Lauren B. Lentini

There’s something happening with white people right now. I should know, my Facebook feed is full of them. And (duh) I’m one of them.

We’re bored. We’re cooped up. We’re spending way too much time on social media. We’re in this weird middle place where the messaging of social distancing is starting to fade, some places are opening up and we’re seeing photos of normal things like beaches and weddings, the novelty has TOTALLY worn off self-isolation and our self-care strategies are slipping, but there still doesn’t seem to be a clear path forward and a true end in sight.

We were scrolling through our feeds mindlessly when we saw something truly horrific and mind-bogglingly cruel. And we latched onto fighting systemic racism like it was Animal Crossing or sourdough bread.

I did it too. I didn’t post about it because I’m highly anxious about what I post, especially when it ventures towards politics. But I’ve been wrestling with it. Going through all kinds of emotions, shock and guilt and outrage and despair and shame and nihilism and grief and empathy, torn between keeping my mouth shut because this isn’t about me and saying something because silence is complicity. I’m uncomfortable. I’m exhausted. And in the back of my head I’m berating myself for being a dilettante, caring about systemic racism because it’s trending.

But who cares why? We pay too much attention to intentions instead of actions. The money still spends. If white people choose this time to educate themselves because our sourdough starter is dead, we still get educated. It’s about damn time.

I’m lucky enough to have a husband who has always cared about this and knows a hell of a lot about the history of systemic racism and organizing, and he’s been walking me through some of my dumber questions. Handing me John Lewis’ memoir when I struggle to understand how protests change anything, reading 10 drafts of this blog and telling me I’m still off the mark, patiently correcting my childlike view of macroeconomics. I’d like to offer his services to anyone who doesn’t want to bother their token Black friend with their baby steps.

A (white) friend shared this article, and I’ve been reading it over and over again.

“Our nation is still, in many ways, racially segregated. If you are like many white Americans, you likely went to a predominantly white school, had predominantly white friends, attended a predominantly white college, work in a predominantly white workplace, and live in a predominantly white neighborhood, where your children — the ones who you want to talk to about race — also have predominantly white friends and are taught by predominantly white teachers.”

Michelle Silverthorn

I need to read it about five more times and really grapple with those issues. By myself. Without posting it on social media. I’m already searching for local friends (do you want to be my friend, local reader?); this has to be a component of that. For my son’s sake as well as my own.

My privilege means I’m watching this horror instead of living it. I can never understand the Black experience. Educating myself instead of learning first-hand is a privilege. May I remember that, and may it change me.

I’m listening.