But I'm here.

While on my way to a solidarity march on Monday, I was listening to an episode of the Running Rogue podcast. It's one of my favorite running podcasts, but host Chris McClung (of Austin, Texas) didn't start episode 185 talking about running. He started with his thoughts on George Floyd's murder, the state of affairs in our country, and racism in general. He made the following analogy for his efforts to make a difference.

He likened it to attending a funeral for a person you didn't really know but who was a loved one of someone you care about. You're not experiencing the mourning first hand. This person's death didn't really affect your life, but you want your friend to know...

I'm here. I see you. I love you.
I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do.
But I'm here.

___________________________________________________

In my journey to improve myself in regard to race relations and to openly speak out against racism, I've noticed three common themes in the discussions (both online and in person), and I've been reflecting a bit on all three.

1. What about reverse racism? 

Scenario: What about the black guy who hits on me in a bar and says, "It's because I'm black. Isn't it?" when I turned him down?

Yah. Not reverse racism (whatever that is). Because much too often that has been the case. It has indeed been because he's black. It's all fun and games until someone's sweet white daughter is dating a black guy. 

Like my family member who once told me he would disown Ryan if he married a black girl.

1. We weren't discussing Ryan's dating habits because he was like 10, but thanks for the heads up.
2. It was Easter. Who the fuck randomly says (or even thinks) that in the middle of Easter dinner? 

And because that scenario is not uncommon (at all), we've produced a generation of angry young black men who sound like assholes spouting off, "It's because I'm black, isn't it?" It's called self-preservation. I'm going to be a jerk and accuse you before I find out it really is because I'm black.

Scenario: What about groups like Black Girls Run? People would lose their minds if we started a running club called White Girls Run.

Yah. Still not reverse racism. Groups like this exist because of underrepresentation, and while the group is open to everyone, it's sole purpose is to encourage black girls to run (thus the name). Because when you show up for a 5k or a 10k in a diverse city like Houston and see that 90% of the runners are white, you know that the black population needs to be invited and welcomed and embraced in the running community. It's not necessary to have a White Girls Run running club to invite us in. We're there.

2. Racism doesn't exist anymore.

It's a thing of the past. It's media hype. It's just being exagerated. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Just because you don't see it, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. I've never seen a million dollars, but I know it exists. Just because you get along great with the people of color in your neighborhood doesn't mean it doesn't exist. It just doesn't. Your world isn't THE world. You've gotta let that one go.

One of the most interesting discussions of race I've ever had was with a teacher I worked with in another district (we'll call her B). The first time B remembers experiencing racism was when she was in middle school, when a friend told her she didn't act black. She couldn't remember the context of the conversation or how she took it (as a compliment or not), but she does remember mentioning it to her mother who taught her the concept of a backhanded compliment and told her to never let anyone tell her that ever again. The next day B told her friend what her mother had explained to her. "It just wasn't a big deal," she said of the conversation that followed. The friend admitted that she really didn't know what the phrase meant, but she had heard it from her own mother (who liked B very much and told her daughter that she didn't mind them being friends because well...she didn't act black). B has been told she doesn't act black. B has been told she doesn't sound black. B was once told she doesn't walk black.

The expectation? Take it as a compliment. Be happy we don't think of you as black. Because what if we did? Think of you as black. What would that say about you?

And no, it's not because those were the old days. B is 7 months younger than my son.

If you've heard (or said), "You don't act black," or, "She doesn't act Mexican," or any version thereof, stop saying racism doesn't exist. You know it does.

3. We've all had hard lives, and you don't hear us complaining about it.

Stop. Listen to yourself. No one said you had it easy. But being white didn't make your life harder. It just didn't. People get offended by that word privilege, but that's not what it means in this context. Read up on white privilege if you are so inclined. You may have struggled while being white. But you didn't struggle BECAUSE you're white. 

   

On Monday we walked from Brazosport High School to stand in front of the Freeport Police Department. We walked for unity and peace and equality and solidarity. We listened to speakers and applauded the pastors and police officers and community officials who both acknowledged and spoke out against racism.

#useyourteachervoice (we are)

That short walk, those chants, and that heat were a small effort on my part, but it was something.
That's all I've got, small efforts, but I'm open to suggestions for more.

In the meantime...

I'm here. I see you. I love you.
I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do.
But I'm here.

Breakfast with a Side of Racism

On March 1, 2020, my view of myself changed. 

At breakfast.

In a crowded restaurant. 

Halfway through our meal, a man at our table referred to the neurologist trying to save his life as his nigger doctor. And I said nothing. The third time he said it, I put my hand up (albeit only at table height as to not draw too much attention), and I quietly said, "Stop." He did. And someone quickly changed the subject.

On the way home from breakfast, someone asked me what I gave up for Lent. And I heard him say, "You should have given up niggers."

For Lent.

Let that sink in.

I simply replied, "What a horrible thing to say," and once again, the topic was quickly changed.

That was it. He suggested I give up human beings for Lent, and all I said in return was, "What a horrible thing to say."

That sentence (mine, not his) started me on a deep, dark journey from which I have yet to recover.

I spent the rest of the day thinking of smart, pithy things I could have said. But I hadn't. I could have called him a racist. But I hadn't. That was phase 1: everything I should have said rolling through my mind for the rest of the day. But all the while knowing that all I had actually said was, "What a horrible thing to say."

Then I slipped into phase 2. I ran through all of the racism I've seen in my past (all that I can remember anyway). There has been a lot, in both my community and in my family. I don't mean murders or beatings or crimes. I mean comments and subtle snubs. The things that often get overlooked. And that last part, the overlooking part, is exactly what became my focus.

I could count on one hand the number of times I responded to racism by speaking up, by saying something directly and in the moment. One hand. What I couldn't count were the number of times I had quietly walked away. Maybe said something later. To another person. Appalled. But in the moment I had remained silent. There were times I didn't want to appear rude or be disrespectful to someone I knew. There were times I didn't want to butt in to a situation that I thought none of my business. I scrolled through as many of these instances as I could remember and tried to come up with the myriad of reasons I hadn't said anything.

Ahmaud Arbery had been hunted down and shot for the color of his skin only one week before. He was doing something I consider part of my identity, and that incident rocked me more than I knew at the time. I spoke out about it on social media. I ran my 2.23 miles and posted my hashtag. And that was that. Life went on. But I don't think I was the same.

I think Ahmaud Arbery gave me the courage (although I don't think that's really what it was) to say, "What a horrible thing to say." And while I know that that phrase wasn't enough, at least I said it. That same day, I made a conscious decision to no longer be around that man in the future, and then I questioned that decision as well. Why not stand in his presence and speak my mind instead?

Because on March 1st, when I returned home from breakfast, I went down a personal rabbit hole that showed me that I may not be racist, but I don't have a great track record of being anti-racist. I don't have much of a history of speaking up. In the moment. In person. And that realization was devastating.

It took me 46 years to come to terms with the fact that it's OK to be disrespectful when no respect is deserved. It's OK to speak up. Over and over and over. It's OK to be rude in response to racism. And in my case, it's OK to be seen as the liberal snowflake who "just won't shut up about it."

Maybe now I'm speaking out too frequently for your taste. And that's OK too.

I remained silent too long for my own.