When I was a teenager in the 1970’s, my mother was summoned for jury duty. Due to adolescent self-absorption, I was not that interested in her experience or the importance of that process. When voir dire was completed on the second day of trial, my mother was excused from serving as a juror. Before dinner that night, as she stood in the kitchen of our home, she said simply, “they asked me if I was prejudiced against black people, and you know, I told them that I thought I was.” Her voice was soft with self-disappointment and more than a hint of shame.
My mother should have served on a jury panel. The town of Lexington, Kentucky sat at the confluence of the South and the Midwest, neither region a pillar of racial egalitarianism. If the defense attorney believed that he was going to find within our community a Caucasian, upper-middle class, middle-aged white woman without a shred of bigotry, he was mistaken. He should have settled for one who openly acknowledged her intolerance and struggled against it.
“Racist” is a harsh, non-compromising, binary word, and I am unprepared, and unqualified, to use it unequivocally. But I know one thing: if you believe you are impartial and blind to racial, ethnic, or physical differences, you are part of the problem.
I used to be in that group. I raised my family in an affluent and progressive neighborhood. I loved that my youngest son’s friends used to tease him and ask if he had any white friends. I stood shoulder to shoulder with black and brown mothers at youth sporting events, cheering, and bonding over our unified desire for a winning soccer goal. I believed in my heart that I lacked prejudice.
But I know better now. We are all unconsciously drawn towards those who look like us, and we ascribe value to certain physical attributes. As white parents, given the choice, we would prefer our children marry someone whose race, religion, culture, sexual orientation, and gender identification conform to ours. We vote for political leaders we identify with because we believe they align with our values and will divest the powerlessness we feel as a member of society whose physical presence is discounted.
I recently took an on-line implicit bias test, and I was horrified at what I learned. The test required me to make snap judgments between a series of photographs depicting people of different genders, races, dress style, military apparel, and physical disabilities. The test was designed to be taken quickly, so that you do not have enough time to overcome biased responses, even when you recognize them. It was humbling. I know now that working to eliminate social inequality must start with acknowledging the underpinnings of intolerance within me.
As I walked through my suburban neighborhood recently, I saw a black man approaching me - tall, athletic, 30-something. His head was down, buried in deep thought or doubtful hesitation, I could not tell which. I sang out, “good morning” cheerfully. It was code for, “I want you to know that I see you, I respect you, I am glad you are here.” He looked up at me and smiled broadly, his cheery demeanor washing over and instantly replacing his first emotion – relief at my reaction to him.
I have been known to complain that I am discounted for my gender, my age, and my height. But no one looks at me and perceives that I am potentially dangerous, criminal, lazy, or even just “different.” No one is afraid to approach me to offer help or to ask directions. I never worry I will hear a passing slur.
The essence of white fragility is disclaiming the existence of bias even when you have never walked through the world as a person of color. It is believing that it is enough to voice outrage for injustice and to vote for those whose platforms demand equality.
I bask in the protective coating of white privilege. My goal is to recognize that I have it so that I can fight it.