You and Your Racist Friends

Hey there and welcome back! So good to see you again. Don’t know about y'all but lately I’ve been thinking about those people in my life who have some, well, let’s just say “issues” with what’s happening in our country right now. I’ve been rolling my eyes so much at their nonsense I feel like my face is a human craps table.

Have you come across any of these folks:

• Maybe a family member who pushes back on a social media post you made because you’re “too radical – we just need to stop the hate. And by the way ALL LIVES MATTER.”

• Perhaps someone with whom you went to high school sends you a DM with all the reasons why your “Black Lives Matter” comment is WRONG because ALL LIVES MATTER and you’re WRONG and he is RIGHT and then he calls you a profane name... (this actually happened to me and I blocked this dude's ass so fast he probably sat down and didn't know why.)

• How about that neighbor who belligerently yells at you and threatens to report you to the HOA as you put a BLACK LIVES MATTER sign in your yard, because, of course ALL LIVES MATTER…

I daresay we know at least one of these people – family, friends, co-workers, neighbors… the list goes on.

So. What to say to these people? How do you say it? Why should you say it?

Let’s back up here just a bit and ask a bigger question:

Are you prepared to say something? Are you ready to take on the racists in your life?

It’s hard, isn’t it – thinking about challenging someone’s position on a topic as volatile and personal as racism. And for a very very long time, white people who profess to see “people as people” let bigots and racists go unchecked. And succumbed to excuses and apologies.

“Oh, that’s just Uncle John’s way. He’s been like this forever, telling those jokes, but he is a good guy.” 

“C’mon – you know me. I’m not racist. I have a lot of black friends. And I don’t see color. So why is it bad for me to say the n-word when singing along with that song? It's right there in the lyrics.”

“Don’t mind Clara – she’s a lovely person who’s having a hard time with her cousin marrying a *stage whisper* Black man.” 

I’m as culpable as the next person when it comes to speaking up when the topic of conversation takes a racist turn. Didn’t want to make waves or ruin the festive atmosphere or be impolite if the offender was a party host. That go-along-to-get-along thing. Respect your elders.

Ah. That “respect your elders” thing had been hammered into me like a piece of plywood on a window as a hurricane approaches. It’s in there tight. So if I heard something racist pop out of an older relative’s mouth, I had to be content with going a little bug-eyed while biting my tongue.

Part of that was age – being young and uncertain of my voice, even though my inner position was solid -- but a good chunk of it was fear of conflict.

I LOOOOOOATHE conflict. Hate it. Used to be I’d pull a mea culpa in an argument just to end it, even if I was in the right.

Tell you what, though – age and maturity has helped me find my voice, as well as being the mother to a developmentally disabled child. You need someone to be extraordinarily firm with a doctor’s office, pharmacy tech or insurance provider person, I’m your girl.

But talking to someone you know about something as sensitive as his/her views on race… that’s a horse of a different color. The intensity is not anywhere close to yelling at an insurance provider over the phone. It’s a difficult and tough conversation to have because it’s personal. And addresses feelings that run very deep.

Many moons ago, I was headed to my car after a women’s Bible study. As is often the case, groups of ladies were gathered in the parking lot, chatting and such. As I approached my car, I noticed a group of three women I didn’t know looking at my vehicle, pointing and whispering. Had someone dented the back of my car in a parking mishap? Flat tire perhaps? Nope.

It was the Obama/Biden '08 bumper sticker proudly displayed in my rear window that had garnered their attention.

As I rounded the corner to get into the driver’s seat, I looked at them with a thin smile. You could feel the glare I shot them over my glasses. Have to give them credit – they at least looked sheepish at being caught being judgy.

Now I don’t have concrete evidence that the disdain those women had for my bumper sticker was based in racism – could have been because that presidential ticket was not the church-folk-preferred Republican one. But the fact that said ticket had a Black man on it could not be discounted. At least not by me in that moment.

Even though my encounter with those judgmental women was not verbal, I was literally shaking when I finally pulled out of the parking lot.

“Next time,” I said to myself. “Next time I’ll say something.”

Next time came. Went. Came. And then went again. I was strong in my convictions – but I needed to pull out the courage of those convictions and let that be my guide. Open my big mouth.

It’s perplexing to me how humans could see other humans as being less than. But they do. And have for generations. Those of us who profess to see “people as people” know that Black people in this country have been struggling with racism and being treated as less than for centuries.

It’s WRONG.

We all know people who don’t see it as wrong. We have personal relationships with them. Might be related to them.

And therein lies the rub.

•

Racism. We talk about it, read about it, see it. The technical definition, as seen in ye olde dictionary is:


How many times have you said or thought to yourself in the past couple of weeks “Nah. I'm not racist. Black Lives Matter" or some variation of that.

Guess what? It’s not enough anymore to “not be racist.” That honestly got none of us anywhere. Which is where we are now. 

Think you're not racist? Think again.

White folks, here’s the reality of things, as pointed out by Leonard Pitts, a Black columnist for the Miami Herald in a piece published this past weekend.

“As a white person in a society where every institution is geared to advantage people like (us), it is literally impossible for (us) to be anything else (but racist.)”

Y’all. We’re inherently racist. We just are. Because of the color of our skin and the systemically racist world around us, We. Are. Racist. We live in a world designed to benefit white people. This is baseline for us. It can become compounded by other factors, but it’s from where we start. I personally used to think this was the root of racism. I now know better.

Mr. Pitts, in his column goes on to lay things out further, speaking from the point of view of a white person:

“Many of us as white people struggle with that. That's because we process racism as a loathsome character defect, when really, it's the water in which we swim.

“No, the question is not whether we are racist, but what kind of racist we will be. Will we be the overt kind, whose behavior marks her from a mile away? In many ways, her very obviousness makes her the least dangerous.

“Will we be the racist in denial, who thinks that because he doesn't use racial slurs and eats lunch with a black guy at work, he's all good? He's ultimately the most dangerous, because his racism is reflected in implicit bias but otherwise hidden, even from himself.

“Or will we be the racist in remission who knows good intentions are not enough, that he must consciously commit not simply to being non-racist, but actively anti-racist?”

Good lord, those are some kind of options. Soul-searching ones. #RealityBites

Cuts me to the quick, this does. Uncomfortable, man.

OK. It's piss or get off the pot time.

I commit to be a racist-in-remission.

If you’re reading this, I can only hope that you’re joining me on this particular squad.

Fellow squad members… first and foremost, we must be anti-racist. Period.

(Note: you’ll often see the word “antiracist” without a hyphen. I added the hyphen for my own benefit because I kept reading it as “anarchist” and well, that’s another thing entirely for another day.)

Author Ibram X. Kendi, who penned the acclaimed book How to Be an Antiracist, (next up on my reading list) has an addendum to the classic dictionary definition of racism that's given above: “One who is supporting a racist policy through their actions or inaction or expressing a racist idea.”

On the other hand, he defines an anti-racist as “One who is supporting an antiracist policy through their actions or expressing an antiracist idea.”

Y’all see that word right in there – ACTION. And its kissing cousin – INACTION.

Not saying anything to your racist friend or relative = INACTION.

Ouch.

Once again, time for some unpleasant, but constructive navel gazing. I’m also guilty of this. Inaction.

Quoth the raven… nevermore. We white folks can no longer be passive when it comes to racism. Black people in this country deserve much much better from their so-called allies. That’s us, y’all. We're the allies and advocates. They deserve better from us. We have let them down. It’s our turn to step out of our comfort zones and do right by our Black sisters and brothers.

Be a racist-in-remission who is obviously anti-racist.

That’s a mouthful. Won’t fit nicely on a button. Judgy women won’t be able to point at it on a bumper sticker displayed on my car. So we’ve got to demonstrate this with our ACTIONS.

There’s a song I learned long ago in Vacation Bible School that said “They’ll know we are Christians by our love.”

Time to check yourself and get right. Because they’ll know we are anti-racist by our actions.

To be continued…

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Welcome to Our Home

I must apologize to y’all for jumping right into content here without properly introducing myself and explaining why I created this space – Hey White Folks! In the words of Blanche Devereaux, that was very un-Southern of me.

My name is Janey and I am a cis Woman of a Certain Age who is old enough to either be your sister or your favorite aunt (I will never be old enough to be your mother.) I am a mama, wife, sister, daughter, auntie, cousin and friend. My kiddo is developmentally disabled and is a loud, happy, teenaged troubadour who never met a stranger but is not pleased that he cannot go to school right now. Neither of us are pleased about this. THANKS, COVID. (We are sequestering tightly at home because this virus doesn't play and neither do I when it comes to my family's health.) I am in the process of letting my hair go gray. Right now, I appear to be a slovenly Cruella de Ville without the furs and vile attitude. My idea of camping is no room service after 10 pm. Quarantine has allowed me to participate in my most favorite home activity of Not Wearing Pants. And I love cheeseburgers more than any other food item (rare, with grilled onions, side of fries and a cold Bud Lite.)

And I have privilege.

I am a second generation native Floridian, third generation University of Florida graduate, faithful Tampa Bay Rays supporter and franchise-long ride-or-die Tampa Bay Buccaneer fan. That should lead you to deduce I’m patient, long-suffering and have a high tolerance for pain and disappointment. I still cannot believe that Brady and Gronk are on My Team. My love for sports is only matched by my love for the theatre. I can be a Drama Queen in the best sense of the phrase. If music (and theatre) be the food of love, play on.

(By the way, I have privilege.)

I also am a budding genealogist. I come from a very long line of Americans on two of my four ancestral lines. I am of the South – my earliest ancestors arrived in this country before the American Revolution and settled in North Carolina. I also am somewhat of the North, with kin coming to both Massachusetts and what would become New York State. However, my heritage is overwhelmingly Southern. My people fought in every single war in which our country was a participant, from the French & Indian War through World War II. I might have kin who came over on the Mayflower (yet to be 100 percent confirmed.) The Janey Ancestors have been on this soil a long, long time.

You betcha they had privilege.

And yes. I have people who fought in the Civil War. On the side of the Confederacy.

Also. I have ancestors who were slave owners. Note the plural: more than one.

They had privilege. BIG TIME.

Does this upset me? Yes. Every time I see, in my genealogical research, that property inventory of said ancestor(s) with people – Black people – listed on it, I literally get sick to my stomach. I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that people – the same ones made in the image of God just like you and I are, as told to me by the Bible – were considered property, same as the cows in the field and the silver in the pantry.

Do I feel guilty about this? Honestly, it’s more shame than guilt. This happened decades and decades before I was born. There’s nothing I can do about it specifically because you cannot change history. But it does bother me deeply. I once had someone tell me that I shouldn’t be dismayed by this because “It meant your relatives had money! Isn’t that great?” 

Shut it and take a seat, BOB.

Am I embarrassed to talk about it? A bit. But like with so many issues today, talking about things that are shameful brings them out into the sunlight where they can be seen for what they truly are. And this one is reprehensible. It’s also reprehensible that we are still talking about basically the same issue – Black Lives Matter – over 150 years later, albeit with some difference nuances and circumstances.

It’s complicated, being a proud daughter of the South these days. I love knowing that I have cast-iron skillets that are generations-old. I love the sound of a frog chorus crooning in a cypress-laden swamp. The scent of boxwood in Virginia (it just smells different to me there) or orange blossoms in my native, crazy Florida. Having sorority sisters who, even after all these years, relish in your shared history and still know how to make you laugh. Understanding how to set a proper dinner table, right down to where the silverware is placed for multiple courses. 

Deeming Duke’s as the only acceptable mayonnaise – I will fight you over this. Being a member of the Junior League and believing in the purpose of the organization so much that I became its President. Having manners, even if I don’t always deploy them (Yeah. I know. I swear a lot. Shhhh.) Keeping my string of pearls in my jewelry box to wear on proper occasions. Knowing all 178 verses of “Just As I Am” from the Baptist hymnal and wanting every last one of them sung at my funeral. Having a list of Important Things: God, Family, SEC Football. In that order. Although that’s always subject to change depending on what’s going on with the Gators.

But. These precious-to-me things have one thing in common: they have the indelible fingerprints of white privilege all over them. Granted, some more than others, but all can be lumped in the Privilege Pile in some fashion. And that’s more than a bit disconcerting to me. Pride + Shame = being a progressive Southerner.

There’s a publication/community I follow on social media and via its website called “The Bitter Southerner.” Here’s a synopsis that sums up what I want to say pretty succinctly:

–– You see, the South is a curiosity to people who aren’t from here. Always has been. Open up your copy of Faulkner’s 1936 masterpiece, “Absalom, Absalom!” Find the spot where Quentin Compson’s puzzled Canadian roommate at Harvard says to him, “Tell about the South. What it’s like there. What do they do there. Why do they live there. Why do they live at all.”

It always comes down to that last bit: With all our baggage, how do we live at all? A lot of people in the world believe that most folks in the South are just dumb. Or backward. Just not worth their attention.

And you know what? If you live down here, sometimes you look around and think, “Those folks are right.” We do have people here who will argue, in all sincerity, that the Confederacy entered the Civil War only to defend the concept of states’ rights and that secession had nothing to do with the desire to keep slavery alive. We still become a national laughing stock because some small town somewhere has not figured out how to hold a high school prom that includes kids of all races.

If you are a person who buys the states’ rights argument … or you fly the rebel flag in your front yard … or you still think women look really nice in hoop skirts, we politely suggest you find other amusements on the web.

According to Tracy Thompson’s brilliant “The New Mind of the South,” it’s been only two decades since Southern kids stopped learning history from censored textbooks, which uniformly glossed over our region’s terrible racial history. Even today, kids are studying texts that Thompson rightfully labels “milquetoast” in their treatment of Southern history.

And recent election results suggest that the Southern mind hasn’t evolved much, that we’re not much different from what we were in 1936, when Faulkner was struggling yet again with the moral weirdness of the South. Almost 80 years later, it’s still too damned easy for folks to draw the conclusion that we Southerners are hopelessly bound to tradition, too resistant to change.

But there is another South, the one that we know: a South that is full of people who do things that honor genuinely honorable traditions. Drinking. Cooking. Reading. Writing. Singing. Playing. Making things. It's also full of people who face our region's contradictions and are determined to throw our dishonorable traditions out the window.

Still, the tension — the strain between pride and shame, that eternal duality of the Southern thing — remains. Lord knows, most folks outside the South believe — and rightly so — that most Southerners are kicking and screaming to keep the old South old. But many others, through the simple dignity of their work, are changing things. ––

“The strain between pride and shame.”

*raises hand* It me.  I'm the one wrastlin' with this.

The South is weird (Florida brings a lot of this to the Southern table but I digress) and I try to reconcile this conundrum between pride and shame on a regular basis. So many contradictions.

I am striving to be one of those Southerners who is changing things, even just a little bit. Not for ego. Not for pride. Not for accolades. But because it’s simply the right thing to do. The right thing to do.

The right thing to do.

November 9th, 2016. One of the darkest days of my lifetime. That was the day after the 2016 election. I stayed awake all night, crying. Partly because HRC had lost; mostly because I had a feeling this country was in for some horrific, turbulent times ahead.

I knew. But. I had no idea how horrible those times would be. Couldn’t even fathom the depths of crassness and graft and lies and racism and horror we'd experience. And here we are.

On that day, November 9th, 2016, I decided that I never ever wanted to feel that way again and vowed to do everything in my power to make sure that happened. My AHA! moment, if you will.

I immediately got involved with a grassroots local activist group that became part of the Indivisible movement. I’ve worked with it for the past three-and-a-half years, most often behind-the-scenes on the Steering Committee as our organization’s Administrator and graphic designer/writer. I gladly do this, as it's been a great outlet for my righteous indignation. And I've had the bonus of making some terrific friends that I adore whom I might never had met.

I, like most folks with compassion and heart, was upset and outraged when I first heard about George Floyd’s murder and the circumstances surrounding it. I began to ponder what White Me could do to help this centuries-long situation.

And then I learned that in his final moments, he called out for his mama.

That did it. The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. My protective instinct went into overdrive. That man wanted his (late) mama. And this mommy (what my kiddo calls me) could no longer be timid or a voyeur. I needed to amplify my voice even more. And I have a big old bullhorn in these vocal cords. Along with no more effs to give about offending people. 

Serendipitously, a number of my white friends were having their own AHA! moments. And wanting to know and learn how they could help. They too felt they could no longer be silent.

This was my Do Something. I could help other white people shape their AHA! moments by providing some guidance and access to a whole lot of resources on how to be white advocates.

I’m not an expert on privilege, bias, racism and other similar issues. But I have had a good amount of training, thanks to my activist group. I read a lot… boy, do I read a lot. Got a knack for writing fairly OK. And a fine-tuned empathetic intuition.

And that is how this site came to be.

It’s a place for learning.

A stop for resources created by experts and wise people.

A spot to have provocative conversations.

A safe space to ask questions.

And when the time is right, it will be a vehicle for action, whatever that may be.

IMPORTANT: This is not the time to ask Black folks for suggestions or advice on what to do. They are exhausted, having done the heavy lifting on racism for centuries. We white folks need to take responsibility and educate ourselves. Another reason I put this joint together. 

I’m absorbing stuff while I do research. #AlwaysLearning. But I do have a bit of a head start because of my involvement in advocacy work during this insane political environment (one reason I’m letting my hair go gray – can’t keep up with the coloring because it’s turning more silver every time That Man opens his mouth or publishes a tweet. Don’t get me started on the circles under my eyes…)

I’ve gained more knowledge than you can imagine these last three plus years. I’ve taken training classes about racism and bias. Participated in privilege walks. Been rightly chastised by Black people when I naively and innocently step in it. And bit by bit I have gotten tougher and more resolved -- not toting around as much white fragility as I used to (pardon the grammar.) I’m not the same person – in a good way – I was in November 2016. And I want to share what I’ve learned with y’all - pay it forward, if you will.

If you made it through this wordy tome, thank you. I thought it was important for you to know who the heck I am, what my experience has been and why Hey White Folks! came to be.

And if y’all stick around after all this, many thanks from the bottom of my heart. 

Friend -- let’s get after it. 

PS: As always, BLACK LIVES MATTER.

Gentle Reminder

Being a white advocate isn’t a hobby nor is it akin to a one semester course in college. It’s a life commitment that does involve educating yourself continually and listening constantly. It’s not easy - in fact it’s frequently painful with self-realization and uncomfortable AHA moments. It’s about checking your ego at the door on the regular.

But it’s necessary. It’s critically important. And vital for the progress of our country. 

Talk less. Listen more.

@janeyjaygee ##duet with @accidentalactivistken_##blacklivesmatter
♬ original sound - accidentalactivistken_

We Can't Drive 55

Do You Have Privilege: The Simplified Edition

@janeyjaygee ##blacklivesmatter
♬ Check Your Privilege by Big Mamma - boss_bigmamma

Where I'm At Right Now

Hey! Good to see you! Come on in and sit a spell. If we were in my family room or on my porch or patio, I've offer you something cold to drink and probably a napkin to go underneath your glass.

And if we were settling in for a nice visit, I'd share with you everything you're (hopefully) about to read, because it's that important to me.

I'm glad you're here. I hope you'll stay, and then come back to visit. Because, friend, we have work to accomplish. Together.

•

It was as hot a day here in my part of the F-L-A as I can remember. About four years ago, I think. And I’ve seen a lot (aka a half century) of hot days in my native state. The city pool where I take my water fitness classes was busy to capacity, as is typical for a summer morning. Swimming lessons, lap swimmers, retirees getting some sun. About halfway through my fitness class, a group of kids in a city-sponsored summer camp arrived; you could hear them before you saw them. They were excited, and rightly so, about having a chance to goof off and cool off. On this particular day, my aqua fitness class wasn’t crowded, so there was room in the shallow end of the pool for other swimmers. The summer camp kids soon started a spirited but orderly game of Marco Polo; they policed themselves, watching to make sure they didn’t interfere with our class and only got asked not to run and jump by the lifeguards a handful of times. A couple of the girls copied our Zumba moves, dissolving into giggles when they missed a step.

After class was over, I went to the side of the pool and continued stretching, trying to extend my time in the cool water because it is hotter than the surface of the sun here in Florida right now. Two of the Marco Polo players were standing on the steps; I smiled at them and asked if they were having fun. Thus began a delightful conversation during which I was asked how old I was (they guessed 25; I immediately made them my two favorite people in the world), did I have any kids, what my favorite sandwich was and did I want to come play Marco Polo with them?

Oh… have I mentioned that my two new friends were black? And boys? Aged 10 and 7.

I’ve been thinking about those young men a lot recently. About how charming our conversation was. About how we all felt comfortable chatting – a middle-aged white woman and two young black gentlemen. About what their lives look like in this society under these conditions. About how that scares me to tears. My friends Katie and Steven both have black sons. I keep them all prayerfully in my heart. To be a mama raising black boys and to be a black man raising a black son in this society…

We – yes, WE – have a massive, horrific racism problem in this country. This is not new information. This is not secret information. This is cold, hard factually-based information. It runs deep. It runs long. It’s ugly. Shameful. It’s bubbled up and overflowed recently, like hot, glowing lava pouring out of an erupting volcano. And it’s time to talk about it. Past time, honestly.

THIS IS WHY BLACK LIVES MATTER. It's not "Only Black Lives Matter." Sure, All Lives Matter -- that's simply humane. BUT the black community needs our help NOW... because BLACK LIVES ARE IN DANGER.

For a long time, I observed. As a child, I listened as older relatives matter-of-factly showed their bigotry, whispering the words “negro” or “black” in the manner one does when one is discussing something distasteful. This was the post-Civil Rights Act South with pre-Civil Rights Act Southerners. My kin were good people, raised in a different time. I don’t know if that excuses their attitudes but being only a generation or two removed from the Antebellum South, I’m not sure there was room or opportunity for alternate thought. But there was room for good moral character: I recently learned that my beloved nana, a long-time principal here in our home county, was a groundbreaking educator. Her staff at the last elementary school she helmed before retirement – in the mid/late ‘60s – had a good number of black teachers. Not always the case in those times. I love my nana, who treated each child in her schools with kindness and respect, but I’m now proud and humbled by the character she displayed.

As a young adult, I listened. I’ve heard my father talk about taking the city bus to junior high school, with him sitting in the front and his black friend having to sit in the back. I heard tell of the time my parents were driving the back roads of north Florida and came across a Ku Klux Klan rally in an open field. Hooded figures. Lighted torches. They didn’t stop or play lookey-loo to gather more information, to make sure that what they thought they were seeing was real. The smart decision. This was again the early ‘60s. One hundred years after the Civil War. So much had transpired. So little had changed.

As a middle-class cis white woman, I am acting. Because I cannot not take action. I have had privilege afforded me my entire life. Some because of my abilities and talent. Some because of my family. Some because of my professed religion. And an extraordinary amount because of the color of my skin.

I’m not special. Not by any means. I've been fortunate. Because I am privileged.

Guess what, friend? If you’re a white person here, reading this – you’re privileged too. Tough love time.

I don’t know about you, but my heart hurts every time I see a hashtag or chyron roll by that signifies another black life has been taken at the hand of law enforcement in a questionable situation.

It’s all very wash/rinse/repeat: he should have listened; he was wearing clothes (like a hoodie) that raised suspicions; most police officers are good people; he had a record. Evidence is discovered; eyewitness accounts are taken; questions are raised about both.

The adage about shooting first and asking questions later is both antiquated and offensive. As is kneeling on a man’s neck for eight minutes and 46 seconds. Wanting those who serve and protect to be held to accountable standards is not unreasonable. At all.

This issue of race and bigotry is much broader than shootings and killings. What happened to Philando Castile and Alton Sterling and Breonna Taylor and Eric Garner and Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd and Jacob Blake is part of a bigger problem. Which has existed for centuries. Four centuries, actually, if you’re keeping track at home. This hot button is not symbolic of a racism revival – this ain’t new, y'all. It’s been festering as the seedy underbelly of American character and openly encouraged and dog-whistled by the Administration currently taking up space in the White House.

These days, we see things unfold as they happen, either via news sources or humans on the street with cell phones that record anything at a moment’s notice. What might or might not be covered hours or days after it happened on a TV news broadcast 30 years ago is now viewed live across many platforms. We literally are living through events worldwide in real time.

And then there’s social media.

Those 140 characters of a Tweet or that random Facebook post can instantaneously show you the nature of someone’s character, of his or her belief system. Racial slurs. Religious bigotry. Sexism to the nth power. Homophobia. It’s amazing how much vitriol can be packed into such a small space. (See: #45’s Twitter account) It’s also amazing how much empowerment, protest and support can also fit into those spaces. That's what we must magnify. And absorb. Social media is many things for many people. But for all of us, it’s the stethoscope for the pulse of society.

I just unfriended a good-sized swath of people on my FB page with whom I share no common philosophical positions. I block accounts that spew venom and appalling opinions on Twitter on the regular. Ain’t nobody got time for any of that nonsense. I’m sure that the same is being done to me on the flip side, which is fine. Makes me feel like I’m doing something right.

Enough is enough. For me. I hope it is for you. I can no longer hold my tongue in polite company when the conversation takes an offensive tone. I love my country deeply, fiercely, passionately -- but there are things that need to be fixed in its fabric. Racism is at the top of the list. Again -- tough love time. 

The worth of a life should not be evaluated based on skin color.

The color of one’s skin does not make one automatically a better person or a lesser person.

Period.

No one is all saint. No one is all sinner. We are all human. Yes, there are differences between us – that individuality thing which makes us unique and keeps life interesting. But to hate someone without just cause who you do not know because of the color of his or her skin is WRONG. Unacceptable.

Period.

To understand, as a white woman, that I have privilege because of the color of my skin is sobering. As a white woman, the fact that I have inherent bias is painful. As a white woman who wants to somehow help and make a difference, this is galvanizing.

Period.

Governor Andrew Cuomo ends his daily pressers about Covid-19 with a slide that talks about being New York Tough. He defines New York Tough as being smart, disciplined, unified and loving.

That also can apply to the work involved with becoming an effective – and good – white advocate:

• Be smart. Do homework. Read. Listen. Read more.
• Be disciplined. Keep your focus on the matter at hand. Check your ego at the door. Be prepared for some gut checks.
• Be unified. Seek out others who are and want to be white advocates. Work together. Share resources. Collaboration can magnify voices beautifully.
• Be loving. Listen to your black friends. Be helpful to them (if they reach out and on their terms.) Take care of your white advocate colleagues.

There’s a phrase from Hamilton that resonates deeply with me:

Talk less; smile more.

This concept would seem to be very applicable when trying to be a white advocate. Talking less opens you up to listening. And that is the one thing we must do. Hush up and Listen. Now.

We must listen to our black friends, black colleagues, black social media influencers and social media follows. Likewise, we must EDUCATE OURSELVES. Black people not only live in a society rife with systemic racism, but they have done the heavy lifting of sounding the alarm about racism and bias and privilege for centuries as well. I can only imagine how exhausting that is. It’s no longer an option for white advocates to simply be voyeurs. It’s time to get to work. Whatever that means for you.

Oh… that “smile more” bit? A genuine smile is never a bad thing. And it’s an easy way to break the ice.

It’s what I did with my young black friends at the pool that very hot day so many years ago. And look what happened there.

Marco.

Polo.

Why Black Lives Matter In a Nutshell: