What Several Black People Told One White Person About Racism
I asked the question that you probably, definitely want to know the answer to.
Disclaimer: I’m not black. I’m white. Mostly. I’m Jewish and Argentinian but my skin is the color of my dry erase board and I have all the super expected, unearned privileges that come with that. But I have a lot of black people in very close roles in my life, and I’m not afraid to have complicated conversations with them and ask specific questions that you (most white people) probably don’t feel comfortable doing. So, on behalf of all of us white folks, I asked quite a few black folks one specific question about racism, and I’m sharing their answers with you. These aren’t THE answers, and they don’t represent ALL black people (who are not, in fact, a monolithic entity) but I think they’ll likely be helpful. And yes, I sent this around to said black people before I shared it with you — so I’m not just prancing around alone in my whiteness and patting myself on my white back.
I was exhausted after a full day of team conversations on Zoom. So many little squares of sad, mad people. Open forums followed by team meetings followed by 1:1’s — exploring so many feelings on racism and recent violence and murder in the U.S.
I watched as tears fell from my white colleagues’ faces. I listened closely as they shared their guilt, their pain and sense of responsibility. People asked for resources, people offered resources. Behind the scenes, I was accumulating an anxious flurry of DMs, texts and calls — white friends and colleagues asking me how my family was doing, asking for help and advice on how to show up and be better. Everyone committing to be better. To listen harder. I realized that to many, I was a safe space to explore and ask.
When I literally fell into bed that night, I told my husband…my black husband from the deep south…that I was exhausted. Profoundly exhausted. Exhausted by the tears of guilt, the shock, the questions.
He looked at me and said, “you know you can only say that to me in private, right?”
I did know.
What he meant by that was — wife, you don’t get to be exhausted after a week of putting in that dirty work.
Ok fair. He was right. I took a beat and recalibrated.
Then I asked him a question that never occurred to me to ask him in our 10 years together. A question that I’d never thought of asking any black person, TBH:
“On a scale of random-white-person-level-awareness to Malcolm-X-level-exhaustion, how would you quantify the exhaustion that you feel daily, just from existing while black?”
In subsequent days I asked the same question of my best friend of almost 20 years (a Jamaican from the Bronx) my black stepdad from Queens/SF (now living in Portland), several black employees at my company (including executives), and a few others in my close circle.
I want to share with you the answers I got back, in aggregate. Ready? Here’s the question again in case you didn’t super feel it the first time: how would you quantify the exhaustion that you feel daily, just from existing while black?
It’s off the scale, it never goes away. I feel it in my head, in my gut, in my feet. What’s happening right now in the news isn’t a magnification of racism. What happening now is about protesting a system that’s been broken for a long time and has been ineffectual, and protesting an abuse of power. If you really want to understand what racism is, this isn’t the place. Racism is all the other stuff, the stuff white folks usually miss. The stuff black people feel every moment.
It’s hard to separate out my exhaustion from my black-man-ness. Sometimes at work I’m telling brands, “hey, why can’t we do these pop-up events in East Atlanta, or the Bronx where so much of the target actually lives?” And what I’m really thinking and feeling is “oh my god, how many ways do I have to point out racism, do I have just be that guy and throw a tantrum, who should I pull aside, how else can I say this.” And that dynamic feels like every day, all the time.
It’s like, my actual language BECOMES the protest. It IS the fight. And it gets to be so normal, and so distributed across my existence, that it’s just like…my life. All the time. And in all directions.
I feel the exhaustion that you feel right now, multiplied by thousands. But, I’ve built a muscle for it, so instead of feeling the exhaustion each day the way you are right now, I just absorb it into my body. It just lives in my body.
I think part of it is like, all of the statements about racism have been made, but I think so many things have made it seem like exaggeration, or something you can ignore, or fake. Like white people should walk around with a weighted vest for 3 months. I don’t know how else to try and make the idea of a CONSTANT presence feel real. How do you indoctrinate that sense of permanence? Or maybe it’s not about permanence, maybe it’s about finding ways to bring your gaze away from your personal self, consistently? idk.
I often get to the Malcom X level of exhaustion. It comes from checking that I’m wearing the right things at the right time, saying the right things, making sure I’m with the right people. It’s constant self-monitoring and adjusting. When I’m in my regular environments — my restaurants, my bars, my neighborhoods, my people — it becomes second nature. I try to make my own life easier by owning my spaces so I don’t have to recreate new comforts. If my environment is different, I have to start new, which is really exhausting.
At work, people are full of tears, that wears me down, I’m exhausted. Just shut up and do the work. The wokeness and being all up in black people’s business, it wears black people down.
This is not a “moment” — it’s a moment for white people because of your new awareness and epiphany. If we treat it like a moment, it will end. White people can get tired and choose to opt out. You can get tired and you can say you’re done dealing with it. The movement will die down. We’ll still be black, and we’ll stay exhausted. There’s no rest.
So. In summary — my takeaways for white people:
- Yes, be angry about the recent murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd. Be angry about police brutality. Donate and sign petitions. Create space for conversation and share your feelings. Protest. Learn new things. People, especially leaders in corporate America, are listening, so push for change. Anger is good! Self-reflection is good! But like, use your positional power and privilege for good too though.
- Don’t expect black people to educate you. Don’t look to black people for a solution to this “problem” — it’s appropriate that we white folks feel uncomfortable, feel exhausted, and reflect on that and grapple with it. But in my husband’s words, don’t complain to black people about it. And don’t ask black people for resources. Google can help you with that.
- Don’t expect black people to comfort you. I’ve got a few sub-bullets for you on this one:
- If there’s a meaningful conversation to be had, or a deep sentiment to share, or even just a sweet I’m thinking of you text — by all means, reach out to the black people you know and/or love.
- If you do reach out to show love or empathy, have no expectations about what you’ll receive back. As one colleague suggested, this could even be a nod or smile to a black stranger on the street.
- But peep this from one of my convos: “I don’t want white people reaching out just to reach out to their local black person. That’s how the mainstream culture is used to dealing with things — they ask “what’s the solution? how can I help?” It’s superficial and short-sighted. Before white folks reach out, they need to recognize that asking “are you ok” alone is not a good question — and it doesn’t do what you’re hoping it does. It only makes you feel better about yourself.” - This is A moment for black people, but it’s not THE moment. This is a heightened moment of outrage and protest…and when it’s over, as one colleague said, black people will still be black tomorrow. Going back to our positional power and privilege for a sec: yes it’s what’s needed in this particular moment, but racism is in every single system. Look harder. Start taking notice of the smaller, day-to-day stuff and call it out all the time.
- Understand where you live. Learn about the racial history of your state and city, and how this history informs the systems in which you operate — your company, school, legal system, etc. Don’t shy away from getting super cozy with understanding how these systems uphold our privileges and inform our responsibilities as white citizens. Google can help with that, too.
That’s it for now. Stay in this — we don’t get to be exhausted.
