Today is Juneteenth and I had been planning on writing something uplifting about civil rights and the #BlackLivesMatter movement as a way of showing my solidarity. But with the horrible shooting—the act of terrorism—Wednesday night in South Carolina, this post has to be rather different than I had planned. While racial justice is something I feel strongly about, I’ve never been too comfortable talking about race itself. But right now I feel compelled to speak; there has never been a more appropriate time (at least in my lifetime) and the costs of silence are too great.
(Before following me below the jump...if you're only going to read one article about race today, go read this one.)
I am a white man. Or, if you prefer, Caucasian, Anglo, Caucasoid, etc., I don’t feel any particular affinity to any of those labels, though whatever you call it, that is part of my identity. I belong to a race, one that is no better or worse than any other, no more or less worthy of dignity and respect. So when someone is attacked or mistreated on account of their race, I will consider that an attack on me. When someone is attacked or mistreated because of their gender or orientation or beliefs or nationality, I will consider that a personal attack on me too—because I also have a gender and an orientation and beliefs and a nationality (maybe that's slightly off-topic...then again, maybe it's not at all).
White privilege is something that most white people don’t like to think about. Many of us prefer to believe that it doesn't exist. We don’t think about the privilege of breathing, either—but people with asthma or COPD/emphysema or lung cancer know that it is real. With every incident of race-based hatred or violence or other injustice, it becomes harder and harder to deny that in any number of ways (most of which I’m probably not even aware of), my life has been a tiny bit easier than it might have been had I not been born white. I never wanted special treatment, but every time I was not subject to conscious or unconscious bias, by an employer or law enforcement or educators or bankers or peers or even random people passing on the street—and someone else was prejudged or questioned or disrespected or looked at askance—I’m no better than they are, so on account of being treated better I have incurred a small debt. As a white person I don’t feel guilty, but as an American I am ashamed. I don’t know how to repay this debt, or whether it even can be repaid. But when I see injustice I will try to speak out rather than holding my silence.
Black Lives Matter. Part of me wishes that I didn’t have to say that, because it’s something I have always taken for granted, but it cannot be taken for granted in today’s America. Black lives matter because every life matters—yes. But it shouldn’t be necessary to strip away someone’s identity and reduce them to a generic “every life” in order to show that they have value and worth as a person. Black lives matter.
I’m writing this in Ithaca, NY, arguably one of the most progressive communities in the United States. Though blacks make up less than 7% of the population, we have a black mayor (Svante Myrick, who has been an excellent leader) and we voted overwhelmingly for Obama. I live just a couple blocks from the former home of Alex Haley, author of Roots. But Ithaca is also the site of recent hate crimes, our public schools and police have faced allegations of racism, and there are significant socioeconomic disparities from one part of town to another.
On the issue of civil rights—or any other issue—we as a society must never be satisfied with the progress that has been made, nor can we afford to give up when that progress seems to stall. We must continue striving for a society that we can all be proud of.
Together, we have work to do.