The Undercover Introvert

White Folks, Calling You ‘White’ is Not Divisive

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I’m just going to be real with you, white America, y’all don’t seem very comfortable with being called what you are: white.

I get it. Being white in this country is the default, so you never have to think about yourself in terms of race. You just are.

For POCs, it’s the opposite. Race is intertwined in every interaction, all day, every day, until the day we die. Just think about the word race for a moment. What are you picturing? Black folks. Hispanic folks. Asian folks. Indigenous folks. Non-white folks.

Why is that, you ask? Because white is the default. The standard. The norm.

The only time we notice race is when people are not white. That’s the foundation upon which systemic racism has managed to flourish for hundreds of years in this country. And it’s why you get so damned itchy when a POC calls you white.

Recently, an Asian friend of mine posted something on Facebook about an incident involving a lot of racist bullshit when she was just trying to enjoy herself one evening. She included an article that explained Asian fetishization and white supremacy (which she absolutely did not have to do, but POCs are forever hoping they’ll be able to educate, even when they are the ones constantly barraged with inappropriate and racist crap). I read the article and, as is my way because I am Queen Word Nerd, I quoted a particularly moving sentence that started along the lines of: ‘The confusion of my white friends…’

One woman took immediate issue with the quote, because of the word white. It was divisive, she claimed, and then continued to advise that my friend educate these friends and if they refused to be educated, they were not friends at all (she seemed completely oblivious to the fact that the incident mentioned in the original post did not involve a friend at all, but a stranger).

Hmmm. Okay. So the onus is on the POC to breakout a comprehensive lesson plan whenever a white person does some racist bullshit? Funnily enough, my friend had already done just that by providing the article that accompanied her story of racist fuckery one fine spring evening. Yet the white woman (yeah, I said it; I’ll shout it from the rooftops: WHITE WOMAN) insisted on making the narrative one in which my friend (or, rather, me since I quoted that portion of the article) was being divisive. As y’all know from one of my earlier blog posts, when a white person uses the word divisive when talking to a POC, that actually means STFU.

Listen, y’all, there’s nothing wrong with the skin you’re in, be it white, black, brown, or whatever. Just own it. Don’t be afraid of it. And acknowledge the way you’re able to move through the world because of it.

Call me black, because that’s what I am, and it’s what I call myself. And I’m going to call you white if that’s what you are. If that makes you uncomfortable, you have some serious shit to process on your own time. I can’t imagine the discomfort that would have to be simmering inside in order to make me flinch at someone calling me black.

The history of this country is ugly in so many places, and we see it reflected in the way we’re treated–good or bad–due to the color of our skin. The dialectic of oppressor vs. oppressed is everywhere apparent. It issues forth in all kinds of fucked up situations that make us question just how far we’ve come as a nation.

Is that why the woman went nutso at the use of an appropriate adjective in a quote that was not even about her?

POCs don’t have the luxury of forgetting what we look like. We are acutely aware of what color we are, mostly because of the way white folks treat us. If that reality makes you uncomfortable, I honestly can’t find a single fuck to give. But if you really want to have a tough conversation that doesn’t devolve into you calling me divisive the minute you’re made to feel the slightest bit uncomfortable, I’m usually in a talking mood…

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Hair Hatred is Real When You’re Black and Female

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I’ve hated my hair for years, maybe even forever.

I grew up watching shampoo commercials featuring white women with silky smooth sheets of golden, brunette, and auburn hair, and I had plenty of white friends with hair that looked similar to what I saw on television. They flipped their rippling tresses over their shoulders or giggled as they batted it out of their faces in a high wind. My hair, on the other hand, is a thick and nearly impenetrable afro. Running my hands through it isn’t an option, and in its natural state–the very opposite of silky smooth–even hurricane force winds wouldn’t move it.

As a little kid, I rocked braids. I recall sitting on the ground in front of my mother’s chair every Sunday as she tugged my hair into intricate patterns, the braids so tight, my scalp burned. But they lasted the entire week, and we got to watch the Wonderful World of Disney, which I counted as a win.

For several years in the mid to late 80s, I had a jheri curl, which made my hair manageable, but I hated it. Touching my hair meant coming away with a dripping wet hand that needed to be scrubbed clean with soap. Forget about leaning against a wall or a car window. And it took hours in the salon to achieve the finished product. I still shudder when I see a bottle of curl activator…

When the 80s disaster that was the jheri curl finally went out of fashion, I switched to what us black folks call creamy crack. This product is a tub of white chemicals applied directly to the scalp that literally burns the hair straight. I’m not fucking joking, white readers. You leave it on until your entire scalp is on fire, because the longer you can soldier through, the straighter your hair is at the end, and that is the goal. As you can imagine, this isn’t great for your hair. But I did it anyway because it was easy to take care of, though I hated the 2 to 5 hours spent in the beauty salon every 8 to 12 weeks. This chemical process is expensive, time consuming, and shitty for your hair. It also feeds into the narrative that black hair looks best when it resembles white hair. I bought it, hook, line, sinker…

Then last week, I cut all of my hair off and went natural.

And I absolutely love it.

Okay, maybe this new haircut was born more from laziness and my overall just don’t give a fuck attitude concerning hair and makeup, but I have to admit that I bought into the beauty standards presented to me from cradle to the present day: glossy straight hair that’s manageable and floats on the breeze.

Fuck that.

I can love my hair too, even if society says I’m not supposed to.

The narrative is tilting these days, slowly but surely.

Remember the Sesame Street character Segi singing about how much she loves her hair?

Or every black woman in Black Panther?

Absolutely no hate, judgment, or disrespect to those still using chemicals to make their hair bone straight. I’ve done it myself for decades. But since I already love the skin I was born with, why not love the hair I was given, in all its kinky, dense, non-drifting-on-the-breeze glory? Part of doing better and growing as a person involves accepting myself for who and what I am.

I’m bound to stumble into old ways of thinking about standards of beauty, but I think dealing with my hair hatred is a great place to start…

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‘The Talk’ is Different for Parents of Black Kids

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Everyone has the talk with their children. No parent looks forward to sitting their kids down for a conversation about sex, but it’s a necessity. My greatest fear was that I’d wait too long to talk to my daughter about menstruation and she’d end up living out that fucked up scene from Carrie. So, I dropped the knowledge onto her innocent little 9 year old head. She didn’t seem to appreciate it (or look forward to it), but at least she knew what a period was when she got hers many years later. We talked about sex too, though not super in depth at that time. The talk is actually more like a running conversation that goes on for a few years, ramping up into more adult territory the older the kid gets. Starting with birds plus bees and ending with STDs, pregnancy, and how to be safe rather than sorry.

I’ve never met a parent that enjoyed this part of child rearing. You suck it up, though, and make sure your kids have the skills to navigate puberty, dating, and all of the embarrassingly banal things that will eventually lead to the wonders and terrors of adulthood.

But if you’re the parent of a black or brown kid, you don’t get to stop with the sex talk. You have another talk too, and this one rips your heart out.

I waited as long as I could to have this other talk with my daughter, because it felt like I’d be taking something precious away from her that she could never get back. My job had always been to protect her, but the more she grew and pulled away from me, the less I’d be able to do that, and it was my responsibility to prepare her for what the world had to offer, not just in the way of pleasures, but pitfalls too.

When she was within range of getting her driver’s license, I couldn’t put it off any longer. I sat her down and we talked about the color of her skin and how that could equate to real trouble if she was stopped by a police officer. She was 16 and old enough to understand the basic mechanics of racism, but she’d lived a moderately sheltered life surrounded by folks of all colors. She’d also grown up being told that if she was ever in trouble or separated from me in public, she should find a police officer in uniform (preferably a female because, pedophiles) and ask for help. Now I was flipping the narrative by telling her that she might not be safe in the presence of a cop. She didn’t understand how deep the roots of systemic racism stretched, that they were intertwined with the very foundation of this nation. That was part of what we talked about that day.

My daughter and I have the same wry, often inappropriate sense of humor. Even when we’re talking about something serious, we’re likely to throw in an irreverent joke or two. It’s just our way. But there was no joking during this conversation. She could tell I was dead serious and she took the hint that she needed to follow suit.

I told her that there were rules for dealing with the police. That she was to say yes, sir and no, sir instead of arguing, even if she was in the right. She was to give over her ID even if it wasn’t warranted. She was to stay in her car during a traffic stop, with her hands on the steering wheel. I warned her not to go digging around in her pockets, her purse, the rest of the car. She was to tell the officer what she was planning to do before she did it–I’m reaching for my license; I’m going to lean over for my registration.

She asked me, “What if I didn’t do anything wrong?” and my heart grew almost too heavy to bear.

My answer: “It doesn’t matter what you did. Just do what the police officer tells you. It could mean your life.”

She blinked, nodded, and didn’t argue.

Over the next few months and years, I reiterated all of these points ad nauseam. And when the news reported on another unarmed person of color who was brutalized or killed during an encounter with a police officer, I made sure to hit all of my points again.

Comply no mater what you did or didn’t do. Your life is at stake. Do you understand?

White parents don’t have to have these conversations with their children. They don’t have to stress that digging around in a purse or pocket for a license could literally cost that child his or her life. Smarting off could become a reason to shoot. Having a cell phone or a wallet. Approaching the officer for help could be a reason to shoot. Simply being black could be a reason to shoot.

Do you understand?

I don’t. I really don’t.

But this is the world we live in.

So, I hit my points. Again. Again. Again.

My dear sweet child, I want desperately for you to outlive me.

Please comply.

Please say yes, sir and no, sir.

Please keep your hands where they can be seen at all times.

Please come home alive.

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‘Divisive’: the New ‘STFU’

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Over the last eighteen months of nonstop activism and exhausting levels of advocacy, I’ve noticed a trend rearing its butt ugly head pretty consistently whenever tough subjects come up. Maybe you have too. It involves lobbing the word divisive into the middle of a conversation like a flash bomb so you can make a quick getaway while attention is focused on the fire you started. And, honestly, it’s the new way to tell someone you don’t agree with to STFU, only it gives you the added bonus of taking the high road when you were actually the one out of line.

What exactly does this look like?

I mostly notice it in conversations about extremely uncomfortable subjects, like racism or sexism. My interlocutor and I can be grooving along, exchanging words and ideas as we work around every side of an issue, but if I throw a monkey wrench into the smoothly working gears of their casual racism, all of a sudden, I’m the problem, not their original behavior or ignorant comments.

Still not picking up what I’m putting down? Here’s a case in point:

Person of color: can you believe that a black man was shot 20 times the other day and all he had on him was a cell phone?

White person: I’m not saying he deserved to be shot and killed, but he probably shouldn’t have been out at that time of night vandalizing property.

POC: Seriously? A white kid can walk into a church, kill 9 people, and the cops somehow manage to bring him in without firing a single shot. But a black kid can’t have a cellphone, or a hoodie and a pack of Skittles, or ‘name anything else’ without getting gunned down.

WP: Why does everything have to be about race?

POC: Are you really unable to see the way race plays into large scale inequities in the criminal justice system, starting with how people of color are treated by the police?

WP: Why are you being so divisive? I’m on your side and you’re attacking me.

Smooth, right?

To onlookers, it appears as though the POC is the one out of line, and her poor interlocutor, who is on her side, is being verbally brutalized for no good reason. Black people are always so angry!

And did you catch the D word at the end? That means STFU.

You might be rolling your eyes right about now, but some variation of the above conversation happens just about every time I bring up race, even among so called ‘woke’ white folks. Why is that, you might be asking? Because racism is fucking terrible, and white people tend to feel shitty when they realize how their words and behavior work to hold up systems of long held oppression.

When you find a way to demonize the black victim of a police shooting (he shouldn’t have been selling illegal cigarettes) but give white suspects the benefit of the doubt (how did society fail this quiet, young, christian loner?!), that’s racism.

When you champion white voices speaking out about gun violence (and y’all know I’m talking about the Parkland kids who have acknowledged their privilege, unlike so many of the adults supporting them; keep on keeping on, kids) but label young folks uniting under the Black Lives Matter umbrella as thugs and criminals, that’s racism.

Calling me divisive when I speak about the reality of being black in this country is just another way of telling me to be quiet. Mostly likely because what I’m saying makes you uncomfortable. But 2016 threw us into the Upsidedown, folks. Uncomfortable is good! We like uncomfortable. We grow when we’re uncomfortable.

Here’s my advice: be uncomfortable. Bathe in that prickly uneasiness until you can actually feel the years of ingrained, socially programmed racist knee jerk responses begin to fall away. I don’t fault anyone for being born in the skin they were given. White folks have held a privileged position in this country since before it was the US of A, and the foundation of that privilege was built on the backs of black and brown people. There’s no changing what has already been written. But you can change what happens in the future. You can shut down ignorant comments and behavior, starting with your own. You can get called out on your shit and actually allow yourself to be uncomfortable in the short term in order to become a better, more open minded and fair person in the long term.

You can decide that racism is shitty and do better.

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Democrats Need to Celebrate Black People All Year Long

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Hello, Democrats, and Happy Black History month!

We’ve made a point in this country of officially celebrating black achievement and excellence throughout the month of February since 1976. But, as Democrats, we should really be celebrating black folks all twelve months of the year. Why is that, you ask? Well, despite the difficulties faced by black voters, they have historically turned out to vote, and they overwhelmingly vote Democrat.

As a rule, black folks don’t vote against their own interests. This gets proven time and again with every single election. Don’t forget, it was black people — and especially black women — who turned out to vote in the Senate race in Alabama last December, and we showed up and showed out in the 2016 presidential election as well, supporting the Democratic candidate in both races. We get called the backbone of the Democratic Party — a lot; most notably and recently by Democratic National Committee Chairman Tom Perez — and no truer words have ever been spoken. This is even more impressive when you consider the widespread voter suppression designed specifically to target communities of color. Gerrymandering, the loss of vital parts of the Voting Rights Act, strict voter ID laws, and disenfranchisement after felony convictions all play a part in making sure black people never make it to the ballot box.

And yet, many of us still do.

Did you enjoy watching Ralph Northam win the governorship in Virginia last November?

Thank black voters.

Did you breathe a sigh of relief when Doug Jones narrowly won over Roy Moore in Alabama?

Thank black voters, black women specifically, who we all know are magic.

Were you disappointed when trump won in 2016?

Well, guess who handled their collective business? If you guessed black voters, you win a prize.

We show up, and we vote democrat. So, why aren’t we regularly placed in positions of leadership? Why aren’t our issues valued across the board? Why is everyone ready to clap black women on the back for the Doug Jones victory, but disappear the instant we assert that Black Lives Matter?

What I’m suggesting is not to briefly sanctify us after every election because 98% of us voted against a child predator last December and 95% of us voted for Clinton in 2016 while 64% of white women instead voted for a train wreck. Don’t put us on a pedestal and then forget us until the next time you need us to turn out to vote. Valuing us means investing in our lives and our experiences, even in off years, even outside of the month of February. It means not recoiling or closing ranks when we attempt to take a seat at the table. It means practicing what you preach if what you preach is equality for all.

I’ve spent the last year and a half traveling almost exclusively in progressive circles. And I’ve been surprised and saddened to see how little diversity there is in many of our local groups. Contrary to popular belief, diversity doesn’t just mean looking out into a crowd and seeing a black or a brown face. It doesn’t just mean including us in pictures. It means seeing people of color in positions of leadership. It means valuing black lives and standing behind us in solidarity when we take center stage to demand equal treatment, not ushering us backstage to play a supporting role, as we’ve done since before the birth of this nation.

We’ve done a lot of desperate soul searching as a party since the devastating loss in 2016. We’ve struggled to regain our footing while simultaneously trying to figure out what happened and where everything went horribly wrong. But instead of looking behind us, we should instead focus on what’s ahead.

I submit that the answer to the question of how to win future elections lies in truly embracing equality across the Democratic Party’s platform, and that means understanding and appreciating a concept called intersectionality. I’m sure you’ve heard this term before, because it’s a buzzword that gets thrown around a great deal all of a sudden, but rarely seems to be understood.

Truly welcoming marginalized communities into the fold is the key to winning elections. We have to understand and acknowledge that inequalities based on race, class, sex, disability, gender identity, and sexual preference often intersect to increase injustice for many among us, and those voices need to be heard and valued. Not just in the month of February or during National Hispanic Heritage Month or National Pride Month or during an important election year.

Those of us who face daily discrimination on multiple fronts should be encouraged to speak, to run for office, to spearhead initiatives that will help other people who look like us. We aren’t window dressing for the Democratic Party. We are the Democratic Party. We aren’t easily swayed by artifice or tactics reminiscent of snake oil salesmen blowing through town every four years. There is power in our self-possession, our unending loyalty, our love of family, our courage to stand up in the face of widespread discrimination, and our deep reverence for this country.

We keep coming back to the Democratic Party. We aren’t showing up to the ballot box to save White America, as the news outlets reporting the Doug Jones victory would have you believe. We’re showing up to save ourselves the only way we know how — by choosing the candidate who most closely represents our interests and our values. For many of us, this is life and death, the difference between prosperity and ruin.

So, as Black History Month 2018 comes to a close, don’t let that be the end of your appreciation of black excellence and achievement. When you look around you and see no POCs in positions of leadership, ask yourself why that is. Step back when voices that don’t mirror your own are speaking, and truly listen. Instead of momentarily holding black people up after elections, try supporting them as they run for office or champion their issues. The Democratic Party will thrive when diverse voices are appreciated, encouraged, and heard. Black History is American History and American History is Black History. Our successes and failures are intertwined with your own, our futures irreversibly bound, and none of us is free until we all are.

**This is adapted from a speech I gave to my local Democratic Party

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