The Undercover Introvert

To Those Spreading Light in These Dark Times

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For those hustling day in and day out to make this world a better place: this is for you.

Because you’re out there, knocking doors, making phone calls, building events that you pray don’t fold in on themselves like the delicate collection of blood, sweat, and tears that they are.

You’re perpetually MacGyvering something out of absolutely nothing, and getting media to cover it, spreading the word, the message, the hope so fragile you dare not speak of it aloud.

You’ve worked all year for this moment. And not just this year. Some of you have been working for decades.

This is the time away from your family, your friends, the quiet moments at home that help maintain your sanity.

You’ve pushed, prodded, cajoled, threatened, cried tears of joy, of sorrow, of despair. You’ve thrown up your hands, cursed, closed your eyes, dropped your aching head, and wondered why you’re still doing this.

But you haven’t given up.

You go onto the next house after one person slams the door in your face.

When the person on the line curses at you and hangs up, you make another call. And another. And another.

You watch precious days of planning, of work, of moments you can never get back, scatter like ashes in the wind, leaving you right back where you started.

And, still, you keep going.

The hustle lasts as long as your belief does. At the end of the night, that belief seems finite, but, in the morning, here it is again, waiting to be actualized as you down a few cups of coffee and head out to face another day that won’t be anything like the one before it. And tomorrow? Who the hell knows what those fresh hours will bring.

Breaking news hits the airwaves — a natural disaster, a curveball of a court ruling or Supreme Court appointment — and everything you painstakingly planned falls apart. You rebuild, stacking events on top of each other to create a workable schedule — the meet and greets, interviews, rallies, town halls, forums, meetings, fundraisers, canvasses, phonebanks, trainings, and teleconferences, the webinars you don’t even remember after they end. You send emails while you listen to another phone meeting, forever worrying about budgets and digital media reach, and social media content, and did you remember to invite the right people to the right events? Have enough attendees RSVP’d? Did you call to confirm? Will media show up? Will anyone? Your skin crawls, your stomach twists, and that dread never leaves you. One wrong step, and it feels like the entire operation will cave in on itself.

You forget to eat. You don’t exercise. You fall into bed at the end of the night exhausted, mind reeling with possibility, with excitement, frustration, and anxiety. You wake still drained, your bones heavy, but you down more coffee, and get back to work.

The. Hustle. Never. Ends.

But you can feel the power in what you’re doing. The purpose. It shivers in the pit of your empty stomach where all manner of caffeine goes to die. The idea of what you’re working towards keeps you going more than the actual details. The details don’t matter. The goal shimmers on the horizon, just out of reach.

And then?

Your initiative moves forward.

You collect enough petitions.

Your event is a well-attended success.

Volunteers are showing up in droves.

Your candidate is up in the polls, is on TV, is blowing fundraising goals out of the water, is turning to thank you for all your hard work.

At that moment, everything is worth it.

This is an ode for those spreading light in these dark times. Those who know how to turn pain into persistence, despair into direction, helplessness into hope. This is for everyone sprinting towards a finish line they can’t yet see.

Keep running, and pushing, and making it happen.

Change doesn’t come to those who wait. Change comes to those who do.

Doers, take care of yourselves, because this hustle never really ends.

But I’m here with you, in the trenches, in the dark searching for the fabled light at the end of a tunnel that goes on forever.

The movement is you, is us, is everything.

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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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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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On Being Black in America

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I was recently asked to sit on a panel by a local group that was hosting a discussion about what it’s like to be black in America. Mostly older white folks would be in attendance, and I was invited to be as real as possible in my comments. If you’ve read any of my other articles, you know that level of honestly isn’t hard for me to achieve, but I wanted to make sure I didn’t lighten my part of the discussion with humor, as I am wont to do, because of how receptive it makes people to what I’m saying. I wanted to deliver gut punches that left the audience gasping. I wanted to bring them low, where I sometimes find myself. And I really wanted this mostly white audience to understand that being black in America means understanding and accepting a myriad of things:

This country is not for you.

Living in America is a lot like inexplicably finding yourself in someone else’s house. You understand that this isn’t your house, so you’d better be on your best behavior or you might be forcibly ejected. You have to explain why you deserve to be in the house in the first place, and you don’t dare make the owners of the house feel uncomfortable, no matter how they act towards you.

2. You are routinely treated as though black folks are a monolith, meaning that when one POC does something, it’s treated as though it’s representative of the entire group.

White folks will use the preference or statement of one POC as evidence against you when you call them out on their racism. For example:

You: what you just said was really racist.

White person: but I say that around my black friend and he doesn’t have a problem with it.

This never works in the opposite direction.

You: do you want some of this dish I made?

White person: No, thanks. I don’t like eggplant.

You: what? My other white friend loves eggplant. I don’t understand why you don’t…?

This shitty phenomena is a prime example of othering. Because this is the white folks’ house and they make the rules, they get to be individuals, with their own hopes, fears, strengths, and weaknesses. But one bad apple will ruin the entire orchard where POCs are concerned. And you will be held personally accountable for anything terrible that another black person does.

3. You will face constant microaggressions.

There will be so many examples of the hostile and casually racist microaggression in your day to day life, but here are just a few of the most common:

-You will be ‘othered’. Since America isn’t your house, you will be treated like a suspicious outsider who must be watched, questioned, and disbelieved.

-You will walk into a store and not be noticed by employees who will then run to assist a white customer who comes in after you. Or, worse, you will be followed, treated with open suspicion, told to buy something immediately or get out while white customers are left to browse in peace.

-White people will be surprised to find out that you have a college degree and that it’s not in African Studies.

-White people will assume you have many kids, all from different partners.

-You will receive backhanded compliments such as:

You’re pretty for a black girl!
Wow, you are so articulate!
You don’t even act black!

-Upon first meeting, before even asking your name, a white person will demand to know: What are you?

4. You will be expected to drop everything to educate white folks no matter the time, place, or what you are doing.

Google exists for a reason and there are thousands of articles, books, and blog posts on the subject of how to identify and work through implicit racial bias. But instead of using any of these free resources, white people will expect you to take on the burden and heavy emotional labor of instructing them on how to best go about bettering themselves.

5. White folks will feel the need to share with you every racist interaction they encounter throughout their day when you are literally just trying to get through your own life.

They will lose their minds over every social media post, every news story about an unarmed black man getting shot by a police officer, every racially charged comment overheard in the store. And they will bring all of this to you, laying it onto your already heavy shoulders.

This kind of fanatical outrage is especially troubling because it places the white person at the center of a discussion about blatant racism, leaving the POC in the position of comforting that person. You know racism exists from daily experience, and it’s exhausting to get all of this secondhand racism on top of the firsthand racism you are already dealing with. This exhaustion is compounded by the soothing of the white person that you will have to undertake just to extricate yourself from a conversation that you didn’t want to have in the first place.

6. You will be perpetually asked to rubber stamp a white person’s questionable conduct as not racist. Usually, this conduct actually is racist, but that isn’t what you are there to say. You are there to comfort the white person and provide them with assurances that they are not being racist. This evidence will likely be used in the future against another black person who later calls out this white person on some racist conduct. Because all POC are the same, remember?

7. You become used to hard facts at an early age, such as:

-Your skin color is a liability that leads to and justifies poor and unfair treatment.

-In a dispute, especially if it involves law enforcement, your word will never be accepted over that of a white person’s.

-The cardinal sin is making a white person feel uncomfortable. Your job as a POC is to soothe white people and never allow them to feel guilty, even when they are the perpetrators of gross indignities. Remember: this isn’t your house.

-You will be told to be grateful for what you have, as though you haven’t earned it with your own merit. You are lucky to even be here. Never forget that.

-You will be made to explain to your children why their skin color puts them at a disadvantage, and you will need to deal with the inevitable aftermath of the first time your child is called the N word. And it will happen before they reach double digits.

8. Being black in America means understanding your place in this country for what it truly is. It means being uncomfortable in a house that doesn’t belong to you, but finding a way to live your life anyway. It means fighting for meaningful change but not expecting it any time soon, though you keep pushing. It means not giving up.

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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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