Feeling the Discomfort and Keeping the Fight: A Perspective from My Comfortable White Space (actually a beautiful green).

I didn’t go to the Black Lives Matter gathering last Sunday on the town green with the intention of writing about it. In fact, that was the day that I spent hours obsessing over why, when and how to begin to share my writing more broadly. I was sitting on my porch in front of the computer cursing WordPress as I tried to make a blog site that was simple and at least somewhat official looking (I am 52, remember, it takes some people like me a while to figure these things out!). So, joining the small protest gave me a needed break from my self-absorbed preoccupation on a very beautiful Sunday afternoon in our small town in Litchfield County, Connecticut.

Perhaps it is fitting in this time that I move from sharing a personal pandemic moment to trying to figure out what, if anything, I have to say about the incomparably harsher reality and cruelty of “the other pandemic” that is racism. To write about it is to sit with the discomfort I feel. How can I, with my White privilege and absence of Black friends, add anything of value to the conversations that we are all challenging ourselves to have more deeply? I want to “lean in” now that I have begun to see more clearly the prejudice, injustice, violence and fear that is created by systemic racism. I want to be an ally for people who don’t look like me. But here I am feeling my White guilt. Does my voice really matter? I have to fight self-doubt too. I even cringe a little when I look at this picture of me sitting on the green (for the record I have a sprained ankle, so I had to sit while I stood for justice). I think I am too White, too happy, not angry enough and not scared enough to be representing this cause. And yes, I am even reading Ibram X. Kendi’s How to Be an Antiracist in my book club. I am that older White woman trying to see and understand.

As my 21-year old daughter said when I told her about my participation in this tiny town protest, “The fact that you feel uncomfortable sharing about it is exactly why you have to share. People will judge you; people will call you out for whatever reasons. Feeling the discomfort and keeping it going despite those feelings it is what really matters.” This is not the first time I have taken advice from this insightful young woman who calls me mom.

For context, on June 7^th, there was an amazing peaceful protest for Racial Justice and Black Lives Matter on this same town green. There were hundreds of people there and the young activists leading the charge gave me so much faith in the future. I thought the world was a better place when I was their age, and I felt humbled by their youthful passion and command. Since then, my friend informed me, there has been a smaller group that has continued the peaceful protest every Sunday afternoon. She has gone every week since. Last Sunday I took her up on her offer to join.

So, I joined this dedicated group of just 8 or 9 people, and we stood spread out in different directions along the sides of the triangle-shaped green where traffic was brisk. We waived our signs with enthusiasm when drivers expressed their solidarity with happy honks, thumbs up, and even some raised fists leaning out windows to join in as they passed by. Of the many motorcycles that rode by, the eternal optimist in me would like to believe that the thumbs up response won out over the thumbs down. I wasn’t counting, but in reality, I think it was about a tie.

Then one man in a pick-up truck actually stopped in front of us. “Look at you with your White privilege,” he said. He confused us for a moment; his friendly face made us think we may know him and that maybe he was making a very bad joke. Then we realized his smile was actually a smirk and his expression transformed into its ugly racist reality. He drove away with a snicker. “Right, look at us,” was the only thing we realized we wanted to say.

Although the moment was not a physical threat, it did make my heart beat a little bit faster. I realized that racist people are scary even when you’re White. I wonder if a Black man’s heart beats a little faster every time he walks down the street.

The next interaction was from the parking lot across from our location. A man leaned out of his pickup truck and yelled “All Lives Matter.” He made his position even more clear by showing us his MAGA hat and calling out “Trump 2020” before he drove away.

This incident led my friend and me to wonder what our best response could be to this common racist reaction. The Black Lives Matter vs. All Lives Matter issue still seems hard to grapple for some. While we discussed and pondered together what to say to the next person who might yell out that phrase, we noticed a few fellow protestors who had arrived after us with three large signs. As they organized their signs facing the other road across the green, we caught a glimpse of only one: “All Lives Matter” it said. We looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Could it be possible that our fellow protestors don’t understand? I hope that will be that last moment I ever doubt the people of this town.

My friend decided she had to go say hello and see what the other two signs said. Alas, our wiser participants had already answered our struggle. All Lives Matter When Black Lives Matter; the most efficient phrase written in bold letters for all passersby to see. I bet they had been there on many other Sundays and had already discovered the need to craft an effective response to that common racist reaction, even if it is sometimes stated in ignorance. A reminder from what I’ve internalized so far from Kendi’s book – we are either racist or antiracist. Ignorance is not an excuse.

So there it is. What I learned from protesting in a tiny White New England town. Perhaps each time I stick my head out I will feel a little bit more comfortable, a little bit more able to be a participant in this fight no matter who judges me or how I judge myself. I will keep leaning in.