Before I really get into this post, I want to admit and acknowledge that I’m writing it for myself, for things I’ve been thinking through a lot recently to become more clearly articulated in my head. So it’s pretty self-indulgent and, as I’ll get to a in a bit, possibly irrelevant to any meaningful discussion of race and racism in that it inevitably comes from a theoretical place. Being a white person, I unavoidably have a very limited understanding of the lived experience of how whiteness pervades society, of its felt effects on people of color. That doesn’t mean I can’t be educated, however, which is sort of the point of this post, but again, since it can’t be much more than theoretical, I don’t blame anyone who chooses to disregard it as part of an academic conversation that has no real bearing on the more relevant discussion of what it’s like to actually BE a person of color under a system of whiteness.

See, lately I’ve begun to read/follow a lot of people on here who often write extensively, thoughtfully, and usually quite personally on the problem (epidemic? plague?) of whiteness and the systemic racism that permeates the experiences of any and all people of color who live in this country (and others, of course, but particularly America). I’ve shut up, I’ve listened, and I’ve tried to learn. Huge, enormous thanks are due to my real-life-friend Hannah, who is apparently quite a tumblr celeb with a ridiculous number of crazy-smart, progressive, activist folks in her tumblr circle. She’s reblogged a couple of my posts, and suddenly I got a bunch of new followers, bringing a goldmine of brilliant thought and analysis pertaining to race right to my goddamn front door. A lot of y’all probably don’t even have me on your radar, but please know that even though nothing you write is for the purpose of benefiting me in any way, thanks to you my life and the very way I think about the world has changed fundamentally. I have been forced to come to terms with the fact that I don’t know everything. In fact, I pretty much don’t know shit, at least not in ways that count. I’ve realized that my dont-take-anything-seriously mantra is part of a gigantic privilege I have in that I have access to thoughtless contentment that people of color have no access to. 

I think of myself as a person who is relatively race-conscious. Though by throwing that word “relatively” in there, simply being aware that the Civil War was predicated upon maintaining the brutal institution of slavery makes me “race-conscious” where I come from (Newnan, Georgia). So the standard is disgustingly, shamefully poor. Still, you know, I was totally one of those back-patters who walked around proud of myself for being a “good one” or whatever, because hey, I’ve spoken up and often in public ways against ways in which racism and whiteness and good-ol-boyism have reared their ugly heads in different communities I’ve been a part of. I don’t tolerate racist jokes! I talk candidly about race and don’t shy away from it. I KNOW, LOVE, RESPECT, BEFRIEND BLACK PEOPLE, & MORE!!! KUDOS ME.

Haha. This attitude, of course, made me bristle a little defensively when I read posts on here about how I have no right to try to contribute to a conversation of race. Or, more precisely, I have no right to co-opt the voices of people who are telling their own stories in order to tell their stories for them. No right to demand an acknowledgment of “Oh, I just meant some white people, you’re fine.” No right to expect reassurance that I don’t have blood on my hands. But why do I want that? Why do I crave that so much? Why do white people always come into conversations of race seeking resolution?

Are you ready? Cause here’s the point. I learned something. Being race-conscious is not a question of having a revelation one day, then putting it away on some shelf in the back of my mind and never thinking about it again until the topic of race comes up. That’s bullshit. That might qualify as being at least somewhat informed, but it is a glaring example of white privilege that I am able to understand something intellectually without EVER having to think about it in a personal, painful, profound way. The problem with me and other white folks like me is that once we are made aware of the systemic violence of whiteness/white supremacy, we want a resolution. But the final purpose of being aware of whiteness is not resolution, at least not the resolution of our feelings of uneasiness. Because that uneasiness is nothing more nor less than awareness, nothing more nor less than consciousness, and constant consciousness is something only we have the privilege of avoiding indefinitely if we so choose. To exercise that privilege is to endorse it.

Even though I have no personal experience to draw from when talking about the lived experience of racism, I definitely have personal experience pertaining to what it’s like to buy into whiteness. Though the process of buying-into-whiteness is usually an unconscious and automatic one, with no real understanding of what’s happening while it’s happening, I do believe that white people can become aware in a very personal way of the ideologies we’ve gone along with and lived by our whole lives, by listening and learning. Just fucking think about it. It’s really not hard. And, no lie, it’s AWESOME being white. I have so many advantages! TIME TO LIST SOME.

I’ve never been accused of anything I didn’t do. I’ve gotten away with things I DID do because I’m presumed innocent until proven guilty, which is awesome. Never been told I was “articulate” as if it was a compliment. Never been told I should “tame” my hair/attitude/desires. Never been followed around in a store or gotten watched down a salesperson’s nose as if I was gonna steal something (except when I’ve been with my Black friends—I have those ‘cause I’m a “good one”). No one ever suspected that I got in to an Ivy League school because of my race, and no professor ever respected my opinions less because they came from a white person. When I talk about race, OTHER WHITE PEOPLE ALWAYS LISTEN TO ME even though I only have a theoretical understanding at best! I can say I’m a feminist and never worry about the larger implications of that. I never had to worry that a standardized test wasn’t geared towards me, never had to worry that someone might give me a lower grade because they presumed I was stupid (slight exception in cases of misogynistic male teachers, but usually they wanted to “help me out”—MY HEROES—because of this assumption instead of fuck me over). Never been checked by border patrol officers—they just wave me on, white girl swag—and all I have to do is smile or cry to get out of a speeding ticket. Never been treated with extra scrutiny at an airport. Never have I been asked, assumed, or expected to represent my entire race with any comment or action I make—good or bad. Never been told on a consistent if not daily basis since I was a young child that material or academic success was only available to me if I made myself an EXCEPTION to the rule. Never had to worry that my father, brothers, cousins, sons would be presumed to be criminals on sight. Never had to go through 12 years of schooling playing bysomeone else’s rules and imitating someone else’s dialect of English (yes, “Standard English” is no more than a dialect itself, the politics of language are so fucked up, but that’s another story) in order to be granted even an opportunity to compete with my peers—who don’t consider me a peer no matter what. And if by some fucking miracle, a person of color has still managed not to give up on the blatantly fixed race (heyyy double entendre) all the way into college, I get to accuse THEM of fixing the race!!! I get to accuse anyone of color of taking steroids when I was born with steroids fucking pumping through my veins. And never, never, never, was I ever forced to realize a single one of these things. Nor do I ever have to think about them again.

This is just a short catalog, by no means exhaustive. I really don’t believe that even the most self-proclaimed racially conscious whites are aware of how fucking good we have it. Otherwise they’d walk around high-fiving each other, but mostly we just cry and talk about how “MY family didn’t own slaves!” Mostly we just grieve our thoroughly CRUSHED senses of contentment, desperately trying to reclaim the bliss of ignorance: “It’s not my fault, how can I fix it??”

You can’t fix it, at least not yourself. And if you were actually honest with yourself, you’d know that you only want to fix it for your own sake. You only want to fix the discomfort and guilt washing over you in waves when you’re forced to see what everyone else never has a choice to close their eyes to in the first place. And that’s not something that you should fix.

To anyone who read this, thanks for giving me a listen. And to other white people—if you find yourself more convinced by this post than by any post on race you’ve read by a person of color, check yourself.