Confessions of a Lazy White Woman

I have considered myself a staunch opponent of racism for decades. In more than one blog post, my righteous indignation has decried the lingering injustice of policies that have perpetuated systemic racism. I’ve complained about white fragility. I’ve patted myself on the back for being a good ally to my black friends. But the events of the past weeks have made me re-examine my own thoughts on race in ways that I’ve never considered. In many ways, I’ve been pretty lazy in understanding the depths and effects of structural racism. 

Thinking about this has caused me to look back and try to remember my earliest experiences with race. Frankly, that’s hard to do because many of those experiences were more than 50 years ago. 

My first recollections about race probably came when I was in elementary school in the 1960s. I didn’t know anyone who was black. There were no black students in my school or church. My parents and grandparents didn’t have any black friends. I looked like everyone else in my orbit. Occasionally, I probably heard my grandparents use the “n” word. Much later in life, I would be quick to call them racists, but now I wonder if their homogenized society taught them to “fear” people of color and diversity in general. 

 In 1967, my family drove to New Orleans for our summer vacation. My maternal grandfather had died the previous year. Because my mom was an only child, we began to include my maternal grandmother on our summer vacations. I had just finished 3rd grade. I recall us being in New Orleans and noticing that my grandmother seemed uncomfortable. At one point, I heard her comment to my mother about the large number of blacks. I’m often unobservant about my surroundings (which apparently goes way back to my childhood), so I honestly hadn’t noticed there were more blacks than I had probably ever seen in my life. I was far too mesmerized by the palm trees (which probably initiated my desire to live in warmer climates).

 Many years later, my mother took my grandmother to a Lena Horne concert in Oklahoma City. My grandmother had always loved Lena Horne’s music, but when they arrived, my mother said she seemed nervous and again commented on the number of blacks in the audience. They were seated next to a couple of black women who were close to my grandmother’s age. At one point, my mother noticed my grandmother engaged in a conversation with these women. They were sharing stories about their grandchildren and their love of Lena Horne. I never had a conversation with my grandmother about this, but I suspect that once she found common interests with those women, the color of their skin ceased to be an issue. 

I was so far removed from any thoughts and concerns about race as a child that the racial unrest of 1968 was barely a blip on my radar. I was aware when both Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. were assassinated, but that was about it. However, when we started to study the Civil War (probably when I was in 5th grade), a flicker of something I couldn’t articulate at the time began to unsettle me. The idea that slavery ever existed seemed preposterous. 

I was always a good student. History was one of my best subjects because I could easily remember dates, something we were often tested on way back then. But I hated studying the Civil War, more particularly, I hated everything about the South and the Confederacy, even though I technically lived in a state that considered itself part of the Confederacy. My feelings ran so deep that I proudly declared as a 5th grader that if I had lived in the 1860s, I would have been an abolitionist. 

My mother, on the other hand, loved Southern culture. In the years following the above-mentioned New Orleans trip, we traveled to Tennessee and Mississippi, stopping to tour various Antebellum plantations. There are more than a few family vacation photos from those trips with me looking every bit the sullen adolescent. 

Even now I’m not sure why I hated the Civil War so much because I got the sanitized version of it all through school.  None of my history books or teachers ever came close to describing the horrific realities of slavery.

Here’s what I didn’t learn in school. I didn’t learn about Jim Crow laws, state and local statutes that existed for 100 years after the Civil War ended that legalized racial segregation. The purpose of these laws was to marginalize Black Americans by denying them the right to vote, hold jobs, get an education or other opportunities. If any black person attempted to defy these laws, they often faced arrest, fines, jail sentences, violence and death.

I didn’t learn about the Tulsa Race Riots of 1921. Even though I lived in Oklahoma, this never appeared in any Oklahoma history textbook, nor was it ever discussed in any class. I’m embarrassed to admit that the first time I ever heard about it was in 2001 when an official Race Riot Commission was organized to review the details of the event. Even then I didn’t do any research into the event. In my laziness when I heard “Tulsa Race Riot,” I incorrectly assumed that blacks had protested a legitimate injustice. It was only a few weeks ago that I learned the true horror of what happened. A false accusation from a white woman against a a young black man led to white rioters looting, burning and destroying 35 blocks of the affluent Greenwood District of Tulsa, an area known as “Black Wall Street.”  Although the exact number of deaths among Black Tulsans has not been determined, documents from the Tulsa Race Riot Commission suggests the likely numbers killed during the massacre are between 100-300. Not one of these criminal acts was then or ever has been prosecuted or punished by government at any level: municipal, county, state, or federal. 

I didn’t learn about “Juneteenth,” the commemoration of the ending of slavery in the U.S. I didn’t know that 2 ½ years after the Emancipation Proclamation, which ended slavery, did news finally reach Galveston, Texas that the Civil War had ended, and that enslaved blacks were free. While this is celebrated as a holiday in Texas, I’m still not sure why the hell this isn’t a national holiday. 

I didn’t read To Kill a Mockingbird in any English class. When I finally did read it as an adult, I was more inflamed than ever. 

The really disgusting thing to me is that my daughter who graduated from high school only 13 years ago, also didn’t learn about any of this. It sickens me that progress is so slow. But I’m so grateful to teachers like my sister-in-law who teaches high school English in Oklahoma and has found ways to discuss these important events, even though her approved curriculum fails to do so. At least one person in my family hasn’t been as lazy as I have been. 

The events of the past few weeks have caused me to take a step back from my “angry cool white chick” persona and examine my laziness in being a real ally. The other day, I listened to a podcast with Brene Brown and Austin Channing Brown, the author of I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness, where Austin talked about her exhaustion with her white friends and colleagues always asking her how they can help. Austin pointed out that this is 2020, and we all have access to something called “Google!” Ouch, that hit home for me. I’ve been far too guilty of relying on my black friends to help me navigate this because I have proximity to them. My friend, Mary Ann, even mentioned this on a Texas Injury Prevention Leadership Conversation we recorded. Subscribe to our YouTube channel to hear that conversation with Mary Ann, Mighty Fine, Cassandra Dillon and me. It’s episode #6. 

So, I’m finally doing the work I need to do. I’m listening more than I’m talking. I read Austin Channing Brown’s book. I’m reading recommendations from my friend Dr. Brian Williams, including The Color of Law, Me and White Supremacy, White Rage, and How to Be an Anti-Racist. 

I’m going to take the advice of my friends. Like Cassandra, I’m going to meet people where they are in this journey. Like Mighty, I’m going to “push” when it’s necessary. Like Mary Ann, I’m going to treat people the way we were created to treat each other. 

I saw a text message from a misguided, but probably well-meaning individual the other day that chastised me for “feeling bad about the sins of my ancestors.” I can’t change or fix the past indiscretions or the actions of my forefathers, but I can do my part to ensure that my future grandchildren and great nieces and nephews don’t repeat or become complicit in those actions. 

I’m learning. I’m still a work in progress. Thanks for being patient with me. 

Happy Juneteenth everyone! We all win when racism ends.