The Redux: If Not Now, White Folks, When?
In This Issue: Editor’s letter on allyship, racial equity, racism, and inclusion; plus a quote by Iyanla Vanzant.
Editor’s Letter
A little over two weeks ago, I tested positive for COVID-19 and surrendered my Last Man Standing card. Going this long without getting it? It was a good run while it lasted. Within hours of the results, I got my hands on Paxlovid, completed the cycle over the next five days, and am now COVID-free according to the tests.
I hoped to have a brand, spanking new editor’s letter for you, but things didn’t quite shake out that way. Meeting our weekly Friday deadline is important to me. Very important. But then again, so are substantive articles. So, instead of putting a slapdash editor’s letter out there, I’ve polished and re-published a piece many of you may not have read yet.
“If Not Now, White Folks, When?” was written as a submission for the Chicago Quarterly Review as part of an annual anthology a couple years ago. They wanted the thoughts of Black writers, so I took that as an invitation to share what it’s like, for me as a Black man, to watch white people come to grips with racism.
The delivery was intended to be similar to that of a stand-up comic. You know, riffs on themes, a mash-up of uncanny yet comic observations, genuine frustration, a little faux outrage, and lots of heart. Despite not making the cut, I feel it’s a fine bit of writing. So let’s forget I even mentioned that quarterly review. What was their name again?
And for the sake of all that is good, if you read something below and it causes you to bristle but it doesn’t seem to apply to you–let it go. But keep reading, though. I’m sure I’ll flat-out offend you a couple sentences later. Just kidding.
You may want to grab a couple of pastries and a big ol’ cappuccino before you dive in.
Whenever my white friends confess, I didn’t know it was this bad — it being racism — my reaction is always one of surprise and sadistic glee. As a Black man, I find it surprising that yet another white person has chosen to eschew the comfort and bliss that accompanies whiteness, in an attempt to better understand the depth and breadth of racism in a world that has so welcomed them. To me, as a Black man, their confession is a joyous sight to behold. How could it not be? To be present when someone white can put into words the realization that Black people are living a dystopian version of their advantaged American dream is priceless.
The best part? The moment never gets old.
Don’t get me wrong. I take no pleasure in the suffering of anyone, but knowing that a white brother or sister has scratched the surface of feelings of angst, agita, anxiety over the abject pain, degradation, and loss Black people have endured during the last 400 years . . . it gives me a sense of hope. And relief. I see the event as the place of embarkation, the starting point for that person’s journey to that place where they can appreciate the same inherent humanity in Black people that resides in them. And doing so allows them to become whole themselves.
Mind you, these friends I’m referring to aren’t closet racists. They don’t brandish Confederate iconography or flirt with subtle bigotry. The people who share their epiphany with me, I’ve known for years, decades in some instances. They are stand-up people who know right from wrong and have no problem choosing the former over the latter when making decisions. Their admission of finally seeing what has been right before their eyes is often delivered with a mix of remorse and embarrassment, much like the shame one might feel when offering an overdue apology. It’s like they’ve removed the world’s most opaque blindfold from their eyes and are seeing the world for the first time as described by Black people — awash with the glistening sheen of racism, bigotry, and hatred that targets all Black people.
I never tell them it is only the first of many such epiphanies.
I am in no way naive about race relations in America. Nor am I issuing a pass to white folks. After living in Black skin for over x decades, one learns how to read the ways of white people — and yes, you most certainly do have ways. Over the centuries, we’ve developed this skill out of necessity. Every Black person’s survival depends in part on their ability to discern white intent and to react in ways that mitigate potential physical harm to us or our beloveds.
My modus operandi in gleaning white intent consists of taking mental notes about what is said and how it is said and then comparing those notes against what is or has been done. If there is a marked discrepancy between words and actions, it gives me cause for concern and often results in me withholding trust. I broach the topic of race only with those who have demonstrated support for racial equity. Sounds like a low standard, eh? You’d be surprised how many white people who forego donning white robes and hoods harbor racial animus for Black, Indigenous, and People of Color.
New allies are a good thing. Tried and steadfast allies are the best.
I’m not a fan of the term “ally” as it has a performative ring. It implies doing as opposed to being. But I’ve come to accept the word as a metonym for a larger concept: broken people becoming better people. Long before I ever heard the word ally used outside of its historic World War II context, my childhood in the South provided me with a world-class education in discerning the differences between good white people (those who are aware of the racial injustices levied against Black people and made it a point to treat us with the same level of respect and care afforded to white people) and those to steer clear of — the ones harboring ill will toward.
How do you know who harbors ‘ill will’?
Read the complete article at Our Human Family.
