The Weight We Carry
1/12/21
Today is Tuesday, nearly 7 days ago I sat in my home office and watched a Livestream of the breach of the US Capitol. I had just finished hosting a group discussion on the Netflix video series “When They See Us”. The discussion went well, the team was engaged, and I left the discussion with the sense that we’re making progress against racism. Immediately my heart sank as I watched an angry mob use their privilege to assault the democratic process. I watched the angry faces, heard the random voices, shouting the phrases we’ve all become too familiar with. “Stop the Steal”; “Four More Years”, “Hang Mike Pence” and “Make America Great Again”. These are all phrases that have come to influence an emotion of stress and anger in me similar to traditional phrases of racism like “Porch Monkey”, or the common “Nigger”.
Images that I once saw in history books I saw on live TV. Images of our country’s past that I believed would never be a part of our present, yet here it is, upon us. These images strike emotions in the hearts of People Of Color (POC) around the world.
For all Americans, this event has stirred emotions. For POC particularly, it did something more. Over the past six months, I have devoted a portion of my work to helping White people learn and understand Black history. The books we’ve read have vividly illustrated the grotesqueries of slavery. Other books helped highlight the intense social discomforts that Black citizens carry in a majority of the social circles they interact with. Highlighting the common behaviors that silence or reduce Black voices and serve as a constant reminder that Black people are less than Whites. That Black people are the social ‘other’. That our voices, opinions, and feelings are secondary to those of our White counterparts. For the last week, I have never felt those feelings more strongly.
My White counterparts are also unaware of how ‘Black fear’ is increasing. The Sunday before Christmas I took my son out to breakfast for some 1:1 time. I got a call from my wife asking me to stop by the store and get blueberries for the muffins she was making. We pulled into Festival Foods, my son asked if he could stay in the car and I obliged. It was a sunny morning, shades on and mask up, I head into the store. I walked at a faster than normal pace since was my son was sitting in the car and the muffin batter was awaiting its key ingredient. Out walks a White couple, the wife sees me and does a two-step skip as her mind debated if she needed to run from me or if it was ok to continue at a normal pace. Her eyes were wide with a genuine concern for her safety. Her husband quickly catches up to her and puts his hand on her elbow as if to escort her to safety. I looked behind me to see if there was a larger threat present that perhaps I should be aware of and my only observance was a parking lot of parked cars.
Over the past month, I have thought about that one moment quite often. Am I a monster? What about me scares people? Do I have a presence that makes people want to run in fear? I get a variety of responses from people when they enter my presence and I’m often asking myself some variant of the question, “What is it about me?” When I share the Festival Foods experience with my White friends or family there seems to be a different type of exchange. I hear phrases like, “maybe she tripped on something” or “maybe she was in a hurry too”. There is a sudden heightened level of creative imagination as to the infinite reasons why this lady would behave this way. Any reason, other than, she’s scared of large Black men. As if the fear of Black men has the lowest probability of being true. When after nearly a year of hearing that Black Lives Matter protesters are Marxists, Terrorists, and Communists. Consistent messages from all forms of media slowly training our brains that we’re dangerous monsters. Reversing the highest probability to the lowest to avoid the issue of race is silencing.
Over morning coffee, my wife shared with me that only a small minority of Republicans support the attack, and we shouldn’t worry about our safety, it’ll all be over soon. The information shown here suggests a different story. Though I believe this country will recover from what has taken place in 2020 politics, I fear it will come through a long road of conflict and grief I wish I could just blindly hang on to the hope of it being over soon. I wish I could just turn off the TV and shut down social media and just claim it’s, “out there”. My Festival Foods experience tells me it is much closer than I think.
Progressives today would say they aren’t affected by the messaging that Black people are dangerous. I beg to differ. As we, Black citizens, join call after call, send text after text, checking in on each other to see how we’re doing and how we’re holding up, we’re hearing less and less from our White counterparts. I’m willing to wager they’re still afraid of me. I would imagine it goes something like this: The thought comes to mind to reach out and check-in and listen. One might imagine what a person like myself would say but then the response, that’s the problem. How does one respond? Saying, “I’m sorry” seems a little weak, and if you say too much you might make some other mistake. Eventually, the fear of making a mistake overwhelms the sense of compassion resulting in the very same outcome of avoiding the person you’re now afraid of.
Tell me this, who’s at the center of all this fear? Our White counterparts are. Still. Even when a community of people is in a place of deep grief, White culture is the center of the support and solution. In a percentage of interactions, we won’t see a White peer attempt to make a connection with a grieving Black person until they are confident of the outcome. The fear of navigating that uncharted space seems oddly in contrast to their ancestral quests for finding and taking undiscovered lands. All the while, I’m still invisible. My pain, invisible. My fear, invisible. My voice, a whisper. My heart, shattered. My soul, weary. My body, tired. It is still expected of me to show up and be engaged in every meeting. Meet every deadline. Be the support for others. Remain emotionally accessible. Never lose my cool.
To me, how to respond seems easy. After all, I do it for White people all the time. To start a conversation by saying: “I believe my perspective of your experience is limited based on my vantage point. I’m seeking to provide the space and time to create an environment in which you can comfortably share with me what you’re feeling if you’re willing. I’m choosing to listen and I intend to provide you uninterrupted time for this next hour to share what you’re comfortable sharing. I’m seeking to connect with you emotionally and to try to understand your vantage point. Are you willing to share your feelings with me?”
Of course, once they share their feelings, how do you respond? The basic action of acknowledgment or validation is a lost art. The simple phrase of: “When you said ‘X’ happens it makes you feel like ‘Y’. Am I understanding this correctly?” or “when you told me the story of, ‘X’, I felt like I was able to connect with your heart and feelings. I feel like I understand you or your experience better, thank you for giving me that gift of understanding.”
We as business people always need to find a solution. We’re trained to identify the problem quickly and solve it. Black people don’t need White heroes. We need White allies. Starting with the simple question of, “What you’ve shared has had an emotional impact on me. How would you like me to respond to you now that can give you the most support?” That’s taking your power and transferring it to them. Let them drive when the conversation shifts and how you can respond. Instead of telling them the solution, invite them to be a part of the solution. Remind them that they’re valuable to you by your actions, not by your words.
So how am I feeling now? Well, I’d be lying if I said I’m not struggling to trust White people. It’s not easy to identify who supports the attack or who supports insurrection. Beyond that, I’m primarily struggling with being invisible. I’m 6’4”, 240lbs, I’m the loudest person in the room, and I’m invisible. Why? Because White people are scared of me, even my friends and family. Because their fear is central, it means I get avoided. I just want to be seen, known, and for someone to truly care. Where are my allies now?
