The Hardest Conversation
The spooky R-word that most people prefer not to think about: racism.
If that word made you squirm, thanks for reading this. Feeling uncomfortable is hard, so I appreciate you taking this first step out of your comfort zone.
Also, this article presupposes that you are vaguely aware that systemic racism exists. This is not to convince you that it does; so, so, so many people have done that already and more eloquently than I could. This is to share a personal epiphany that recently came to me that affects all of us.
For context, IBM recently sponsored 7 others and myself to complete the Beyond Diversity training in preparation to facilitate prioritizing the Austin, Texas’s Institutional Racism and Systemic Inequities Task Force’s recommendations and develop an implementation plan. As someone who thinks about race everyday, I was stoked to have this opportunity, but admittedly was skeptical going in. While what was learned in the training validated many of my thoughts, it served as a launchpad for me to articulate some of my previously unclear thoughts into more coherent realizations, such as the most salient one:
The most consequential and achievable thing you could do to make a change is to tell your story, and listen to others’.
Every single one of us has a story to tell, because every single one of us has in some way perpetuated racism.
Even me.
When I was young, I was frequently reminded of all of the obstacles I’d face and precautions I’d have to take because of the color of my skin. I was given “the talk” in various degrees since I can remember — a conversation shared by many black parents with their black children detailing the ways they’ll be mistreated due to their complexion and how to navigate these scenarios. Even still, internally I figured that I was a pleasant, articulate, hard-working guy. Surely I’d be exempt from these issues.
As I got older, I often abstained from talking or thinking about race, for fear of being someone who’d unnecessarily rock the boat, thereby compromising relationships with friends or potential career avenues. I saw the best mechanism to combat racism as being a “normal, assimilated black man” in the presence of my predominantly white networks, defying all stereotypes and being a stark contrast to the black caricature depicted by society for my white network.
This charade of mine continued well into college. I concealed all opinions and was culpable in avoiding meaningful discussion in the name of maintaining white comfort and preserving the racist status quo.
It wasn’t until the morning of July 6, 2016 that I lost my racial innocence.
I stayed the night with my then-girlfriend, who is Assyrian. I woke up before her, as I often did, and checked the news on my phone. This was the first time I saw two names that I would never forget: Alton Sterling and Philando Castile. I would see the murder of not one, but two unarmed black men.
I read article after article and watch both of the respective videos which I do in derealized disbelief. I put my phone down, sat up, and stared vacantly as I reflected on what I had just seen.
There was no running from it anymore: I realized that it isn’t enough to comply, or to be a pleasant, articulate guy, or to rely on someone else to treat me like a human being. Someone can murder me or any of my loved ones, without apology or consequence, strictly for the shades of our skin.
An indiscernible period of time passed before she woke up. Sensing something was wrong, she asked, and I immediately started crying. It took minutes to communicate what was on my mind — equally due to how hard I was crying and how I was attempting to coherently describe my disbelief, fury, hopelessness, worthlessness stacked years high.
I was broken, unrecognizable to myself.
Shortly after, I had to leave the house emotionally totaled, yet put on a face for fear of explaining my story to someone who’d dismiss, minimize, or trivialize it.
After coming to terms with how expendable my life is in the eyes of society, I decided that if someone can kill me or my loved ones anyway, I sure as hell was not going to take it silently.
In terms of sheer days of my life spent, I’ve perpetuated racism longer than I haven’t, and — as much as it pains me to say — I almost definitely still do. As I reflect back, I’m deeply ashamed at how long it took me to realize my silence is complicity in a system that has and continues to oppress people of color.
Luckily, it’s never too late to change.
Succinctly summarized in our training, whether you’re white, black, or otherwise, people don’t speak up about race because of one or a combination of four reasons: fear, disbelief, ignorance, and fatigue. What started as disbelief for me grew into fear of compromising my opportunity to prove people wrong. Now, the disbelief is nonexistent, the fear is negligible, but I do struggle with fatigue. I’m exhausted from having to tell people racism still exists and why (seemingly) obvious racist happenings are problematic, and from juggling my playful persona with the seriousness that comes with talking about race.
The easiest and most effective way to reverse this system is identifying which combination of those keeping four aforementioned reasons are keeping you silent about race. Are you afraid of being labeled or ruining relationships? Are you tired of telling people it’s a problem? Are you shocked that people could do this in the first place? Did you not know there was a problem of such magnitude?
Next, craft your story of how you see the world through the lens of your race. A large part of my story can be read here.
Then, share your story. Start with whomever you feel comfortable, then branch out.
A powerful takeaway I had from the training was being an advocate within your affinity groups — loosely based on shared skin color and precisely where we fall according to our white privilege. Humans are inclined to be more receptive to people similar to them, so being transparent about the ways you perpetuate institutionalized racism with this group is the most promising way to make a change.
Beyond that, it’s about getting knowledgeable about the systems in place that disenfranchise people of color, cognizant of our biases that enable racism to continue, and mindful of how and where we can leverage our privilege — race, gender, socioeconomic status, sexual orientation, religion, etc. — to influence and create change.
Too often, I feel like many people are wary to tell their stories for fear of the baggage and guilt that comes with it. This fear silences people, freezing any conversation, thus perpetuating systemic racism and inviting increased inequity.
I won’t pretend to have all of the answers, but one thing I can guarantee:
We can’t fix it if we can’t talk about it.
So when you resume your normal life, start looking at the world through the lens of your respective race, develop your story, and be prepared to share and listen. I challenge every reader to engage in a real, productive conversation about race and how it shapes us and the world you live in. Don’t wait until the “perfect time”; when it feels most uncomfortable to bring it up is likely the setting the conversation is needed most. That alone would yield unprecedented strides towards a more prosperous future.
It’ll be hard, and whether it’s fear, disbelief, fatigue, or ignorance that keeps you from having this conversation, it’s about identifying it and taking steps to push through it. It’s important to remember: conversations are bidirectional, so it’ll take having an active voice and attentive ears within your network, friends, family, and colleague.
And most of all, it’ll take being really, really uncomfortable.
Lawrence Humphrey is an Artificial Intelligence Design Practices Creator at IBM based in Austin, Texas. The above article is personal and does not necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.
