A Certain Looking White Woman

Every week, I stand before a roomful of strangers in antiracism workshops. There’s a lot one must be prepared for when doing this kind of work: who will be there? what’s the racial makeup of the room? what’s the understanding of racism and the willingness to enter this kind of work?

Usually, I depend on local organizers to bring the right people into the space. This means a lot of phone calls, emails, and trust: trust that people will organize well. There is, by the way, such a thing as organizing badly. It’s possible to bring the wrong people into this work. Not everyone is ready for it. Some people want to be in the room simply to poke holes in theories, ideologies, and personal experiences. My advice to organizers is this: never knock on a closed door. Find the people who are ready.

Once there, I do an extended introduction of myself and what brought me to this work. It hinges on my own racial identity with a Black father from New Orleans and a white mother from a tiny town in South Dakota. That’s when I tell the story of a Certain Looking White Woman.

The first time it happened, I was 4 years old.

I got to choose an activity with daddy and it was just going to be us. My older sister wouldn’t be coming and my mom was home, pregnant with my younger sister. I wanted to get ice cream and I had one more request. It’s the kind of request only a 4 year old would give and that was to be hoisted up to be able to ride atop my dad’s shoulders.