Growing Up with White Privilege

I am White. I live in a predominantly White town and I live a predominantly privileged life. Though I am only in high school, the aspects of my life affected by privilege are endless. I become at fault when I fail to recognize this privilege of mine. I realize I have never been treated negatively because of my skin color. I do not feel fear when I see a police officer because throughout my life, the police have existed to protect me. My life has been made easier because of my White privilege. It is crucial to acknowledge this.

I have felt very emotional the last several days. I cried after watching the video of George Floyd and have had a similar reaction any time protests are on the news. My immediate reaction to this sadness of mine? Who are you to be sad and who are you to be angry? This is not your experience.

Herein lies the problem. Many times when a Black man or woman is killed in an act of racism, there is a burst of activism. There may be a march in Washington D.C. or a trending hashtag, but many of us with White privilege fail to respond appropriately. We are not sad enough. We are not angry enough. 

After the shooting of Breonna Taylor and Ahmaud Arbery, there was some movement. Our country was nearing a breaking point and the murder of George Floyd tipped us over the edge. Social media blew up with activism. Marches and rallies and riots started in cities across the country: citizens begging for change. This explosion was full of pain and centuries of suffering — but it woke some of us up. Those of us with White privilege were horrified by some of the things happening in our country. We always had the ability to turn the videos off, put our phone down and go to bed. I remember thinking when I was younger: I don’t know if I can watch some of this footage, it makes me too sad and uncomfortable. News flash — this is not a piece of content. These are people’s lives. 

So I found last week to be a turning point for myself and some of my classmates. Much needed conversations started. Maddie Curnow, a junior at East Greenwich High School, wrote

“While I have always been filled with anger in regards to the discrimination African Americans face in the United States, my anger has greatly swelled in the past week. I know that I will never be able to fully understand the struggles Black lives encounter everyday, so instead I am doing my best to amplify the voices around me. Ask yourself, have I been doing enough or is my silence contributing to the oppression? If you want to help but do not know where to start, go to https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/ for a list of resources.”

Instead of just feeling sad, I wanted to do something. Not because I am Black or can relate to the African-American experience, but because I care. I do not want to live in a country where an innocent man can be suffocated for almost nine minutes by a police officer’s knee. I do not want to live in a country where peaceful protests go unheard. I do want to be aware of some of the social ignorance I carry.

Leah Valente, another junior at East Greenwich High School, shared:

“After reading and watching many videos and posts on social media, I have come to truly understand the role of ignorance in our country. I had been ignorant to the horrors that occur everyday until I completed a year of U.S. History and have been keeping up with the news. The more I learn, the angrier I get. Educating ourselves right now is the most important thing we can do. Acting right now does not make you right or left, it makes you human.”

My plan is to read and watch these works in hopes of understanding and becoming a better American citizen. As Angela Davis said, “In a racist society, it is not enough to be non-racist, we must be anti-racist.”

Here’s what’s on my list:

• 13th, a Netflix documentary about racial inequality in America and our prison system

• So You Want to Talk About Race, a book by Ijeoma Oluo

• White Fragility: Why it’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism, a book by Robin DiAngelo

• The Fire Next Time, a book by James Baldwin

• When They See Us, a Netflix limited series about the Central Park five

• Ain’t I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism, a book by bell hooks

I hope this is just the beginning. 

Maya Barnes lives in East Greenwich, Rhode Island. In the fall of 2020, she will be a senior at East Greenwich High School, where she plays soccer and basketball and is a  member of Future Business Leaders of America,  Model UN, and the National Honor Society. Maya also writes for the East Greenwich News, where this piece first appeared. It is reprinted with permission from the author.

Letter to Lexington

Author’s Note: This piece contains language and ideas that may be offensive to some. I have made the conscious effort to remain as unequivocal in my language as possible. This means that there is no sugarcoating of any kind. This is an, authentic account of the Teenage Black Experience in Lexington, Massachusetts. While reading, I hope you will embrace the discomfort that allows you to open your eyes and heart to new information and perspectives. If the flame of social justice burns within you, Dear Reader, I implore you: read on.

Ah, Lexington, who among us can properly laud your excellences? Lexington, a town of such historical significance in America’s “fight for independence,” and a modern-day tower of financial strength, a home to activist groups aplenty, and a force of light in many a time of darkness. And the diversity! With organizations such as the Korean Organization of Lexington, (KOLEX), the Chinese-American Association of Lexington (CAAL), and the Indian Association of Lexington (IAL) being so prominent and well known, any claim that our town is in fact not as diverse as we believe would be instantly dismissed as nonsense. Pure, unsubstantiated hogwash. All one has to do is walk into any one of the town’s schools or the town center on a half-day of school, and you will see dozens, if not scores, of minority faces in all different shades!

Except you won’t.

Sure, there are many minorities living in Lexington, but one particular group of people is noticeably and woefully absent. While it is likely that you’ve heard of the aforementioned groups, what is less likely is that you’ve heard of the Association of Black Citizens of Lexington (ABCL). The ABCL is small — not out of a lack of interest among the town’s black population but because of the low percentage of blacks in town. According to Data USA, the percentage of Lexingtonians identifying as white is 68.8 percent. The next largest group is those who identify as Asian, coming in at 25.4 percent. Can you guess the bottom demographic? That’s right, the percentage of us who identify as black comes in at 0.97 percent. Is this low percentage the fault of the citizens of Lexington? Not entirely. Lexington is an extremely, almost embarrassingly affluent town, and the systems of segregation and institutionalized racism that persist in every corner of our nation try their damnedest to keep black and brown people as far away as possible from towns like ours. My concern is not just the lack of black people in Lexington, however. My concern is that, hand in hand with this lack of representation, is something even more dangerous: a severe lack of information, along with a healthy dose of misinformation, racial bias, and racial stereotyping. 

Racism is alive and well in America. This is a well-known and largely accepted fact. All one has to do is look at Charlottesville and the “Unite the Right” rally in 2017. Ask Tracy Martin what happened to his son Trayvon on February 26, 2012. Take a good look at current immigration policies, especially those which involve what our president has described as “shithole countries.” While this kind of overt, malicious racism exists, and is on the rise, it is condemned by the rational citizens of our nation. I have not heard of any incident of violent racism in our town. What exists, rather, is a more troubling brand of racism, an insidious ignorance bubbling below the surface of our collective subconscious — a brand of racism that is instilled in the hearts and minds of young people in such a sneaky way that one must be especially vigilant in order to notice. This is a brand of racism that teaches that black minds are inferior, that black students are less capable than their white and Asian counterparts, that black feelings are unimportant, and that black bodies do not deserve respect. It’s a kind of racism I have seen displayed too often among many of the politically progressive and supposedly socially minded citizens of Lexington and surrounding towns.

It’s the kind of racism that enables educated white people to look me in the eye and say, “Wow, you’re so well-spoken!”

While writing this article, I asked a few friends of mine if they’ve shared my experience or racism and racial bias in Lexington. One friend, a black senior who has lived and studied in Lexington since he was in fourth grade, wrote, “So recently I was called the N word with a hard ‘R’ over social media…. It didn’t physically hurt me but emotionally, it struck me the wrong way.... I saw this girl [who said it] as a friend, [and] I realized after she said that, her ignorance outweighed our friendship. She said her intention wasn’t to hurt me, but rather [to make] a stupid joke. That’s the part that hurt because I didn’t quite understand what made her think that was OK to say or how her saying such a derogatory word could be funny for anyone, especially an African American.”

I was appalled when I saw the message: “You’re such a nigger.” What does that even mean? “You’re such a black person” would be bad enough, but to use such an offensive and disparaging term boggles my mind. To employ a term that was specifically created to subjugate, oppress, divide, and dehumanize others in any context is unforgivable, but the fact that she didn’t realize the effects and implications of her language makes it even worse. With the rise of black music artists and their use of an adapted form of the word, “nigga,” many non-black people have begun to believe that it’s no big deal to say these things. I’ve heard the “but I used a soft ‘A’!” excuse countless times. “But it was in a song!” is another common response, as well as “But you guys [read, ‘you people’] use it with each other all the time!” The persistence of the colonizer mindset — the idea that “these dark-skinned people have something I want but can’t have, so I’m going to take it and then justify my actions later” — is toxic and bewildering. 

A particularly colossal culprit of cultural appropriation is the music industry. Besides the plethora of Hispanic and otherwise non-black artists using the N-word in their lyrics, their style, diction, and appearance are all co-opted directly from black culture. Artists like Teka$hi 6ix9ine, and Lil Pump have no significant black heritage. As a result, their prolific use of the N-word has led many listeners to believe that it’s “no big deal.” As I mentioned before, this is an erroneous conclusion. It is, and always will be, a big deal.

Yet cultural appropriation stretches beyond the use of a certain slur. A perfect example of an appropriative non-black artist: Ariana Grande. This prolific pop singer has skyrocketed to stardom, but not without the help of black influences and mannerisms. Her turning “it’s a” into “issa” at every opportunity, chopping off “r’s” at the ends of her words, and surrounding herself almost exclusively with people of color would be evidence enough to label her as a “culture vulture,” but the final nail in the coffin, as far as I’m concerned, comes from the way she has chosen to present herself of late. Her hair extensions (weaves), massively large hoop earrings and ridiculously dark spray tan are all a part of the costume and persona she has donned in order to become a more effective entertainer. Grande’s once inoffensive and lovable image has been tainted with minstrel-show-undertones and insensitivity with the advent of her lack of understanding and ultimate disregard of and for black bodies and experiences.

This lack of respect for the black body is in no way unique to notable celebrities. My hair has always been an integral part of my identity, and has always been a subject of fascination to numerous white people in my life. When I had a large Afro in middle school and freshman year of high school, white kids were constantly running up to me and touching or grabbing it. When I had a flat top, white classmates would push it down and watch in either amazement when it sprang back or disappointment when it didn’t. Students would make constant analogies to birds’ nests. They inquired as to whether or not a handprint could be indented. I’ve witnessed expressions of surprise when white students learned that my head is in fact a normal shape, and there wasn’t much space between the top of my hair and the top of my head. This has all been replaced now with “Wave Check!” jokes about my nonexistent AirPods (since waves and AirPods have recently become memes, yet another way black bodies are commodified and used for entertainment) and unsolicited running of hands across my head, wanting to feel the ridges I’d curated through careful brushing and treatment. Why do I need to tell them that my body is not theirs, that they do not own it or me? I am not an animal in your anyone’s petting zoo, and you will keep your hands to yourself.

I asked my friend (quoted above) what he wished people understood about being black in America. He said “I wish people understood how difficult it is being black in this country. We’re looked at differently and I feel like a lot of us are very cautious with how we carry ourselves because any wrong move and people automatically see us as below them.” I couldn’t agree more. Black people, especially black professionals, must be extremely cautious with how it is that they present themselves. What they say, how they say it, the music they listen to in public, the clothes they wear, the inflections in their voices — the list goes on and on.

One clear sign of racism in this country is how the dominant white culture is intimidated by smart, professional black people. The dominant white culture is looking for one slip-up, one single excuse to fit black people into their neat little stereotype. The virulently racist part of the white culture will want to see blacks as a stupid, angry, gangbanging, liquor-store-robbing, jive-talking, fried-chicken-and-watermelon-eating, shit stain on their “great country.” But even the liberal, supposedly inclusive side of the white culture is looking, if only subconsciously, for some kind of proof of white superiority. This is the part of the culture that fears black men walking down the street, holds low expectations for black students in schools, acts more or less indifferently to the continuing racial inequities in all aspects of society, and does nothing — absolutely nothing — to stop the steady incarceration of blacks in America. 

I’ve been writing here broadly about racism in the culture and how it plays out in liberal communities. But I also want to look more directly at schools. It’s here where the nation is supposed to offer equal opportunity for a quality education regardless of race. However, that hasn’t been my experience, or the experience of my black friends.

My brother, for one, has been experiencing racism from as early as kindergarten. He can recall being told by other kids that he couldn’t read certain books because “they weren’t for black people,” or being told he was a “helpless, brown-skinned person.” The adults in the room did not come to his rescue. Now he is in middle school, and has had racial slurs hurled at him numerous times. Here. In Lexington. Is this the life we want for the children growing up here? Are these the messages we want to send?

The only way to understand and unpack racism is through enlightenment and information. To white peers I want say that listening to mostly hip-hop doesn’t make you racist, but supporting Obama doesn’t exonerate you, either. Close Instagram, and open a book. Stop watching Snapchat stories and start reading news stories for reliable sources.

To white adults in the community and schools, I want you to have a much better understanding of how wealthy, predominantly white communities like ours can be complicit in the larger system of racism in the country. Supporting Obama — or any of the current candidates for president — doesn’t exonerate you, either. At the very least, you need to learn to not contribute to the racism. Even better, you should consciously work to help dismantle the systems of racism that have persisted for far too long.

As Elie Wiesel, writer, activist, and Nobel Peace Prize Laureate, said, “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.” Indifference is fueled by ignorance. Ignorance is fueled by inaction. Stand with love. Combat racism. Educate yourself. And for all the black children and teenagers growing up in the suburbs, say it with me: I am here, I am strong, I am proud, I am smart, I am unapologetically black — and I am damn worthy of respect.

“A B Is an Asian F!”

“A B is an Asian F.” The first time I heard this statement I was in the third grade, riding the bus home from school. Having just recently become fully aware of the fact that I, myself, was of Asian descent, I was surprised to hear the word “Asian” being used as a jeering taunt by my peers. Prior to this moment, I had been in the midst of that wondrous process of discovering my identity — roaming the intricate ins and outs of what it meant to be uniquely me. I had understood that being Asian — or rather Asian American — meant being different from people of other races, but until that moment I had not considered the possibility that others might see my difference as a problem.

After that moment on the bus, I felt confused and hurt, as if robbed of the ability to create my own identity. The people around me had essentially defined what being Asian American meant for them and, sadly, what it should mean for me at the time. It seemed that everyone believed that the Asian-American identity was inextricably linked to two essential qualities: getting good grades in school and being smart. If you did not or could not satisfy those expectations, you were not really Asian. Was I supposed to fit this mold?

I grew up in a predominantly white suburb of Philadelphia. This meant that in a majority of my elementary school classes I was either the only person of color or one of few. This also meant that most of my early ideas about the Asian-American identity were defined by either stereotypes I saw in the media or, as in the bus incident, by other peoples’ words. Since both of these channels seemed to point to academic success as the only path for Asians to follow — I found myself slowly letting go of other possibilities and obediently following suit.

Predictably, this one-dimensionality was suffocating. At the beginning of each school year, we were always asked to complete a “This Is Me” project telling everyone about our unique qualities. And every year in the box asking for adjectives describing myself, the first adjective I always instinctively put down was “smart.” Beyond that, I did not know what defined me. Being a high-achieving Asian with good grades had become my identity. Yet, I also knew that I did not want to be known only for my supposed intellect. When my peers and teachers thought of me, I wanted to be known for greater things like being a loving person or for possessing true kindness and generosity for others. Furthermore, I secretly had aspirations to write down in the “Future Career” box of my “About Me Poster” besides the Asian stereotypes of doctor or engineer. Cultural expectations held me back. What if I wanted to be an astronaut? An artist? Or a United States Senator? If I wrote any of these career options, would I still be accepted?

Perhaps what I wanted most in elementary school was encouragement from my teachers — encouragement to go down a path not presented to me in society, encouragement that I would not automatically fail if I wandered outside said prescribed Asian mold. Most important, I wanted encouragement that I was more than a racial stereotype, more than just “smart.”

As I progressed from elementary school to middle school, insecurities about my Asian-ness and academic worth followed. If I was not particularly interested in science, let alone good at it, was I a failure? Was I intelligent because I was Asian American or was I simply just Asian American and intelligent? Though I had these insecurities, I never spoke to my teachers about them because I also thought I was supposed to live up to another stereotype: the dependable one. Teachers did not have to worry about me because they never thought I needed help or was struggling. If they called on me in class, I was sure to give a correct answer. This is not to say that my wonderfully transformative teachers single-handedly forced the stereotype of the Model Minority onto me. Rather, constantly being told by your peers and society that you are supposed to be smart on the basis of your race and ethnicity acts as both a prophecy and a sentence. Consequently, many young Asian Americans I know, myself included, will do anything to fulfill this demand. So many of us study and work to the brink of exhaustion just to prove that we are capable, worthy, and “Asian” enough — whatever that means.

In high school, I began to realize that I did not have to live up to other peoples’ definitions of what it meant to be Asian American. I accepted the fact that I simply did not enjoy my science courses as much as the stereotype said I should and I stopped forcing a fake interest. I started to almost enjoy the look of surprise when I told people (older, more conservative Model-Minority-following Asian Americans and people of other races alike) that I loved my literature course and that I was going to major in the humanities in college. The raised eyebrows and slightly ajar mouth gave me a glimpse into their almost too obvious thought process: “Oh that’s interesting! I thought since she was Asian she would be more interested in a STEM field….” A freeness and loosening set in. I began to say in class, “I do not understand this,” and ask for help from my teachers on concepts that no one could reasonably comprehend on their own. Furthermore, my peers and I began to discover sides of ourselves in worlds outside of academia. I, for instance, loved rowing on my school’s crew team and playing an active role in student government. Learning and academics still played a large role in my life, but they were no longer my one defining factor.

Coming to college has only increased this feeling of freedom — an openness to following different paths. Since I attend a university with a sizeable Asian population, I also encounter an incredible diversity of views on what it means to be Asian American. There is not one monolith of an Asian identity here. Being Asian does not necessarily mean being the quiet nerd who is only interested in math. If one wants to be the quiet math whiz, that’s fine. But I’m thrilled — and fortunate — to be in a community of so many young Asian Americans who feel free to be whoever they want. A glorious liberation from the standards of society.

Sometimes it feels like the Model Minority Myth is a double-edged sword. As with many race- and ethnicity-related issues, my relationship with the perception of being part of the “model minority” is complex. There is no doubt that I have privilege and receive greater access than other minorities just on the basis of my being Asian-American. But there is also no doubt that this perception starts to inhibit self-confidence and pursuit of different interests early on. Most of all, I wish that I had the comfort, bravery, and adult support to explore interests beyond the confines of academia as a child.

Asian Americans should not have to be held to stifling standards of achievement that repress multi-dimensionality. Since this is not the case, I want to offer some essential advice.

To my non-Asian peers: Your Asian-American classmates do not always have the right answers and thus should not be depended on for constant academic support. The more you can see each of us as individuals, the better we can know and help each other.

To all teachers: Don’t assume Asian-American students learn easily. Proactively offer to help or support and assure your Asian-American students — as you do with other students. And please don’t pigeonhole us as STEM students. We have interests that span the entire spectrum.

To my fellow Asian Americans: Ask for help when you need it. Share your concerns when you have them. Dare to venture down new paths. We, too, are complex, struggling, and beautifully messy people. And we need to support each other.

Note: To our teaching colleagues: we are looking for student perspectives and voices related to racial identity in school. If you know of students who have written on the topi or are interested in writing, please send a note to jenna@teachingwhilewhite.org.

White Girl of Color?

Ninety-eight teenagers sat together in a room, some in chairs, most stationed on the floor — all uncomfortable in the way teenagers usually are. Huddled together in our socially mandated “friend groups,” we were feeling our insecurities: Is the way I’m sitting right now weird? Am I too close to him? Should I have sat with that person instead of these people? Take all of that into consideration, add the fact that someone was in trouble, and we had reached a whole new level of awkward. One of our peers had made some racially charged comments online that were beyond offensive, and as a progressive school it was in our nature to make it an issue of the environment rather than an issue of that person’s behavior.

“Here’s the plan,” explained our class advisor, a soft-spoken biracial woman with the seemingly uncharacteristic ability to command her audience of awkward sophomores. “We’re going to break you up into four groups to discuss. I’m going to ask you to go with the group that you identify with. And if you’re having trouble deciding, maybe you can think about how other people might perceive you.” The four groups, she informed us, were as follows: females of color, white females, males of color, and white males. As cliché as it sounds, I think my heart stopped.

My dad is white. He grew up with the privilege of the color of his skin, but otherwise he was not what you’d picture when you think of privilege with a capital “P.” His father was a public school custodian of Italian descent, and his mother was a Scottish/Irish hairdresser. When he was seven years old, his parents divorced, and for the rest of his precollege education he lived in a predominantly black neighborhood with his mom and his sister.

I remember being a little girl and asking him what he was like as a boy. What was his house like? What was his town like? What was his school like? What were his friends like?

“We were all just poor. Poor people of different races, but we were all on the same footing,” he’d reflect. He was not saying that he was “color-blind.” He knew that he was a different color than those in his majority racial-minority community. He was pointing out that they were all on the same plane economically, woven into a common experience that rendered racial differences insignificant.

My mom is biracial. Her mother is white and her father is black. My grandmother has been a travel agent, a visual artist, an unpublished poet, and a gallery owner. My grandfather has been a published author, a police commissioner, a teacher, the conductor of an orchestra, and a television broadcaster. Growing up, my mom was aware that she was not the same as the majority of her peers; she attended an independent school where the popular group comprised solely blond-haired, blue-eyed white girls.

Driving in the car one spring day, looking out the window at the mountains beyond the crowded freeway, I asked, “What was your experience like with race when you were younger?” My mom’s immediate reaction was to share a story. Flashback to the mid 1970s. She was only a few years old and she sat in a chair in the children’s section of the local library, leafing through a picture book. Another little girl with dark brown skin ran up to her, and demanded, “I’m black! What color are you?” Looking down at her exposed forearm, my mom confidently responded, “Orange.”

“That other little girl ran off, probably to tell her mom how she had just met a stupid girl who didn’t know how to answer what color she was,” my mother said.

The truth of the matter is that my mom, as a child, did not have the vocabulary for discussing race because her parents never really talked about it. She knew that she had a set of fair-skinned grandparents whom she visited for almost every holiday, grandparents who were the color of the grandparents of most of her school friends. She was aware that she had another part of her family with brown skin and lots of aunts and uncles whom she’d see on Thanksgiving and sometimes on Easter, but not much more. Beyond that, however, there was little acknowledgment, let alone discussion, of race, racial differences, and racial identity.

I, on the other hand, feel as though I’ve been engulfed in that conversation for as long as I can remember. Five-year-old me wore socks pulled up and folded over inside of Velcro sneakers and had ringlets (reddish? brownish? blondish?) of hair that would someday become, paradoxically, both the one physical feature of mine that I could tolerate and a source of my identity crisis. My progressive Quaker elementary/middle school took pride in its diversity, and celebrated it by hosting various affinity groups. My parents, having specifically chosen the school for its attention to cultivation of identity, encouraged me to attend one.

“Lila! Later this week you can go to something called Black Kids Group! You and all of the other kids who identify as black are invited to go sit together in a new classroom and eat lunch together!” This may sound like relatively complex language to use with a kindergartener, but my mom, then a diversity director at the high school, wouldn’t have put it into baby talk for me. This was something that mattered to her. And because it mattered to her, it mattered to me. So I went.

My friends Jamia and Aaliyah were the other black girls in my class. I followed them down the hallway with its tiled floor of muted primary colors, scuffed with the markings of children playing “Jump over the red squares! That’s lava!” Once we reached the classroom, I timidly placed my purple lunchbox on the plastic folding table in front of me, and lifted myself onto the chair, making sure that Jamia and Aaliyah, my lifelines, remained in my sight. A teacher probably started talking to us; we probably started eating lunch. Other kids from other classes arrived. All of that is a blur. But that haze is contrasted by the razor-sharp clarity of the memory that followed.

“Why are you here?” asked Ariel, a boy from the other kindergarten class. He was asking out of curiosity; we were five years old. It made sense. Why was a girl with light skin and blue eyes in black kids group? But what his question instilled in me was not curiosity. It tied my stomach in knots. That was when I first knew that I didn’t fit. After that, I stopped going to Black Kids Group. I assumed I wasn’t wanted there.

A few weeks later, Aaliyah grabbed my hand. “Are you coming to Black Kids Group today? I heard there’s gonna be cheesy popcorn!”

The food was not enough of a draw. I somehow explained to her that I couldn’t do it or I didn’t want to do it  — or some other weak excuse that I’d probably offer today were I faced with the same situation. Nevertheless, I remember a sudden shimmery feeling in that moment. I had been accepted. Maybe I could be wanted in the community from which I felt alienated, the community that I so desperately wanted to be a part of.

I tried affinity groups and diversity workshops a few times after that. Unshockingly, though, I never felt right when I was there. But the thing is, I felt equally uncomfortable, maybe even more so, in white environments. My experience never matches up with that of those in either group. I am neither white nor black. I am biracial. The shade of my skin, my hair’s coloring and its lack of tight curls — they’ve prevented me from experiencing racial profiling. I’ve never been followed by a police car for Driving While Black. But my mom has. And my grandfather has. And I still feel a fist to my gut when someone says something anti-black in my presence. Like a chameleon I can blend into the whiteness, but it doesn’t feel right. Yet it would also be inaccurate to call myself black. I know nobody would buy it, and I know that I can’t ethically claim the experience of a black person, given that I’m not buried under microaggressions from day to day.

So when my tenth-grade self was asked to decide whether I was a white girl or a girl of color, my throat tightened. Neither label seemed to fit. I didn’t feel justified in that moment to assert myself as a person of color, because I knew that I wasn’t experiencing the racial issues in our school’s environment in the same way that the rest of those girls were. But I refused to go sit with the white girls. I didn’t need their learned sympathy when I was brimming with genuine empathy.

In that moment, I did not have an answer, so I went to neither group. While I wish I could say I boldly protested the binary presented to me and pointed out the inconsiderate nature of making each student select a single racial and gender identity, I instead hid in the bathroom for the duration of the period.

I may have hidden from making that decision, but I do not intend on hiding from my racial identity. I’ve always found comfort in the in-between. I come from a middle-class family; we are neither rich nor poor. I have lived in both Boston and Los Angeles, and I adore each; I am neither an easterner nor a westerner. And in the same way, I take pride in being neither black nor white. My desire is to embrace my identity in its entirety. And while that may sometimes require me to step out of my desired fly-on-the-wall position to explain my background, so be it. I do not mind, because there is a profound beauty in not having to choose.

Still, I wish adults in school would have greater awareness of the racial spectrum — that many of us fall somewhere between the race categories. We're neither white nor black, neither Asian nor white, neither Latino nor black. Our experiences come with their own set of challenges and perspectives. But mostly, we want to be acknowledged and honored for who we are and what we have to offer the world.

Note: To our teaching colleagues: we are looking for student perspectives and voices related to racial identity in school. If you know of students who have written on the topi or are interested in writing, please send a note to jenna@teachingwhilewhite.org.

Helping Whites Develop Anti-Racist Identities: Overcoming Their Resistance to Fighting Racism

From Multicultural Education, Winter 2006

A Student’s Perspective — Nick

What Is White?

It is probably not surprising to anybody that as a White student entering the world of high school, the first club I joined had nothing to do with diversity or social justice. My school wasn’t facilitating discussions about White racial identity development or White privilege; indeed, they weren’t even trying to relate to White students that they have a large role to play in diversity work. Actually, I had to participate in a club called Diversity Connections for two years before I heard the words White privilege.

For many years, I was one of four White students in Diversity Connections because the view, according to other White students, was that “we don’t belong in diversity work.” This has begun to change in recent years; however, to many this still remains true. I typically hear the excuse that the diversity groups aren’t effectively inviting all people to be involved or that people don’t have enough time twice a month to attend meetings or participate in dialogues; yet, I have come to believe that this isn’t really the case.

Instead, White students who feel that the diversity programs are exclusive or too time consuming are simply ignorant to the fact that racism affects them, albeit in different ways, just as it affects people of color. A common misconception of White students is that diversity clubs are simply a forum for students of color to sit and complain about the wrongs that have recently been committed against them. This is utterly untrue.

As my junior year began, I was exposed to Peggy McIntosh’s (1988) work, and like many I was shaken. I was as shaken about the notion of White privilege as I was about the fact that I had been involved in diversity work for two years and I hadn’t ever discussed this. I felt as though I had been wasting my time by ignoring such an important issue. From this point, I was aided in my racial identity development by my literature teacher and diversity director, Dr. Elizabeth Denevi.

I spent my entire Junior year reading Beverly Daniel Tatum, Paul Kivel, Tim Wise, Donna Jackson Nakazawa, and others to help me understand racial identity development and the social construction of privilege. As the first semester of junior year came to a close, I attended the National Association of Independent Schools’ Student Diversity Leadership Conference, and I experienced a large White affinity group. I was shocked that almost every student present was oblivious to the idea of White privilege and White identity development.

I had only been involved in discussions around these topics for slightly over two months, and already I felt as though I was in a different universe from these students. Upon my return from the conference, Elizabeth and I decided that we needed to make White identity development and the topics of White privilege and the cost of racism to Whites a point of discussion. After all, we were working in a mostly White school community. We did this by creating a White affinity group modeled after Tim Wise’s group called AWARE (Association for White Anti-Racist Education) for White students interested in becoming actively anti-racist.

The Backlash: Addressing Resistance

Needless to say, this group wasn’t received without a few snide comments. My school is by no means a normal high school.  It is a very small, very progressive, and very proud for having been the first racially integrated school in Washington D.C. However, like any other high school, it is hard to do work around the topic of race and appease everyone. While the administration and principal were very supportive in our attempts to get White students involved in pro-actively anti-racist work, not all of the students were so enthusiastic. Many White students, afraid of the types of discussions we would be having, asked me why I was starting a White supremacy group or why I was trying to have dialogues about being a White ally to people of color and other White people exploring their racial identities. In the midst of a dialogue about privilege and empowering others who aren’t always in a position to take a powerful role, a student remarked that he already had all of his required hours of community service.

Although these types of comments can be demoralizing, they are only comments made out of insecurities about the issues we are discussing. These types of comments are not nearly as difficult to deal with as the comments that we are experiencing from students who have shown a short-term level of dedication to understanding how privilege/racism works. Comments such as, “I am sick of having the same discussion. I want to do something, but I don’t know what to do. What tangible things I can do in my day-to-day life to affect change? I can’t go into a store and ask a clerk to follow me around instead of a person of color,” and “Well, I can’t just say I’m going to give up my privilege and have it disappear,” are infinitely more frustrating because they show relatively little growth as a result of any of our discussions.

These excuses are manifestations of White privilege coming straight from the mouths of those who think that they are committed to dismantling the social construct of privilege. Again, these students solely see the work they are doing as work for other people and only want to be involved in the work as long as they can see that other people are benefiting from their efforts. They have turned work about themselves into something disturbingly paternalistic. The labors are being made for all the wrong reasons and because of this, we are unable to progress.

It is easy to secure the dedication of the type of student who participates up to a point; however, at times it seems impossible to get White students to take an introspective look at themselves. Until we can view the work of developing our own anti-racist racial identities and the work we do to help other Whites develop their own anti-racist racial identities as a success, we will continue to fall into a cycle of privilege and oppression that continues to plague the history of White Americans.

The Role of White Affinity Groups: Combating Roadblocks

So, what exactly is AWARE and how does it help us deal with these remarks? AWARE is both a student and staff White affinity group that is dedicated to developing positive anti-racist racial identities. The group also explores such questions as, what is White privilege in America and what is the cost of racism to Whites in America? This experience is designed to help more White students challenge the social construction of privilege and become proactively anti-racist members of society.

We do this through reading, journal writings, and dinners that provide the time for extended dialogues. The other important aspect of the group is that while AWARE is focused on White privilege and White identity development, AWARE doesn’t solely work with White students. We engage in cross-cultural dialogues with other affinity groups, such as the Young Men of Color and the Young Woman of Color.

Now that we have a forum to engage students in emotionally intricate dialogue, how do we combat the “roadblocks” discussed above? Although hearing the very people who are “committed” to doing anti-racist work say, “What can I do?” is infinitely frustrating, it is important not to let other people’s setbacks impede one’s own progress. These hindrances need to be dealt with in two ways.

First, it is necessary to be an ally to people who are feeling lost and show them that they have simply scratched the surface of a truly complex subject. The process will at times seem arduous; however, no matter how much one thinks one knows, there is always more to learn, and there are always ways to participate in activities that will keep allies from feeling as though there is “nothing to do.”

In order to facilitate this in a school setting, students who are lacking the ability to push forward on their own can be given a leadership position or responsibility for the group. Make them facilitate a discussion or pick the next group reading. This forces them to take a critical look at the material and concepts laid before them so that they will be compelled toward self-reflection.

Second, while individual work is key, another concept that AWARE has begun to develop is the idea of building a positive anti-racist group identity. What does this mean exactly? This simply means that we aren’t just focusing on defining our own anti-racist racial identities, but we are also focused on presenting the group as an entity committed to fighting racism. This not only allows us to look to the group for support on an individual level, but it also allows us to avoid having to deal with “roadblocks” in the form of unnecessary and untrue comments speculating that White people talking to each other about being White is a racist action.

A large component to being able to accomplish this is gaining support from both students and faculty of color. If one can garner this support, and it shouldn’t be too difficult because most people of color are thrilled to see White people committed to anti-racist work, it mitigates the barriers. In addition, White students who want to get involved in anti-racist work, yet are unsure of themselves, will become strikingly more comfortable if they see that there is widespread support. One way our AWARE group is creating a larger identity is by sponsoring our own White privilege conference for area students.

Finally, once a moderate-sized group is developed, it is important to meet regularly if for no other reason than to make sure that everybody is still committed. The school year can get hectic, and people can fade in and out of activities. However, it is imperative that students are not allowed to ever feel too comfortable in a passive role. Because White people don’t always see the need to do this work on a daily basis (another manifestation of White privilege), it is important to keep students leaning into discomfort and challenging their own thoughts and actions.

Ultimately, putting together a group of White students to explore their racial identity development and anti-racism is an arduous task. There are so many missed opportunities and places to stall that often it can seem like a waste of time. This is by no means a simple task; it takes time, dedication, and patience, but this shouldn’t be surprising. After all, dismantling a system of racism/White privilege isn’t exactly an easy endeavor.

Works cited: McIntosh, P. (1988). White privilege and male privilege: A personal account of coming to see correspondences through work in women’s studies. Wellesley, MA: Center for Research on Women.