Owning Up to My Racism
Read time: 6 minutes
Words by Celeste Orr
I promised myself I wasn’t going to say anything. In fact, I swore I wouldn’t.
It had been almost a year since I had been in a room with these colleagues, and the pain of my last embarrassment was still fresh on my mind.
I knew we were going to have another discussion about race, and I knew whatever I said wouldn’t be the right thing, so I had vowed to be silent.
It pained me to hear stories about injustice and struggle – heartache and heartbreak – and just sit there, though. It broke my heart that anyone would have to go through the realities of racism every single day of their life and have to talk to their kids about it time after time after time. But I sat there and listened, trying to show compassion with my facial expressions. All the while feeling like it was wrong for me to be so silent.
Then, it came to me – a great idea.
This is the perfect thing! I thought, the perfect way to show my support and solidarity with race equity and inclusion. I’m going to be brave and say it. Surely, I won’t get it wrong this time. It will be so encouraging – I just know it will.
So, I raised my hand and said it.
But as soon as it was out of my mouth, I knew I had made a huge mistake – it was written all over the faces of my black colleagues.
Then came the questions, the head nods, and the words I never wanted to hear.
“That’s racist.”
The words stung. Tears came to my eyes, threatening to spill over my red-hot cheeks.
They must not understand what I meant, I thought. So, I explained. Then the words came again, from another.
“That’s racist.”
Again, the sting, the tears, the red-hot cheeks. I didn’t understand, but every question I asked only made the situation worse. So, I apologized, let them know I had no idea what I was saying was wrong and told them they had my support and I want to learn more.
And I meant it. I did want to learn more. But the wound went deep.
I had been called out and embarrassed in front of a room full of people I admired and had spent the last 12 years trying to impress with my hard work.
Before I left the room that day, my embarrassment had turned into anger.
Friends called to check on me after the meeting ended, and I told them about my anger. I called family members to tell them what had happened, too. Then, I kept talking and talking about it.
I raged against the way I felt I had been targeted.
I raged against my colleagues’ prejudice of me.
I raged against the plight of white women trying to navigate this stuff today.
And all of a sudden, I started hearing myself say things that shook me to my core. Things like “They always…” and “They never…” Things that made me sound like the victim. It made me sick.
“I didn’t know that was inside of me,” is what I wanted to say. But the truth was I didn’t want to know.
And then, I started to wake up.
In months prior, my black colleagues had tried to be subtle about my need for growth, but I hadn’t seen it. I hadn’t wanted to see it.
When the meeting facilitators had begged us to share our experiences and feelings about race issues in America, I had responded with stories about my upbringing - what it was like growing up as a private school white girl and how I was always the one who didn’t see race, who reached out to black friends, who studied sociology in college and discovered the realities of racism in America for myself at a time when others around me didn’t understand them. I had thought I was showing solidarity and proving myself to be someone on their side – someone ready to tackle systemic racism in America with them.
In reality, I was putting my ignorance on full display, labeling myself as part of the problem:
By saying I didn’t see race, I had said the race experience didn’t matter. Now I know that’s white privilege.
By being frightened by their anger, I had shown my own preference for a certain way of expression – the white way. Now I know that’s called white fragility.
By putting my own white family stories alongside their black family stories, I had downgraded their pain, downplayed their experience, shut my ears by opening my mouth and demonstrated my own ignorance about the depths of what they go through every day just because of the color of their skin. Now I know that’s racism.
By taking offense when they said white people had gained their careers and power positions because of their privilege and black people had to work twice as hard, I was ignoring systemic racism and the need for equity in my country. I was wrong in the worst way.
I was wrong about so many things.
Over the next six months, my pain and anger gave way to humility, regret, and at times, shame. But I was determined to be better.
I started reaching out to friends who thought differently than me, reading books I had shied away from, seeking out articles with opposing views from my own, and praying in an honest “Help me see” way I hadn’t in a very long time.
I was starting to wake up, beginning to see myself through different eyes.
I saw her – this shiny-white over-confident young person all smiles and giggles saying she understood something she could never in a million years understand.
I saw her – this white girl talking about her solidarity with a reality she had no right to think she could begin to see.
I wanted to hide.
I wanted to run to my black colleagues and apologize.
I wanted to let my tears fall like rain and never put myself out there in the world again.
But more than that, I knew I needed to learn – and to keep learning for the rest of my life.
And that’s what I’m doing now.
Even as I write this, I feel guilty for sharing my story because I know some of you will feel sorry for me. Please, please don’t. I feel afraid to send these words for publication because I know there are parts that will reveal my racism and continued ignorance – the thing I hate most about myself. I feel embarrassed because so many black people may read this piece and not feel honored or valued because I’m talking more about myself than about anything else. I feel angry because so many white people will read this piece and continue to argue that racism doesn’t live inside of them.
But this piece feels important to publish – not because I want my voice to be heard. Rather, because I know I’m not alone. I know I’m not the only shiny-white girl who needs a path forward to change. I know I’m not the only white person who needs to face their racism.
I know I’m not the only person who doesn’t know what she doesn’t know.
We all have a racism story – a dislike for things unlike ourselves, a preference for people who look like us, a snicker at a name that’s different, an up-turned nose at décor or food that isn’t something people like us prefer – and if we’re American, we also have a system that backs up our love for all that’s white and a distrust for all that’s not because we live within systemic racism – a system that’s set to white.
And we are the ones who have to change it.
If you disagree, or if reading this brings you pain you can’t explain, I want you to know change is possible and it starts on the inside. In the secret place. I know because I was just there.
Now I’m thankful for the pain.
What happened to me helped me in more ways that I can say. Most of all, it helped me step into who I was meant to be.
Even as I realize that believing that day was about me at all means I still have so much to learn.
I know this is the only way, and that’s how I make peace with it.
The next time I have an opportunity to be in a room with black Americans talking about race, equity, and inclusion, I will absolutely be keeping my mouth shut. This time, for a very different reason.
This time, I will be quiet because I want to listen – because I want to know.
I hope you will join me.
“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”
Image of Celeste Orr
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About the Author:
Celeste Orr doesn’t usually write about race. On a typical day, she’s a smiley, outdoor-loving mom hiking mountains at her home in Maine and writing about family togetherness and big family dreams. If you’re into family togetherness and the outdoors – or if you want to send her a note – you can join her free email group at togethernessredefined.com.
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