Yesterday I sat with a friend in his living room. Windows closed, shades drawn. He described fear: fear of leaving his apartment, fear of driving down the street, fear of simply being. I left him there, alone, as I stepped back out into the sunshine.

Later in the day, I walked into a popular communal drink and dining spot in a gentrifying neighborhood in downtown Denver. I saw a sea of mostly white bodies, unconcerned, unperturbed, unafraid and, to my eye in that moment, giddy and gluttonous. I turned on my heel and walked out.

Now, I may be exaggerating this polarity for the sake of argument. I may be unfairly appropriating a friend’s story, and unfairly casting a blanket of judgment on people whose internal reckonings and political actions I cannot know. Nonetheless, this: violence and bigotry and systemic racism are born on the backs of people of color in this nation, not only because it is their bodies that bear the brunt of the physical assault, but because they bear the bulk of the emotional burden, too. If or when “good white people” and “progressives,” myself included, enter this conversation, we usually enter through the gate of grief, empathy, and confusion. “This is so terrible. I feel for their families. I cannot make sense of it. What am I to do for them?” Or, as evidenced those dining revelers, we are distant and apathetic.

What exists between the poles of grief, which excuses the urgency of action, and reckless ambivalence, which we white folk seem to feel is our right? Action, of course. So WHY does action elude us? If it is not clear, white folks, I am speaking to us.

I believe action eludes us because of the myth that “this” is not our problem. That we do not need to engage, because we did not create it, we do not perpetuate it, and it cannot come and get us. And, because of the myth that if we do engage, by the choice which is our right, we are somehow noble or magnanimous. That silence is an option, empathetic spectatorship is adequate, and it is our right to maintain the peace of mind which was bestowed to us on birth.

My first step out of this mire is to proclaim: systemic violence against people of color is my problem too. It is my problem because I profit from it, contribute to it, and also — in my own way — suffer its impact. That it is my problem does NOT mean I am entitled to name the solution or lead the way out of the mire. In fact, naming it as my problem requires that I follow people of color and work in your service. But, I begin with a message to my friends and family — my white folk. (Note: I will use “I” and “we” interchangeably. “I,” because I will not hide behind the veil of the abstract. I am accountable. I am committed. “We,” because Whiteness is larger than me — it is a construct, it is a force, it is a system. When I see myself only as an individual, I strengthen the invisible power of Whiteness.)

So, here goes. These are some reasons — just some — why systemic violence against people of color is my problem too.

1. I believe, as Dr. King said, “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”
2. On top of this, my faith tells me that “there is that of God in each of us.” This equal distribution of divinity connects us all, and an assault to you is an assault on the Godliness in me. We are connected.
3. I love, and have loved, many people of color. Lovers and partners and friends, beautiful people whose hearts and stories are now intwined with my own. Any affront to your bodies and souls is an affront to my person, which I physically and spiritually cannot abide.
4. Racism and sexism are descendants of bigotry and patriarchy. I am a woman. I have been physically and verbally and emotionally assaulted in my home, in my places of work, and in the streets. If I am to decry these injustices, I need also decry the injustices of racism. One is not the other, and knowing sexism does not mean that I know racism, but I cannot stand for one cause and not stand in solidarity with the other.
5. I work for the public education system. This is a system which, not unlike the systems of justice and law enforcement, upholds a noble cause while perpetuating the inequities it aims to dismantle. A system, not unlike the police force, where good intentions do not obscure collective accountability for continued oppression. I see this every day. By signing my life to this work and taking my paycheck from this system, I am a part of the same problem and a part of the same solution that creates war zones of our streets.
6. We have worked for bigoted bosses, and said nothing. In Our silence, We condoned their bigotry.
7. I sat next to a third grade girl while during a school visit. She busied herself helping me with the origami project they were doing with a visiting artist. The regular classroom teacher saw her spirited engagement, walked over, grabbed her forcefully by the arm, and pulled her out of the classroom into the hall. So begins the pattern of selective punishment, and I did nothing but try to raise the little girl’s spirits when she was brought back in.
8. I lead a team of people — diverse by gender and orientation and race and nationality — who need to talk about the assaults in our streets if they are to show up to work as themselves, heal in their own ways, and help cultivate bravery and healing and action in the schools they serve. Some days, when I am at my best, I make the space for this dialogue. Many days, I do not.
9. I bought a home in one of the fastest gentrifying neighborhoods in Denver. I bought it from a white woman, but my jokes about having a “gentrification footprint of zero” are efforts to avoid the truth that I am a part of the removal people of color from urban centers.
10. I called the police from this home of mine two weeks ago. I woke to gunshots outside my window — a sound I’ve learned to distinguish from the fireworks that go off leading up to the fourth — and called 911. When the dispatcher asked if I wanted to be called to follow up, I declined. I instigated a sequence of events that may have had no repercussions, or may have had grave repercussions, and in my desire to sleep I did not even hold myself responsible for knowing the outcome.
11. We pay taxes in this city. Through Our payment, whether or not We mean to, We endorse the use of those dollars. Whether or not We mean to, We endorse the actions of police and others who do some good, and do great harm.
12. We live now, and have lived in the past, in cities that (to varying degrees) take revenue from people arrested for petty crimes. That entrap them in the justice system, creating a proverbial sand trap of debt, in order to pay to keep up the basic services that We use.
13. We also live in a nation that spends over $40 billion annually on a criminal justice system. The schools We serve, the communities We serve, the streets We drive on — all are worse because of Our nation’s obsession with jailing “criminals,” and enforcing the New Jim Crow.
14. I have emerged unscathed, and with impunity, from activities that would cost others their lives. I have been pulled over by police for expired plates and excessive speed. I have actually HIT a patrol car with my own. I drank under-age. Friends and I stole a parent’s car and took a joy ride before we had licenses. None of these activities have had any impact on my ability to graduate college, earn my doctorate, vote, buy a home, have health insurance, or live my life. Our criminal system is looking out for me.
15. We experience white privilege daily. What is the opposite of micr0-aggressions? Micro-affirmations? Whatever they should be called, We benefit from them. Every. Single. Day.
16. Not only do I “have” white privilege, but my attainment is undoubtedly linked to others’ exclusion. I attended a University established by an industrialist and railroad tycoon, and therefore built by forced labor. I got into this school, in part, because I attended private schools that only elite families could afford. I thrived in them, in part, because I am fluent in academic language that excludes many other means of expression, and because I can engage in academic environments that know how to recognize my voice, but actively exclude others. I work hard, no doubt, but my achievements are not mine alone.
17. As a demonstration of this privilege, I have asked people of color to tend to my feelings. I have done this in the moments of their worst pain. I did not know I was doing this, but that does not matter. By adding to their pain and elevating my invented need over the gravity of their very real danger, I perpetuated the dynamics of violence.
18. We carry bias. We know that we do. We are so afraid to look at it, that We make it a point to smile wider, be kinder, stay steadfastly on the same side of the street. We invent theaters around our avoidance and, in so doing We keep bias hidden, secret, slippery, and alive.
19. We are not likely to be killed by police. We are not likely to be frisked for no reason. We may not have to be as afraid of the red and blue lights. But if We think, for a minute, that we are safe from the escalation of violence, we are kidding Ourselves. We are not immune.
20. I hope to have children one day. I will need to explain this world to them. I will need to tell them what I’ve done to make it safe and just. For their sake, this is my problem too.

I will repeat: systemic violence against people of color is my problem too. This does not mean that I need to be the one to own or define or stake my claim to its many solutions. With humility and passion, I commit myself to the wisdom of others, to collective action, and to love above all else.