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.

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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.