters how to live with it. We shore up the crumbling defenses of our friends when they take a hit, no matter how severe, and then we do what women have always done: we pull up our big girl panties and we get back to our lives.

It’s unconscionable that we live like this as a culture, that half the population just has to suck it up, buttercup, while the other half gallivants through life, setting fire to the women around them at will.

I’m calling bullshit. I’m not playing the game anymore. I’m done.

While I was talking to my friend, she repeatedly mentioned that she hadn’t been wearing anything that could have led this asshole on (see: appropriate business attire). She mentioned a few times that this was a business meeting that took place in the middle of the day (socially acceptable time for women to assume personal safety). She mentioned that she hadn’t done anything at all to make this POS think it was okay to follow her into the bathroom and then continue to harass her throughout the rest of the meeting (society teaches us that our behavior is directly responsible for how men decide to act). Even as she corrected herself, sometimes mid-sentence, to acknowledge that she understood it didn’t matter what she was wearing or what time it was, it was important to her that I knew she was dressed appropriately and that this occurred in broad daylight.

This call isn’t the first conversation I’ve had with a female friend about a situation like this, and it won’t be the last. Some situations haven’t been as severe, and some have been much, much worse. But the emotional aftermath looks the same in every case: the woman is left feeling helpless, angry, ashamed, and unsure of what to do next. Should she report it? What would happen? Would anyone even believe her? If people did believe her, would they care? What about retaliation? Should she quit her job? Or should she just take a personal day, cobble herself back together again, and then pretend nothing happened?

We should not have to live like this.

This is my solemn oath that if some man says or does something shitty and I find out about it, I will talk about it loudly and openly. I will out you, and I’ll keep telling people until someone fucking cares. If it sets your personal or professional career ablaze, that’s on you. Because women have been paying the high price for men’s decisions for centuries. And silence only helps the aggressor. It allows for the creation of additional situations in which other women are victimized by repeat predators. Even worse, this silence causes our insides to corrode over time. It poisons who we are. It makes us question ourselves and other women. It isolates us.

This bullshit has to stop.

Women shouldn’t be forced to continue removing themselves from professional and social situations to avoid men who have attacked or harassed them. Why do men get to continue on in their lives and careers unhindered by their own behavior? Why are women routinely left to bear the consequences?

I know women who have left jobs, who don’t volunteer with certain organizations, who don’t leave the house at night alone, who refuse to date, because of things men have done to them. I know women who are horrified to learn that I go running alone before the sun comes up, because of what a man could do. But I prefer to run in the dark. Running when the sun is out invites honks, shouts from open car windows, and men pulling their vehicles over for an unwanted chat. I also altered where I run to avoid main roads, which, together with running in complete darkness, has really cut down on the harassment.

That’s the long and short of what women have to do to get by: alter our lives to cut down on the harassment. Choose another route home from work. Quit your job. Start shopping at a different grocery store. Stop taking public transportation. Walk around with headphones jammed into your ears, even when you aren’t listening to music. Move to another town. Don’t make eye contact with male strangers. Only go out at night in a large group. Dress in less form fitting clothing.

But it’s never enough. No matter how disciplined we are in policing our own behavior, we can’t control what men will do to us. Because the problem isn’t us. It’s them.

Men, you are the problem. Your behavior. Your sense of entitlement. Your belief that women are here for your enjoyment. In 2020, I intend to make it my duty to disabuse as many of you as possible of the notion that we are simply receptacles for your unwanted attention, abuse, and harassment. We aren’t in the workplace, gym, store, classroom, social gathering, or wherever waiting for you to notice us. And we aren’t the ones that need to leave a situation after you do something wrong. You are. And, please, let the door hit you on the way out.

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Despair is the Enemy: a Manifesto for 2020

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2020 is racing towards us with deliberate speed. This time next year, we’ll know if a Democrat won the presidential election, or if we’re in for 4 more years of falling further down the rabbit hole towards an unspeakable, irreversible nightmare.

I admit, I don’t feel ready. As I moved through 2019, the time raced through my fingers and the pit of my stomach perpetually boiled with a mix of excitement and terror. Doesn’t it feel like we all just woke up the morning after Election Day 2016 and began the heavy task of acquainting ourselves with the dread that would be our constant companion over the next 48 months? Where did the time go? Have we prepared enough? Are we ready? Can we really make this happen next year? What happens if we don’t? Will I be safe in this country if Trump wins a second term? Is my passport current? Who do I know overseas that might be willing to take me in?

If the inside of your head looks anything like the feverish firestorm of questions listed above, this post is for you. If I’m being honest, it’s also for me, because I swing from despair to hope faster than it takes Donald Trump to attack teenage activists on Twitter.

2020 has been the goal on the horizon since the end of 2016. It has gleamed in the distance — the light at the end of a deep, dark, desolate tunnel — as we’ve toiled over the last few years, laying the necessary groundwork and readying ourselves for battle. We’ve looked forward to its promise as we’ve slogged gamely through midterms and off year elections on our grim march towards the finish line. Now that 2020 is nearly here, I feel equal parts determined elation and crippling fear. I recently had major dental surgery, and the feeling was similar, though on a much smaller scale: you know this is going to cost you — mentally and physically, as well as financially — and it’s going to hurt, but because you know it has to be done, you hunch your shoulders into the wind and soldier through, hoping for the best while simultaneously expecting the worst.

Okay, maybe it’s not like dental surgery at all. Dental surgery is actually much better by comparison. You know exactly what you’re getting yourself into, and the fate of the free world isn’t hanging in the balance when the dentist picks up her pointy silver tools and leans into your open mouth.

So what do we do about all of this pent up anxiety and despair? How do we turn that buzzing energy into fuel for the fight we’ll have to undertake from January 1st through November 3rd? Is there a way to protect the flickering candle flame of hope from the lashing winds of despair? That may be too maudlin a description for your tastes, but it feels to me like everything is on the line. Like everyone involved will need to be on their A game at all times.

It also feels like there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to do all the work necessary to ensure success. This persistent dread has its origins in the upset of the 2016 elections, but it has grown into its own thing now. It follows me everywhere — this dark specter of ominous things to come — and it makes me question every strategy and action, every program and candidate, every instinct and better judgment. The anxiety underscores my every waking moment. It has become a constant in these last few tumultuous years, so much so that its frenetic energy has almost morphed into a kind of comfort — knowing it’s there means knowing I’m alive. I worry, therefore I am. But this oddly familiar feeling is also the enemy.

Everything is riding on the next eleven months. The soul of this imperfect nation. The ever evolving freedom of black and brown people. LGBTQ equality. A Woman’s right to bodily autonomy and access to reproductive services. Education. The environment. Social security. Healthcare access. Everything. All of it. Think of something you care about, and it too is at risk.

We can’t allow the sticky blackness of despair to cause us to falter, to doubt ourselves, to question our commitment to this fight, to divide us. We’ve spent the last few years stockpiling strength, slaying the midterms, and building the endurance that will get us through the prolonged sprint of the presidential election year. The point of despair is to derail that progress, to make it seem as though our goals are unattainable, and to sink us so deeply into fear that the only option left is to give up. In that uncertain darkness, it can be easy to forget those that will stand and fight with us.

At the center of despair lies loneliness. But the antidote to loneliness is solidarity, and the enemy of despair is hope.

Over the next eleven months, cling to that enduring hope as you’re toiling to right the longstanding wrongs in this country. When despair rises, threatening to consume all available light at the end of the dark tunnel in which we find ourselves, guard that flickering spark. It may seem fragile, but its resilience is the same as what you’ll find in the mirror when you face yourself each morning before leaving the house for another long day of hustling for change.

This work can feel thankless, worthless, endless, hopeless. We can forget those that are fighting with us as the darkness rises, doing its best to seal us into our own solitary nightmares. But no one stands alone in this work. We stand on the shoulders of the ones who came before us, arm in arm, so those who come after us can rise up onto our shoulders and stand even taller.

Brace yourselves, friends, because the year ahead will be difficult. Sleep will be elusive and free time nonexistent, but caffeine will be plentiful. I know we can do this, because we must do it. Lean in, and I’ll lean with you.

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The Clapback Conundrum

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We’re living through interesting times. Everything seems up for heated discussion, and facts are treated as dismissively as opinions in public and private discourse. That’s problematic enough all by itself, but it gets much worse, y’all.

Have you noticed that the number of folks who seem to relish watching the world burn appears to be radically increasing with each passing day? I’m not talking about the people you probably think I’m talking about. It’s definitely 100% accurate that we’re living in uber polarized times, making crossing the aisle one of the least popular things you can do at the moment. But when I talk about people stoking fires and keeping everyone from having nice things, I’m not talking about the folks on the other side of the sharp divide that cuts across every single issue percolating at the national and local levels. I’m talking about the people supposedly on our own side, if such a thing exists. Because, sometimes, it seems like these motherfuckers are actually on their own side, and their objective is to perpetually cut you down to size before you even finish a sentence.

I’m talking about what I’ve named the Clapback Conundrum, a knee jerk response that’s become all too prevalent nowadays. It mostly takes place on social media, where all good things go to turn putrid and mind numbingly tedious, but it’s happening with more regularity during day to day in person conversations as well. We’ve all seen the eye roll-inducing digital headlines:

X TORCHED Y!

Z Was DRAGGED On Twitter!

X’s EPIC CLAPBACK!

TWITTER FLAME WAR BETWEEN X AND Y!!!!!

It’s exhausting. But, sadly, it’s not just for celebrities and politicians with heightened name ID. It’s happening every day, in every facet of life.

Now, to be fair, not everyone is living a life fully engrossed in policy, politicians, campaigns, and issues based advocacy, but still.

Can we just agree to stop this utter nonsense? Can we stop trying to start flame wars and instead focus on defeating the very real threat looming over our heads in November 2020? The clock’s ticking, y’all, and we’re burning daylight. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re fighting for the soul of the country over here, not gathered in a circle on the recess playground while 2 kids play the dozens.

Listen, I get it. You think you’re right. And not just right, but Right, objectively, with an uppercase R. But, let me ask you this: Do you want to be right? Or do you want to make things better? Do you want to save this country from slipping into the depths of a darkness so pitch black that not even the glittering flame of you brutally torching some ‘lesser progressive’ would help you find your way out again? Because we’re fighting to improve the American way of life for hundreds of millions of people right now, and I’m going to need you to get a handle on your shit and cut out the friendly fire.

Here’s the long and short of the Clapback Conundrum: we’re so worried about calling each other out that we don’t pay attention to the nuance of arguments and policy, just who flames who. It’s lazy and it’s part of the problem. While you’re busy calling me a centrist shill because I favor a Medicare For All Who Want It plan and you think anything less than Medicare For All makes me a detestable sellout, we have the party in control of the Executive Branch and one chamber of the Legislature actively trying to rip healthcare away from millions of people. Shouldn’t we be focusing on that? Or do you want to keep trying to light me up because I disagree with the method of getting to the exact same goal, which is healthcare for everyone? Spirited debate is great, and I’m here for it every day all day, but don’t fight me to the death on particulars when we agree on the end result.

And, FYI, arguing on social media doesn’t equate to doing any actual work. You aren’t changing hearts and minds by lighting up your allies on distinctions that make very little difference. And, honestly, you don’t need to change the hearts and minds of the people who already agree with you. We’re standing on the same side, friend, for chrissake. Stand down so we can stand united on our shared values and create the change you claim you want to see in the world.

The next year and a half is going to be hard enough without needing to cover my six as well as the absolute disaster forever unfolding in front of me. We can agree to disagree on the method without attempting to destroy each other, resorting to dismissive name calling, or taking our ball and going home where we’re absolutely no use to anyone. This country needs fighters, champions, grownups. Can we do that? Because, if not, buckle in for another four years of this unmitigated shitshow and know that you own it.

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