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.