Why black lives SHOULD matter, even if you’re white

White privilege is hard to quantify if you’re white, since you don’t see it (which is why so many white people really, honestly believe that racism in America is not an issue any more). I’m white too, and in the same way a man shouldn’t try to explain feminism to a woman, I am not going to try to explain it to you if you’re black, because you already know it in a way I’ll never even begin to understand.

So if you’re black, you may want to take a pass on this post. If you’re white, pull up a chair and let this ole lady share a bit of wisdom I’ve collected over the years. I should explain that I grew up in New York City, which is extremely integrated and always has been, and where you find people of all colors in every class and every neighborhood in the city. Most of my friends growing up were not white, or were mixed race, and to me that was the norm. So, if you would have asked me when I was young if racism still existed in my city I’d have been certain the answer was no. I never saw it. I lived in an integrated neighborhood, went to integrated schools and hung around with people of every race (and sometimes of two races or more). So racism, in my mind, was a non issue. It had been dealt with. “We” had overcome.

I’ve had three “aha” moments in my life that have convinced me I was wrong.

The first happened when I was still a teenager, back in my acting days when I was a member of Talent Unlimited, a teen performance group that had mostly black cast members. When I got on a subway by myself, no one turned a hair. When I got on a subway with four or more of my friends from this acting group, people would glare at them (us), hold their purses tighter and shrink away from these people, who they perceived incorrectly as young thugs bent on causing havoc. Having been on the subway previously with plenty of friends who were rowdier — and whiter — this was not lost on me, and I was mortified at my fellow New Yorkers.

The second “aha” moment came about a decade later, when I worked for a major publishing company in my single, post-college days. There was a bar in Penn Station that served Happy Hour food every Friday, and being relatively poor and also reasonably opportunistic, I developed the habit of going in there on Friday nights for a glass of wine, which just happened to come with all the free mini hot dogs, Swedish meatballs and mini egg rolls I could eat (which wasn’t many, since I was also a pretty small woman).

I usually went with my best work friend (who’s still one of my best friends even now) and we were always treated really well. We were allowed to run a tab. We were offered extra glasses of wine (hey, we were cute young women and they wanted to keep us in there as long as possible). We were tipped off as to when the fresh tray of mini-ribs was about to hit the hot table. And I loved going in there. It was part of my weekly routine.

Then one day it changed. Or rather, I changed. I went in with three other women from the same job. We were all young. We were all cute. And, with the exception of little pale me, we were all black. And the treatment we received was markedly different.

First, the waitress (who had been my waitress numerous times before) practically threw our wine on the table and then rudely demanded the money immediately. She didn’t even bother to put a bill on the table. After nearly burning her to death with my glare, I pulled out my American Express card, practically threw it at her and said, “We’ll run a tab, honey.” And yes, the ‘honey’ dripped in sarcasm.

“Did you SEE that?” I mused to my friends the moment the waitress left the table. “I wonder who took a dump in HER Cheerios this morning.”

My friends were puzzled at my reaction. They explained that they’d been there before and the waitresses always had you pay by the drink. I explained that I’d been there before and had always run a tab. And that was my second “aha.” The waitress took one look at these black faces belonging to honest, middle-class women and decided they would skip out on the bill without paying.

For the record, that waitress received pay in full. And a single, one-penny tip, just so she knew I hadn’t forgotten or neglected to tip her. I tipped for the service we got. And I never went back to that bar in Penn Station again.

The third “aha” moment was the worst of them all. I was all grown up by then, living in a comfortable suburb with my family. My children, like me, have friends of all races. We all can afford to live here, and so can they. In fact, one of my daughter’s black friends’ families has more money than we ever will, courtesy of the father’s very successful career.

So, one of my daughter’s best friends was here bleaching his hair one night. He wanted shocking white, which is a hard color to achieve if your skin is ebony and your hair is black. So it took longer than anticipated, maybe three hours or longer, and a total of three separate bleachings to get all the color out. He left our house at about 2 in the morning, freshly bleached and very pleased with his new snow-white hair.

I admit I wasn’t paying attention to what was going on outside. I was online and all my concentration was on the computer screen. So imagine my surprise when about a half hour after my daughter’s friend left, a knock came at my door. It was a police officer.

“Ma’am, I’m afraid we caught some black guy skulking around outside your house casing it. He says he was just here. Can you confirm it?”

Let me repeat: this was a half hour after this nice young man had left. Apparently the police saw him sitting in his car outside my house texting (probably Instagramming his new white locks, which he loved) and pulled him out, asking to see his license and registration. Which he produced. Which, upon producing, he was then informed that his car — HIS CAR, in HIS NAME, purchased new by HIS FATHER — was stolen. It had to be. It was too nice. (His father is/was quite famous in certain circles and yes, he makes the kind of money that can easily afford nice SUVs for each of his children.)

The police didn’t believe his story. They told him he was trespassing on private property belonging to a business (untrue; it was my property and people parked in that area all the time). They told him he was lying. They searched his pockets and his car.

And only then did they bother to check that his story was true.

That was my worst “aha” moment of all. This sweet young man, who I love and care for and know well because he one of my daughter’s best friends, was treated like a criminal for the crime of being black in a predominantly white neighborhood (and if I’m being totally honest, his father’s house has to be worth easily five times what mine is).

Even after I completely backed up the story he told the police (I mean, he WAS bleaching his hair all that time, I saw them do it and heard him complaining how much it burned) they still kept four squad cars on my lawn for another hour or so, questioning and hassling him. These would be the same cops who, on another day, might be pestering his father for autographs.

What is wrong with this picture?

What I hate most about this is that I consider him lucky, because he was not beaten up, or tased, or even killed. I chalk that up to his mother and father both stressing to him The Talk, that one no white parent ever has to have with their child, about how to survive even the most casual of confrontations with police officers.

I live in the Northeast, not some podunk little town. We have a black President. We have a black Congressman in my state who doubles as a hero in his spare time, who actually rushed into a burning building to save a baby.

And we have white privilege.

The next time someone tells you black lives matter, just agree with them. Of course all lives matter. Of course blue lives matter. But black lives MATTER. I’ve finally gotten sick enough of all the Sandra Blands, the Trayvon Martins, the Sean Bells and the Eric Garners being killed every day for such crimes as broken taillights, changing lanes without signaling or just for no reason at all other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The time is now. The place is here. And if you don’t become part of the solution, you remain part of the problem.