“Is it okay if I call you ‘sis’?” I inquired, hoping to express my affection.
My friend chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Oh, absolutely not.”
As a white woman referring to a black woman as ‘sis’ crossed a boundary I wasn’t aware of. I felt a pang of hurt. Didn’t she recognize my love for her? Didn’t she know how frustrated I was with white women who choose silence and safety?
But she was making it clear that regardless of how progressive I believed myself to be, my experience as a white woman meant I could never fully grasp what it meant to navigate this world as a black woman. It was a tough pill to swallow. The term ‘sis’ came from a desire for connection and solidarity, yet I understood she wasn’t trying to wound me; she was showing love by being honest.
Instinctively, I wanted to justify myself. I thought about my participation in protests, my past relationships with black individuals, and my own experiences with discrimination. Surely, as a woman, I could relate?
But that didn’t change the fact that I will always be a white woman. With my blonde hair and green eyes, I benefit from what is often called “pretty privilege,” a form of unearned kindness from society. Sure, I had faced some hostility—like the time a white man spat at me for holding hands with my black partner—but that incident was about him, not me. Without my partner there, I would have simply enjoyed my privilege.
What my friend conveyed was that my role could be that of a witness, not an appropriator.
In March, my daughter and I visited the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C. We observed a group of tourists—grandparents, parents, and children—stepping off a bus, all dressed in matching red MAGA hats and American flag attire. They were eager to express their identity and beliefs, much like I do with my ACLU beanie and Sandy Hook Promise shirt.
As we wandered through the museum, my daughter became engrossed in an exhibit, leaving me in a quieter area where I encountered two white teenagers, both wearing MAGA hats. They were soon joined by a black teenage boy, who approached them with determination.
“I matter,” he stated boldly. The teens exchanged puzzled looks and laughed.
“That hat makes me uncomfortable,” he continued, pointing at their hats.
In response, the blonde teens, seemingly oblivious, said, “This is a white country.” The black boy’s face turned red with frustration. He stood alone in a sea of white faces, filled with courage yet vulnerable.
Not knowing what to say, I moved closer to stand by his side. I didn’t utter a word; I simply wanted him to feel my presence as support. He didn’t glance at me, and I refrained from touching him. I could sense the tension radiating from him, the sweat on his brow, and the rapid beat of his heart.
“This is not a white country,” he asserted. “It’s our country. Don’t you get that?”
Again, the white teens laughed—not out of malice, but from confusion, unable to grasp the weight of his words. After conveying his point, the boy walked away, leaving me to reflect on whether my silent support had sufficed.
The next day, we visited the National Museum of African American History and Culture, where I was acutely aware of my whiteness among a majority black audience. I stood in line with fellow white visitors, feeling a sense of discomfort while gazing at images of enslaved individuals and the profound pain of history.
In front of Emmett Till’s coffin, my emotions erupted. Till, a 14-year-old black boy, had been brutally murdered in 1955, accused of offending a white woman. His mother insisted on an open casket to show the world the horrors of his fate. The all-white jury took mere hours to acquit the men responsible for his death, which only deepened my rage.
In that moment, I felt an overwhelming connection to the shared suffering passed down through generations. As I processed my emotions, I felt warmth enveloping me. Hands, all black, were placed on my back, providing support as I struggled with my grief. It was a moment of profound connection.
Reflecting on my past with my black boyfriend, Marcus, I recognized that I had often made our struggles about my own experiences. Similarly, the MAGA teens didn’t understand the need for the black boy to assert his worth. The historical figures involved in Emmett Till’s tragedy had also failed to grasp the significance of their actions and the lives they disrupted.
Racism is not merely a personal sentiment; it’s a systemic issue that has historically favored white individuals at every turn. From housing to healthcare, white people have reaped the benefits of a society designed to uphold their privilege.
As I pondered my role in this dynamic, it became clear that while white people are not inherently evil, we have a responsibility to acknowledge and address the systems we benefit from. We must be allies and advocates, but we also need to recognize when to listen rather than speak.
People of color do not require us to take on their burdens; they need our support and acknowledgment of their voices. It’s time for white individuals to step back and allow marginalized voices to take the forefront.
In the end, recognizing and confronting the realities of privilege is the first step toward healing and change.
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