Listening to Black Voices
One of the saddest things I've heard about George Floyd's murder is that he narrated his own death. Yes; he did. It would be gut wrenching under any circumstances, and it's especially agonizing because he lived a Black life in our White-privileged culture. We listened when he narrated his death. But who listened when he narrated his life? Who in the White community has really been listening to the Black voices among us, to those who have tried to tell us their story?
Systemic racism and White privilege have been with us for over 400 years. Protests and demonstrations against them are not new. This time feels different, though, in its breadth and, I pray, in its depth. And one way that it differs is that we have more tools now to hear voices other than our own. More ways for those of us who are non-Black to hear black voices. More opportunities for us to do what we must do: stop talking over the Black voices, and listen and learn.
One of those voices belongs to Emmanual Acho, a former NFL linebacker who has started a series of videos for Whites he's calling Uncomfortable Conversations with a Black Man "I created this for you," he says, "because in order to stand with us and people that look like me, you have to be educated in issues that pertain to me, and fully educated so that you can feel the full level of pain so that you can have full understanding." Acho goes on to answer a number of questions about racism put to him by non-Blacks.
Another voice belongs to 12-year-old gospel singer Keedron Bryant, who recorded a song written by his mother Johnetta after George Floyd's death. I Just Want to Live The words are powerful on their own, but take on greater pain and urgency in his mouth. Listening to Keedron is a way to continue the education Acho describes.
I think of another young Black person, my precious goddaughter, who will be 12 this month. Her mother has also been trying to process this latest lynching. When I called to check on my usually calm friend, she was so low. Her voice rose, though, as she poured out her pain, her frustration, and her exhaustion. "I'm tired," she told me. "Tired of always having to make sure that the White people are comfortable when I'm the only Black person in the room. Tired of knowing that when my husband goes to the grocery store, women rush back to their cart to grab their purse or quickly leave the row altogether if he comes into their aisle. Tired of having to move to an open space at the store just to put my cell phone back into my purse, to make sure that no one questions my activity. "
She spoke of a lifetime of this compensation. She remembered being "a good party guest" when she was the only Black child at a young classmate's 12th birthday party, only to have that same girl come to her Halloween party and refuse to eat or drink a thing, cowering in a corner "and looking at all of us like we were going to hurt her." These were children who had already taken messages about White supremacy and White privilege to heart, and were leaning into their "assigned" roles.
For my dear friend, a woman I love, childhood compensation meant having to be on her best behavior at all times, "to make the White people feel comfortable," while finding a way to absorb the blows of so-called friends who saw her and her family as "Other," "different," and dangerous. Now my friend and her husband have to teach their own daughters how to survive in this toxic culture.
And she is still compensating. Every day. Here's how she describes her life now: "I'm not free to express myself, and when I do, I'm written off as the angry Black woman. I have to press down the emotions and give them to God. Otherwise, I would not be able to remain calm. If I act on raw emotions, those that see me as a threat anyway will have their confirmation."
I know her story and have seen her live it, but I truly can't imagine the exhaustion she feels. No White person could. But we can listen and try to understand as best we can.
Louisiana artist Jammie Holmes used sky media over five major U.S. cities to broadcast George Floyd's final words. Like my friend -- like all Blacks in this country must -- he compensates. And he is tired, too. Noting that he is tall, bearded, and tattooed, he says that he takes care to try to make himself "look safer" for non-Blacks. "It's sad that we have to live like that," he continued. "[I]t's why I always ask, 'When can I live like you?' " I heard that weary question in my heart when I spoke with my friend.
Emmanual Acho is not alone in his "fervent...belie[f] that if the White person is your problem, only the White person can be the solution." For those of us born in White bodies who want to dismantle White supremacy and the curse of White privilege, last week's Race Talks event offered a way to start. There I heard Black participants say to those of us who are non-Black, "Give us the platform to be heard. The biggest thing that you can do is help give us a voice." I am trying to do so here.
I close today with a short video that might make us Whites uncomfortable. That's reason enough, I think, to judge it a useful tool on the path of listening to Black voices. Here are Robin DiAngelo, author of White Fragility: Why It's So Hard for White People to Talk about Racism, and Ibram X. Kendi, author of How to be an Antiracist, discussing White privilege just a few days ago: Understanding White Privilege
I'll be back soon with some more resources. In the meantime, I hope that my fellow Whites will join me in paying attention and trying to listen to our Black siblings with open hearts and minds.
Love,
Nancie/Mom/Mimi/Grandma
Systemic racism and White privilege have been with us for over 400 years. Protests and demonstrations against them are not new. This time feels different, though, in its breadth and, I pray, in its depth. And one way that it differs is that we have more tools now to hear voices other than our own. More ways for those of us who are non-Black to hear black voices. More opportunities for us to do what we must do: stop talking over the Black voices, and listen and learn.
One of those voices belongs to Emmanual Acho, a former NFL linebacker who has started a series of videos for Whites he's calling Uncomfortable Conversations with a Black Man "I created this for you," he says, "because in order to stand with us and people that look like me, you have to be educated in issues that pertain to me, and fully educated so that you can feel the full level of pain so that you can have full understanding." Acho goes on to answer a number of questions about racism put to him by non-Blacks.
Another voice belongs to 12-year-old gospel singer Keedron Bryant, who recorded a song written by his mother Johnetta after George Floyd's death. I Just Want to Live The words are powerful on their own, but take on greater pain and urgency in his mouth. Listening to Keedron is a way to continue the education Acho describes.
I think of another young Black person, my precious goddaughter, who will be 12 this month. Her mother has also been trying to process this latest lynching. When I called to check on my usually calm friend, she was so low. Her voice rose, though, as she poured out her pain, her frustration, and her exhaustion. "I'm tired," she told me. "Tired of always having to make sure that the White people are comfortable when I'm the only Black person in the room. Tired of knowing that when my husband goes to the grocery store, women rush back to their cart to grab their purse or quickly leave the row altogether if he comes into their aisle. Tired of having to move to an open space at the store just to put my cell phone back into my purse, to make sure that no one questions my activity. "
She spoke of a lifetime of this compensation. She remembered being "a good party guest" when she was the only Black child at a young classmate's 12th birthday party, only to have that same girl come to her Halloween party and refuse to eat or drink a thing, cowering in a corner "and looking at all of us like we were going to hurt her." These were children who had already taken messages about White supremacy and White privilege to heart, and were leaning into their "assigned" roles.
For my dear friend, a woman I love, childhood compensation meant having to be on her best behavior at all times, "to make the White people feel comfortable," while finding a way to absorb the blows of so-called friends who saw her and her family as "Other," "different," and dangerous. Now my friend and her husband have to teach their own daughters how to survive in this toxic culture.
And she is still compensating. Every day. Here's how she describes her life now: "I'm not free to express myself, and when I do, I'm written off as the angry Black woman. I have to press down the emotions and give them to God. Otherwise, I would not be able to remain calm. If I act on raw emotions, those that see me as a threat anyway will have their confirmation."
I know her story and have seen her live it, but I truly can't imagine the exhaustion she feels. No White person could. But we can listen and try to understand as best we can.
Louisiana artist Jammie Holmes used sky media over five major U.S. cities to broadcast George Floyd's final words. Like my friend -- like all Blacks in this country must -- he compensates. And he is tired, too. Noting that he is tall, bearded, and tattooed, he says that he takes care to try to make himself "look safer" for non-Blacks. "It's sad that we have to live like that," he continued. "[I]t's why I always ask, 'When can I live like you?' " I heard that weary question in my heart when I spoke with my friend.
Emmanual Acho is not alone in his "fervent...belie[f] that if the White person is your problem, only the White person can be the solution." For those of us born in White bodies who want to dismantle White supremacy and the curse of White privilege, last week's Race Talks event offered a way to start. There I heard Black participants say to those of us who are non-Black, "Give us the platform to be heard. The biggest thing that you can do is help give us a voice." I am trying to do so here.
I close today with a short video that might make us Whites uncomfortable. That's reason enough, I think, to judge it a useful tool on the path of listening to Black voices. Here are Robin DiAngelo, author of White Fragility: Why It's So Hard for White People to Talk about Racism, and Ibram X. Kendi, author of How to be an Antiracist, discussing White privilege just a few days ago: Understanding White Privilege
I'll be back soon with some more resources. In the meantime, I hope that my fellow Whites will join me in paying attention and trying to listen to our Black siblings with open hearts and minds.
Love,
Nancie/Mom/Mimi/Grandma
Comments