we are blind to it

I have hesitated to even begin writing my thoughts on this, though for those who know me personally I am sure a casual stroll through my Facebook feels not so casual right now. How do I coherently express my thoughts in the cacophony? More importantly, what can I say that adds to the conversation, and how do I express my support without speaking over the voices of my Black friends and loved ones? I don’t know, but I am going to do my best.

I am a White man. Before I can say anything else, I must acknowledge this first and foremost because of the position this affords me in our society. The privilege this affords me. For some reading this, there is a misunderstanding of what we mean by “privilege” in this context, because maybe we grew up in poverty or with other major disadvantages in our life. Privilege can be many things, and having it in one arena does not mean you have it in all. I am White, and male, and cisgender, all of which afford me privilege. I am pansexual—think of it as bisexual plus—and polyamorous, and these things can be very disadvantageous, depending on the circumstances.

Today, however, my focus is specifically on my being White. We often find it very uncomfortable to acknowledge the existence of any privilege we are afforded by virtue of our skin tone because we are trained not to see it. It nonetheless exists. If I were suspected of writing a bad check, I would be taken in handcuffs, transported to the police department, and either await my trial in a jail cell or, more likely, I would be released on bail. A police officer would not kneel on my neck until I died. A police department would not protect that officer until video evidence of the incident made the rounds. An autopsy would not claim that I had pre-existing conditions that killed me, rather than a man I knew and worked with kneeling on my neck for several minutes. A lot of things would not happen to me.

George Floyd’s death is not an isolated incident. Specifically, the disproportionate use of force in response to an alleged crime is not isolated. Ahmaud Arbery was chased down and shot by two white men in February, and even with video evidence arrests were not made until months later. Breonna Taylor was shot and killed by police, in her own home, and without warning. Trayvon Martin was walking home from the store, and was shot by a neighborhood watchman for “looking suspicious.”

In each of these situations, I see an awful lot of people making excuses for everyone involved. “Well, she was suspected of aiding drug dealers.” And you smoked weed as a kid, yet you’re here to have this conversation with me. “They didn’t recognize him.” You’ve been the new person in town, or somewhere on vacation, and yet you’re here to have this conversation. “He was wearing a hoodie, and didn’t respond.”

For every excuse, I can find a parallel action that’s been made by either the person making it, or by myself, but both of us are alive to “discuss” it. What do we have in common? Does this mean White people never get killed by the police? Of course not. But if you think the number of White people killed for existing while White is in any way proportionate to the number of Black people killed for existing while Black, then you are willfully ignoring reality.

There are layers upon layers to this issue. I would say I could write a book, but the books have already been written, by people who understand better than I ever have hope to. That any of us who were born with White skin are so far removed from the issue as to not understand it until it is explained to us is, in itself, the peak of White privilege. That we do not automatically see and understand the truth of the matter, because we do not experience this kind of discrimination ourselves, is precisely the problem. We are blind to it because even the way we are taught about the issue of race is structured in a way that obscures the benefits we receive. One of the most mind-blowing paragraphs I’ve read recently, not with regard to police violence, but racial history in general, sums it up thus:

The story of Jackie Robinson is a classic example of how whiteness obscures racism by rendering whites, white privilege, and racist institutions invisible. Robinson is often celebrated as the first African American to break the color line and play in major-league baseball. While Robinson was certainly an amazing baseball player, this story line depicts him as racially special, a black man who broke the color line himself. The subtext is that Robinson finally had what it took to play with whites, as if no black athlete before him was strong enough to compete at that level. Imagine if instead, the story went something like this: “Jackie Robinson, the first black man whites allowed to play major-league baseball.” This version makes a critical distinction because no matter how fantastic a player Robinson was, he simply could not play in the major leagues if whites—who controlled the institution—did not allow it. Were he to walk onto the field before being granted permission by white owners and policy makers, the police would have removed him.

Robin DiAngelo, White Fragility

The way we talk about the issue of race in this country is broken, and it supports a system where Black people and other people of color are continually marginalized and punished, and White people are frequently blissfully unaware. We are taught about Martin Luther King, Jr. and the Civil Rights Movement as though it were entirely peaceful, and as though the man himself was simply so exceptional that White people were suddenly enlightened to the humanity of Black people by his example. We tend to gloss over the fact that he was assassinated for his beliefs, even though his personal protests were peaceful. We speak in reverent tones of his Letter from a Birmingham Jail while completely side-stepping the fact that he wrote it while he was confined in jail for protesting peacefully.

So, riots break out, and we gasp and distance ourselves from the movement. “I can’t condone this kind of violence.” Yet, we have condoned and continue to accept a system that perpetuates violence, both bloody conflict and structural division, and we cluck our tongues and shake our heads and do nothing, say nothing. Worse yet, we have the audacity to say, “it’s not a race problem, it’s a police problem,” and when people of color—and especially Black people—tell us otherwise, we tell them they are just playing the race card. Because, of course, if we dismiss the possibility that they are right, then we don’t have to do anything about it.

And for those who are so focused on the idea that it’s just a police problem and there are simply a few bad apples, I am going to quote the most unlikely of sources, Chris Rock: “…some jobs can’t have bad apples.” They just can’t. The system is not equal, and we have not been listening for a very long time. That’s why George Floyd allegedly wrote a bad check and was murdered, but Dylann Roof murdered Black people in a church and was peacefully apprehended. And believe me, I know White men get taken out by police, too. A White man I knew was in a multiple-day shootout with the FBI and was eventually killed. But his story is the exception, and not the rule.

Black lives matter, too. For those who respond to that by saying, “all lives matter,” it’s time you start fucking acting like it.