There are not always words available to express the way that something feels. And sometimes, even when we try to use the words we know we can’t fully articulate the amount of emotion that needs to be attached to what is said. I’ve written this reflection several times. I’ve had friends read it. Still, it doesn’t fully capture what I want to say with the level of intensity that I want to say it. I feel inadequate to fully express what I’m trying to say, and for my inadequacy, I apologize.
I have very few words that can accurately express the emotions that I’ve been feeling over the last week and since the murder of George Floyd. I’ve been trying for days to put the right words together feeling like it’s an impossible task. At first, the hurt was for the world and how we can’t seem to get our shit together. The image of people protesting horrific injustices in pandemic masks and the violent videos on social media are something I can’t get out of my head. Then I began the grief of thinking about what the situation would have looked like if George was one of my friends. If that had been Desmond or Rodney or Sarah or anyone else who I deem as being family and whom I love like crazy – I would have lost my mind. Now, I have moved into a new grieving era. The one where I realize, upon further inspection, that maybe I haven’t always been the most awesome white friend.
In my mind I’ve advocated by being accepting and loving. I have tried to be what people call an anti-racist. I have asked questions and been thankful to have friends of color that would patiently explain things to me because I was admittedly stupid in my whiteness. Like admitting I was stupid excused all the questions I wasn’t asking. I’ve taught my children to appreciate others for exactly who they are regardless of their race, socioeconomic status, sexuality…that none of that matters because everyone has value. I realize now there is so much more to this than just accepting.
I have also been embarrassed at my lack of outright support. The things I knew I didn’t know and I was quietly, subconsciously accepting of my ignorance. I was incredibly proud of my son for going out and protesting and then immediately felt guilty that I didn’t do the same. Why didn’t I think of doing that? I struggled for days to say the right thing on social media and kept putting it off because I was fearful of offending the very people that I wanted to support. I understand how much of a coward that makes me seem.
I have a brown daughter. I have watched racism touch our family. The intense anger that accompanies it is difficult to contain and difficult to put into words, and of course that doesn’t even begin to touch some of the experiences that others have had. When we adopted her all those years ago nobody prepared us for that. They said learn about her culture and teach her, but they never warned us about how truly hateful some people can be. We learned that on our own, but we didn’t know that because we had never experienced it. Because we are white.
And even those experiences didn’t push me to learn more. Probably because I was too comfortable in my whiteness.
I want to say I’m sorry but I can’t imagine that matters much. A friend equated it to speaking with