I was born and raised in an affluent, white neighborhood in the suburbs of Los Angeles. Growing up, I was blissfully unaware of racism, despite the fact that the Rodney King trial was happening two towns over from mine (a realization I sadly didn’t discover until just a few weeks ago). We had a handful of black kids at our school, one of which was the son of a Gold-Medal Olympian. Maybe because of this, or in spite of this, I was conscious of race, but almost always from an observer’s POV. My black schoolmates seemed exotic and different, and I was always hyper-aware of my actions around them. I wanted them to think I was cool; or when we learned about the tragedies of slavery, that I was aware as a white person that I should feel guilt for the horrendous crimes committed against them. But, at all times, I was aware of our differences. I was young and naive.
This slowly changed as I entered High School. One of my best friends was a black man who was on the cheer team with me. He was six feet, two-hundred pounds of pure muscle, and had the temperament of a teddy bear. I trusted my friend to throw me twenty feet in the air and catch me, and he almost always did. When I dealt with high-school heartbreak, my friend was the first one to comfort me with a big hug. And when my ankles became weak after suffering injuries, my friend would delicately wrap them taking time out of his warm-up routine to make sure I was okay. It was the first time that I didn’t see color, I saw the person. And I was a better person for it.
Several years later, when I was working at my first job, I got a call from my dad telling me my friend from High School had been arrested and charged with a horrendous crime. A crime I knew in my heart there was no way he could commit. My first thought was: they’re doing this because he’s black. This was the first time I became enraged at racism. The fire was lit inside me, but as a white female I felt disempowered. If I said anything, would people think of me as hypocritical? Maybe they would and maybe I was. It’s hard to be angry about something that doesn’t directly affect you, after all.
My friend was later acquitted and I did write several letters to the judge to vouch for his character (and encouraged my other friends to do the same), but it still didn’t feel like enough. He would have this mark on him for the rest of his life, as would many others like him, and that anger inside me continued to grow.
It’s unfair to paint myself as someone who is vigilantly seeking justice for all. I retweet articles and have discussions with my friends, but it still doesn’t seem like enough. It’s not. And In light of the two tragic police shootings this week, I found myself sobbing uncontrollably in the shower; mourning the loss of those two lives and the hundreds of lives before theirs; mourning the broken system; and mourning my own helplessness at it all. I really don’t know what to do and I don’t know if anyone does, but I’m tired of being silent. I’m tired of hiding behind my color and my privilege and not using my voice to say that it’s not okay. I’m tired of my friends being fearful of getting gunned down for doing nothing, when I can’t comprehend that fear for myself.
This morning I called my mom (another privileged white woman from the valley) to talk to her about the most recent shooting. My mom agreed it was a tragedy, but couldn’t understand why the man had a gun (not that she was in anyway defending the policeman’s horrible action). I found myself screaming — this is the kind of thinking that leads to this violence. Then, calmly I asked my mother point-blank: “Do you think if the man was white and had a gun, the police would’ve shot him?” My mom paused before responding: “No.” And that’s what we need to change. That’s what we need to scream at our white family members, friends, neighbors, and whoever will listen: there is a double standard in our Nation that is not okay.
All kinds of people are capable of horrible things. Evil is not relegated to a certain race, religion, sexual orientation, or gender. And we need to stop acting like it is.
As a white woman, I’m no longer concerned if people think I’m stepping out of bounds for speaking up. I’ve had enough.
Original Post of this essay can be found here: https://medium.com/@joellecornett/enough-thoughts-on-racism-from-a-privileged-white-girl-af66697741fe#.v3jcpvx54