Our Reckoning with Racism

I was 15 when I would go to my Boy Scout troop meeting every Monday night. I lived on the poorer side of town, which was a short 10-minute drive away. It was something of a ritual — get home from school, make or eat dinner (picking up a $5 pizza from Little Caesars was the common fallback since we never seemed to have enough time), cram some last minute prep work for the meeting that night, put my uniform on, and then rush out the door to drive over. At the meeting I would get a chance to hang out with my fellow scout friends, most of whom lived on the richer side of town and went to different schools than me. We would talk, paly games together, and make plans for our upcoming campouts. It was a nice reprieve from the largely passive and isolated role I took as one of the shy nerds in school. Every Monday was my chance to challenge myself, where everything was possible, and where I could learn valuable life skills under the guidance of selected, capable adults, several of whom were my role models. That all changed.

A new kid joined our troop. We’ll call him Jim. At first I paid no special attention to this; between 20 and 30 new boys joined our troop each year, and Jim was just one of them. My role at the time was to work with the new boys, so I worked with him alongside all the others, and along with the others got to know him a little better.

Jim’s mom brought him to the troop meetings. His attendance was well below most of the other boys, and it was often anyone’s guess if he would show up for the meeting that night. When he did show up though, it would always be his mom dropping him off in their large, older van. She rarely stuck around for the meeting, but sometimes she did. This alone wasn’t unusual; most of the people who stuck around were dads, but several other boys including myself had mothers who stuck around. What was unusual was the way she would hang out. She frequently stood in the back, and didn’t really interact with anyone. Few people approached her. As a shy person myself, I didn’t think twice about this: I just assumed she wasn’t interested in talking to people.

At one point, she approached my mother and thanked her for the time I was working with her son. Through that, we learned that they lived on the poorer side of town only a few streets over from me, and that she was struggling with giving Jim a ride to the meetings each Monday night. Naturally we did the obvious right thing: offered to give him rides. We were driving by his house anyway, and we believed it was important for him to get a chance to participate. She gratefully accepted, and our new arrangement began. Every Monday night we would swing by their house, pick up Jim, and carry on to the troop meeting. This was when I started to see a lot more had been going on.

It started with the reliability. I always prided myself as one of the reliable drivers of the program. I was always present, and always throwing everything I had at moving things forward (to the point I was so distracted I forgot to move my own rank advancement forward). There were days we would show up to Jim’s house, or be on our way over, when we would get a text or call saying he wasn’t going to make it to the meeting that night. Picking him up was such a small inconvenience, this didn’t bother me too much at first. But then, from time to time, one of the adults in the troop would say something about it. They would openly wonder where he was… or why he wasn’t showing up… or why he wasn’t making the same progress as his peers. When he did show up, half the time he was out of uniform, they complained. He would get in trouble sometimes, as did all of the other teenagers… but for some reason, he was one of the ones the adults always seemed to talk about.

Week after week I would hear about how he was “a troublemaker”, and “unreliable”, and even “a waste of skin”. It was difficult to keep those thoughts away. I didn’t agree with them, and refused to describe Jim that way myself… but the thoughts still crept in. After hearing my role models describe him that way over and over again, I started to wonder if maybe there was something to what they were saying? He was unreliable, and did get in trouble. I put in all this work, and faithfully attended meetings — why couldn’t he? When he got in the car as we drove to those troop meetings, I felt resentment slowly creeping in. I felt distrust… even fear.

You see, Jim was a teenage boy with a complicated home life who grew up on the poor side of town, just like me. He was trying to balance school and family and his personal interests and figure out where he stood in the world, just like me. Yet every Monday, as we drove to those troop meetings, the acceptance we both received drifted further and further apart, until we were experiencing completely different worlds while standing in the same room. The one difference that never consciously presented itself to my mind? Jim was black.

I was getting out of the shower when a friend texted, earnestly insisting that I turn on the news right now. I did. I watched in stunned disbelief as an angry mob scaled the US Capitol and a violent insurrection unfolded that would leave a bloody stain on one of the most-enduring symbols of hope and democracy the world has ever known. I watched and I eagerly waited for the reinforcements to arrive to back up the law enforcement, and regain control of the situation, and put a spectacularly declarative and symbolic stop to the madness and destruction wrought by these terrorists. I waited… but it never came.

I watched, while mental images of the past summer flashed through my mind. I remembered the lines and lines of officers ready for war. The reinforcements trickled in. I remembered the barrage of tear gas canisters and rubber bullets as officers beat back protestors in a militaristic display of force. Woefully unprepared officers stood by as insurrectionists damaged and looted the halls of our democracy. I remembered the dominating authoritarian power that drew its line in the sand between itself and its people when a brave few, backed by decades of data and countless life experiences of unjust suffering dared to stand up and challenge it all. Officers politely engaged with a loose smattering of people driven by rage at baseless tweets and videos of incendiary personalities performing “science” by running around and provoking people with a microphone.

The law enforcement did eventually regain control of the situation, and use the appropriate tactics to clear out the remaining mob, but by then the damage was done. I sat there, angry, as the rest of the world watched, while we put on a brazenly open display of two different worlds in America: two different worlds, where the one you experienced depended solely on the color of your skin.

To be clear, this is not to portray the individual officers who responded on January 6 as racist or as supporting this racial divide. On the contrary, as more evidence has come out about that terrible day, we know that at least some of the officers were even aware of this double standard while it was happening — and, rightfully so, were disgusted by it. Most of the officers that day were genuinely trying to do the right thing, and in many cases their apparent failure to act was a difficult choice they had to make to protect their own safety and the safety of everyone else around, after being woefully let down by some of their leadership. Some excellent investigative journalism from ProPublica demonstrates the nuance of the issue [1]. We have to recognize that the people who police us are themselves a part of us; they are a reflection of us. Police brutality, the militarization of law enforcement, and the disturbingly different outcomes based on race are all themselves reflections of a society that doesn’t give a black life the same worth as a white life.

I have a lot of good memories of learning cool things about the world around me in school. I was naturally inquisitive when I was younger (and indeed still very much am), and I would frequently seek out science shows and historical/cultural readings. I was fortunate to go to some very good schools — my (public) high school was ranked in the top 20% of all schools in California, including among private schools (based on standardized test scores), and was largely considered a really good education. My parents even considered the quality of the schools as a major factor when decided to move to where we did when I was younger.

I remember learning about the famous American inventors. I remember learning about the founding fathers, and the revolution in the name of freedom. I remember learning about famous writers and painters and musicians and how they shaped an American culture. I even remember learning about the Civil War, and the ensuing century-and-a-half long fight for freedom and civil rights and equality: something that was taught as if it was over and was a heroic tribute to the inherent success of the American way of life, as if we were a nation that had struggled against some evil and had emerged victorious in providing “liberty and justice for all”. This couldn’t have been further from the truth.

While these lessons did capture a portion of the history and society and culture we live within, they left so much more out. I didn’t know what I was taught about defining “good” music was inherently Eurocentric and devalued or ignored ethnically black (and other cultural) contributions and styles of expression [2]. I was never informed that the whole idea of the Civil War being around “states’ rights” was a manufactured narrative that directly contradicts primary sources from the Confederate leaders who themselves said it was about preserving slavery and white supremacy [3]. I didn’t learn about how the policy decisions we’ve made over the past century (and longer) have disproportionally harmed black and other ethnic minorities while perpetuating advantages systemically provided to white people — such as the well-documented effect of urban highway construction displacing poor and black residents [4], or how practices such as redlining were used to keep black people poor [5]. I didn’t even know that the very school system I was in assigned punishments differently to my peers and I depending on the color of our skin, or the language our families spoke at home [6] (where I grew up, Hispanic families were often viewed and treated differently as well). There are *countless* examples of significant, institutionalized racism and subtle perpetuations of the ideals of white supremacy all around us — and yet, many of you, like me, went through an entire education that largely at best ignored them, and at worst perpetuated them. I feel betrayed by the systems I grew up in. Our children deserve better.

A different friend of mine, who happens to also be black, was explaining to me the other day the various experiences he had with racism in school, in the Boy Scouts of America, and in his daily life. He talked about how he recognized he was being treated differently than other people (with lighter skin colors) in similar situations, and how finding any sense of belonging was much more difficult for him. He talked about denying who he was, and about how he felt pressured to do so just to try and fit in. He talked about how he had since grown out his hair, and come to accept who he is, and be proud of the things that make him different. I had to take a step back and let the gravity of the conversation fully sink in. I had learned about the Spanish missionaries in school, and how they established missions in California in the 18th and 19th centuries in an attempt to “civilize” the indigenous peoples. The missionaries used tactics like controlling language and dress and hair cutting to strip the indigenous people of their culture and heritage in order to assimilate them to an assumed “superior” way of thinking and living. I had known this still exists today, but to come face-to-face with in in a racial context, and see it happening right in front of me… that was unsettling.

Even more so, I could relate. I’ve denied who I am and been pressured to do so to fit in. I’ve been stripped of any language or opportunity to express myself and seek support from people who understand what a queer teenager like me was going through. I’ve carefully controlled aspects of my appearance, such as what I wear or how I cut my nails to avoid the extra harassment that comes with expressing my identity. I’ve been afraid when being pulled over by the cops or screened by security over whether I was going to be treated aggressively because of the way my voice sounds or the fact I have painted nails. I’ve been told repeated by people, even some close to me, that I should “keep to myself” and that my identity is “no one else’s business” that “doesn’t need to be shared here”. Being denied who you are, and growing up in a system that systemically refuses to acknowledge you exist (under the guise of being “indifferent” or “fair”), or that makes your existence “synonymous with the lesser” (to borrow the lyrics of Macklemore) is a terrible experience that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I only feel worse knowing that at least sometimes I can get a “reprieve” by passing as straight and cisgendered if I try hard enough to temporarily change and police my outward appearance and mannerisms… but my friend? He can’t exactly put on a different skin color one day…

Last summer, as the Black Lives Matter protests over the brutal murder of George Floyd were in full swing, my boyfriend at the time went out to join in one of the protests. He was peacefully protesting, as were the vast majority of the other people at the particular protest he went to, but nonetheless he gave me the details of where he would be, how long he would be gone, and who he would be with just in case they were attacked by law enforcement or counter-protestors with an excessive use of force. He suggested I go out and protest too — an offer I politely refused. It seemed like common sense at the time for me to refuse, but I have spent a significant amount of time since thinking about the why. Why did I refuse? Why did it seem so natural to do so? What was holding me back? I’ve never been intentionally racist nor supported the racial divide. I’ve always been sympathetic to the cause of racial justice and equality. I had become increasingly open to speaking my mind about what I cared about and believed in. So why? What gives? After months of thinking about it, I reached my conclusion: complacency. I had to learn to be more than sympathetic or tolerant. I had to learn how to be an ally.

A few months ago a different friend mentioned to me that he had seen “Black is King” by Beyoncé. He said it was really good, and suggested I watch it too. I saw the trailer, and realize this definitely wasn’t something I would normally watch. I decided to keep an open mind, however, and committed to watching it. Just a few weeks ago I finally watched it, and I am certainly glad I did. It’s true, I didn’t fully understand all of it. I had to read some background info to get a sense of what was going on. It wasn’t really my visual style, and most of Beyoncé’s music isn’t what I would normally listen to. The experience of watching it, however, was an important example to me of one very important fact: different does not mean bad. It may not have been my style, nor what I am familiar with, but Beyoncé is an exceptionally talented artist and I could still appreciate how powerful this work of art was. In some ways, it was refreshing to experience something so different that pushed me a little outside of my comfort zone.

I have finally realized what was meant by “It is not enough to simply not be racist in America…. we must be actively anti-racist” [7]. I spend so much of my time asking and encouraging and sometimes begging the people in my life to learn how to be better allies to me and my queer identity — I owe it to my friends, neighbors, and peers in the black community to learn to be a better ally to them.

I’m not black. I have come to recognize the limits of my own experience, and the shortcomings of the understanding of the world I was taught. I know there are aspects of being black I will never fully understand — but I also know that is not an excuse to be complacent in a system that disproportionally harms people for things that don’t apply to me. I can relate to some of the black experiences and appreciate the harm done by systemic issues that marginalize and discriminate against and disadvantage you — I’ve witnessed them myself and been harmed by others. I’ve become aware of the problems, and understand the role I have to play in either challenging or perpetuating them.

I’ve chosen to stand up and educate myself. I’ve chosen to reject the aggressive individualism, the unchecked deregulation of capitalism, and the almost zealous worship of American Exceptionalism that all have served as proxies for the institutionalization of racism and perpetuation of white supremecy. I am comfortable enough, and been humbled enough through my own experience as a minority to say our systems are broken and are failing the black community. They deserve better. We all deserve better. I lay awake sometimes wondering about the potential and the joy and the artistic and scientific contributions we lose because a young black child in Brooklyn isn’t given the same opportunities as a white child in Hollywood. Systemic racism is an issue that affects and harms us all. No one wins.

This is the conversation we need to be having. As the string of recent events brings to light deeply entrenched problems that are anything but recent, as we become aware of and acknowledge the reality we’ve been living in and the lies we’ve been taught to justify it, and as we look ourselves in the mirror and finally see the full scope of the racial divide that has plagued our existence for centuries, we must face our reckoning with racism.

I remember the look in Jim’s mom’s eyes as she stood outside, smoking a cigarette and staring off into the distance when we’d pick him up for those troop meetings. I can only imagine the burden on her shoulders, as she stood there, trying to contemplate the unfair lot in life she’d been given, and how she was going to do her best to provide a better life for her son. I want no part in contributing to that struggle.

To all of my black friends, and the members of the black community I have yet to meet:

I see you. I hear you. I stand in solidarity with you.

References

1. “I Don’t Trust the People Above Me”: Riot Squad Cops Open Up About Disastrous Response to Capitol Insurrection — ProPublica
2. Excellent video analysis from New York based musician and YouTuber Adam Neely: Music Theory and White Supremacy
3. Video from TED Education: Debunking the myth of the Lost Cause: A lie embedded in American history — Karen L. Cox
4. Video from Vox: How highways wrecked American cities
5. Video from Extra Credits: Redlining — Income and Housing Inequality — Extra History
6. Video from Vox: How US schools punish Black kids | 2020 Election
7. Article: It is not enough to not be racist in America, you must be anti-racist

UPDATE: This article was edited from its original version by moving the references to the bottom to improve the reading experience. - 05/01/21