The black and white of it

I'm a white woman. I am thoroughly white. My DNA is 60% English, Scottish, and Welsh. Scandinavia and Europe's west coast make up the rest. My immediate family arrived in England in 1066 and left for New England in 1642 and as far as I can determine I have no black or brown ancestors. I wish I did, but I don't.

As a child I always envied those whose families spoke different languages or enjoyed different customs. My family, I thought, was boring. Plain vanilla. This surely contributed to my lust for travel and other cultures; even adopting some of their habits.

But I'm still white. Which means I've never been turned down for a job because of my skin color. I never awakened to wonder what casual slur or outright hostility I might face today. It never occurred to me that I might be rejected by a group, or ejected from a place, due to my color, and I've never had to feel my way through a fraught situation because of it. I've never paused in anticipatory fear before going anywhere or entering any establishment. Nor have I worried about being shot or jailed for something I didn't do. Because my whiteness bestows great privilege.

Because I've lived most of my life in a predominantly white state I know very few black or brown people (two percent of Oregon's population is black, 13 percent is Latina/o.) I regret this. Most of what I know about black culture comes from movies and television and books. Which is why a few months ago I read Isabel Wilkerson's new book Caste, and Punching the Air by Ibi Zoboi and Yusef Salaam (of the exonerated five).

Wilkerson's book is beautifully written, fascinating and challenging. She examines caste in America through her own experience and research, and compares it to caste in India and the Third Reich. And she describes and reaffirms the magnitude of the harm nonwhites are dealt on a daily basis, and our country's responsibility for acknowledging that and fixing it.

We are facing increasing and deserved calls for social justice but her chapter on unconscious bias made me wonder how we can overcome what we cannot perceive. According to Harvard sociologist David R. Williams, researchers have found that by adulthood "most Americans have been exposed to a culture with enough negative messages about African-Americans and other marginalized groups that as much as 80 percent of white Americans hold unconscious bias . . . so automatic that it kicks in before a person can process it."

What are we to do about a bias that shapes our behavior "despite holding no explicit racial prejudices"? We can start by learning more. Wilkerson's book is a must read, in my opinion, and contains a rich bibliography for anyone wanting to explore further.

Which brings me to Punching the Air. This is a book I would never have picked up if I hadn't just finished Caste, and if I hadn't heard an interview with the author. I'm so glad I did. It's the fictional story of black Amal Shahid, an artist and poet who at 16 is sentenced to prison for a crime he didn't commit. It's written in free verse and rap, and the printed words sometimes wander across the page, reflecting the boy's first person story. It's creative, delightful, eye-opening, and uplifting.

I realized after reading Caste that, despite my best efforts, I can't claim to be free of prejudice. I have lived an easy life full of love and adventure, always unconsciously protected by my white privilege. I wish Wilkerson had written Caste 40 or 50 years ago. I wish my teachers had taught the real meaning of slavery and Jim Crow and its long-lasting trauma. And I wish I knew how to eliminate unconscious bias.

I don't. But February is Black History Month, a good time to take advantage of the great books and the many movies with and by black talent. It may not eliminate the bias—conscious, sub, or un—but it can't hurt. And if you're white like me, you may learn more than you can imagine.

Processing racism

It's the Monday following the atrocities in Charlottesville, Virginia and I am still trying to process what it means—to me and to the country. Charlottesville is a long way from Oregon, but Oregon has its own history of racial intolerance, so really, we have much in common.

I have been consuming news and Twitter for three days now, and much has been said that is good, even powerful. One phrase I saw over and over again. "This is not who we are." "This is not America."

I find that one distinctly odd, because of course this is who we are. We are a racist culture and we have been throughout our history. Our founders were slave owners. We fought a war to end slavery but white supremacy and white privilege never ceased.

Our current president and many of his staff and cabinet are known racists, yet we elected him, our senators confirmed his cabinet. The white supremacists/Nazis who marched in Charlottesville are outspoken fans of this president, and he has served them well; he has made it easier for them to come out from under their hoods and show us who they are.

I am happy there were people standing up to the KKK and the Nazis in Charlottesville, and I hope people will continue to stand up and speak out. But that alone will not end racism. That will not end intolerance. It will take more than that. It will take accepting who we really are—we are racists. If we're white, we must admit and own white privilege, and deny white supremacy.

Charles M. Blow, a black columnist writing in the New York Times, said today on Twitter, in response to others saying Black people must speak out: "I did not create America's racial caste system. I don't maintain it. I do not benefit from it. People in those categories need to dismantle it . . ." He also said, "Curing racism is not my job." I agree. It's the job of white people, because we put it in place, we allowed it, we turned a blind eye to it.

It will take listening, really listening to people of color to cure racism. And it will require paying attention to politics, to the people we elect and the sometimes hidden messages in their campaigns. We must think and read before we vote. We must change the way we teach history, the way we make laws, and the way we enforce them. Only political will can do this.

Charlottesville showed us nothing new, it just made it easier to see. I think it's possible to overcome this horror, but it will be painful, and slow. And we must begin with this. We must acknowledge who we really are. America is a racist country and those of us who are white all contribute to maintaining that racism. If we can acknowledge that—and I know it's hard—I think we are halfway there.