Owning the ignorance of my white woman privilege
It was a warm autumn day (circa 2002) on the plains of Auburn, Alabama, and I was still getting acclimated to the culture of the “Dirty South.” My curiosity compelled me to experience what it’s really like where football was the state religion and the players on the field were considered Gods. That is of course, if Auburn was winning. There was a clear and unspoken polarization of race and status on campus. If you were black and contributing to us winning on the field, you were treated as a celebrity. However, there was an innate unspoken understanding that the winning carried your only value. I will never be able to imagine what that felt like daily. Or what it felt like to be black in the bible belt of racism. I don’t believe I asked.
I was somewhat appalled, intrigued, and excited to try on something outside the small college prep school I attended for my previous three years. The college prep school’s white WASP-y culture and overwhelming boredom bled throughout the beautifully manicured outdoor hallways. In that environment, my white suburban upbringing of privilege wasn’t as obvious to me because plainly, there were barely any black people that I saw regularly. Did I think it was odd that for a class of 61 graduates to only have two black students with one of them being on scholarship? Maybe Did I question it? No.
If the neighborhoods I lived in throughout my life time were mostly white, and the people on TV that I watched were mostly white, then what reason would I have to question this? If the people that came in and out of my home were mostly white, unless they were cleaning our house or mowing our lawn, how could I not make a vast assumption that growing up in white upper-class America was the only world that existed or mattered? In my mind, I was a good person raised by good people, therefore, I am not racist. End of story.
Even with my parents educating my brother and I on equality, systemic poverty, and giving back; the sameness of our socioeconomic status and race was all we witnessed day-to-day.
On that southern autumn day in Auburn, I stepped into my white friend’s dorm room and saw her black roommate packing a bag. She was getting ready to work her shift at the campus cafe, a job she took in between classes. We chatted for a few minutes as I waited for my white friend to return from class. I thought it was odd that she had to hold a job and get acclimated to college at the same time. I thought all parents just had the money to pay for four-year degrees, and that was the norm. Don’t her parents want her to get the “full” college experience? My myopia led me to believe that everyone’s full college experience entailed boozing it up every night with other freshman classmates, barely making it to class, and “livin la vida loca” on the parents’ dime.
There was confusion and multiple complex stories emerging in my head. So does this mean that most black people have to pay for school themselves? Oh wow. I am racist. Does that make me an asshole? Do other people have to pay their way too? Who do I ask about this? Just keep this to yourself otherwise people are going to know you are racist and an asshole. I stayed quiet and remained in fear to get to know my friend’s roommate, her background, or her story. Because of this, I make the story about my own white fragility as opposed to anti-racism.
I wanted to feel like I was “woke” so that my insides would feel clean and pure, but I realized that day in the dorm room that I am not. It was as if a new world of awareness was inviting me in to learn and grow, and I slammed it shut. The awareness felt uncomfortable and full of guilt. It was guilt for not understanding someone else’s story that didn’t look like mine and ignorance for thinking that everyone just got a free ride to college which was an expectation for white people of privilege.
I stuffed down the uncomfortable feelings into the subconscious, so that my shame wouldn’t be exposed. It was easier to just stay in the comfort of my own unconscious story that white upper-class privilege was everyone’s privilege. If I didn’t see any different, then it didn’t exist.
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First of all, I am so damn sorry. In my core, I know this white fragility is what kept me from looking deeper and exposing my inner racism and working to become an ally in the anti-racism movement. I still make ignorant mistakes but this time I commit to evolving and being part of the solution no matter the cost to my ego. I get curious about other people’s stories and ask "What is it like to be you?", “How are you doing” and “What can I do?”. I cannot be frustrated that racism, classism and ignorance are still alive and well if I personally am not willing to get my hands dirty. It is my duty to get behind the brave women and men of color who fight for simple, inalienable freedoms that white people never have to question.
If you are interested in learning more about how to fight racism and learn how to bravely become more educated check out Black Girl Ventures, Robin DiAngelo, Author of White Fragility & GOOD Projects.