Chapter Five
Privileged Enough
The Reality of My Racism and White, Male Privilege
You have to get over the fear of facing the worst in yourself. You should instead fear unexamined racism. Fear the thought that right now, you could be contributing to the oppression of others and you don't know it. But do not fear those who bring that oppression to light. Do not fear the opportunity to do better.
—IJEOMA OLUO
If the title of this chapter or the above quote has already turned you off, I want to say two quick things: I understand, as at one point it would have turned me off too, and also I'm still going to write about it. Look, I get it. I know how politicized and polarizing the word "privilege" has become. But if you find yourself feeling triggered by my use of the word in this chapter, then I hope you will consider using the tools in the past few chapters to push past that feeling and ask yourself why. This isn't about partisan politics (although an argument can be made that everything is inherently political); this is about humanity and my coming to terms with my own worldviews and the behaviors that have hurt people I love and contributed to a world where inequality and injustice run rampant.
In a book largely based on vulnerability and transparency, I would be remiss not to make it known that this chapter was written last, yet it is going in the middle of the book. I had just finished writing more than eighty thousand words, touching on my whiteness here and there, mostly reiterating that my story—this book—was of course written through my lens as a white male. But I never really dove into the systemic racism, and definitely not my personal racism, that's very much at play in my story and in my socialization.
Then on May 25, 2020, George Floyd, a Black American man, was murdered by police officers in Minneapolis. While Mr. Floyd was far from the first Black person to be murdered by police, there was a difference in the collective response of white people to his murder both here in the United States and abroad. It's been said that 2020 was about finally being able to see things clearly, and for many of us white folks, seeing Mr. Floyd murdered by a police officer while others stood by and did nothing was enough to see clearly that perhaps there has been and continues to be a larger problem, and that we are a part of it. I was forced to really look at why I hadn't responded with the same outrage to previous murders, why I wasn't using my voice, and the megaphone given to my voice, for anti-racism in the same way I had used it for anti-sexism. What was it in me that chose to ignore this problem in the same way that many men ignore their socialized masculinity? Why as a Bahá'í who believes in the eradication of all -isms, who holds tightly to the words of Bahá'u'lláh, "Ye are the fruits of one tree and the leaves of one branch," did I not address this in myself, in our world, earlier? Why was I so willing to "get comfortable in the uncomfortable" in regard to my masculinity, but so unwilling to in regard to racism and white privilege?
It is my job, my responsibility, my duty, not only to figure out the answers to these questions, but also to use the resources readily available to me to educate myself and use the unearned power I have been given as a white man to help change the system so it is more equitable for everyone.
Intersectionality Is Integrity
For the first time in more than thirty-five years, I am recognizing that my socialization as a man cannot be separated from my socialization as a white person—and to be able to separate them for as long as I have is a privilege that I have continuously benefited from. In fact, it's part of why I have the platform I have, why I am able to produce and direct movies, act in Hollywood, and write this book. In other words, the system doesn't benefit me just because I am a man; the system also benefits me because I am a white man (not to mention, an able-bodied heterosexual cis white man from a middle-class family). As Nico Juárez, a Mexican American man with Tzotzil ancestry, said when he shared part of his story in Liz Plank's book, For the Love of Men, "Race fundamentally changes masculinity. We need to think about masculinity as a deeply racial issue."
It's only been in the past few years that I have learned that the idea that I exist in intersecting areas of privilege, and should then be using those privileges to advocate on behalf of those on the other end of the spectrum, is part of what's called intersectionality, a term that has been used in the fight for equality and equity by activists and organizers for more than three decades.
Kimberlé Crenshaw, a professor of law at UCLA and Columbia Law School, coined the term "intersectionality" in 1989 when she published a paper that focused on legal cases that dealt with issues of both racial and sexual discrimination. Crenshaw describes intersectionality as "a lens through which you can see where power comes and collides, where it interlocks and intersects. It's not simply that there's a race problem here, a gender problem here, and a class or LGBTQ problem there. Many times, that framework erases what happens to people who are subject to all of these things."
In other words, I cannot write a book, live a life of integrity, and openly discuss wrestling with my masculinity without simultaneously wrestling with the racial bias, prejudices, and discrimination that coexist in my socialization within this culture. I cannot learn about how sexism and gender inequality have benefited me at the cost of women, trans, and nonbinary people without also educating myself on how racism and racial inequality has benefited me at the cost of Black people, Indigenous people, and other people of color.
I have a lot to learn. I have a lot to unlearn. This chapter is merely a glimpse into the work that is just beginning in me, and like the rest of this book, it will never be complete, as my learnings will never be complete. And because it's just a glimpse, I am going to focus mostly on the impact my whiteness and racism have on the Black community, as that is what I'm learning about most right now, while also knowing that the impact goes beyond that into Indigenous communities and the communities of all people of color. Each community has a specific intersection with racism and whiteness, and truth be told, I haven't done enough of the private, personal work in regard to Indigenous communities and other communities of color yet to speak from an educated place of integrity. Even in writing about what I have learned in this chapter, I fear that there's a good chance I will look back in a year, five years, or ten years at this chapter (and really this book) and see that I have said something offensive and ignorant. At the same time I would rather face that fear than, as author and speaker Ijeoma Oluo says, fear my own unexamined racism and the thought that right now I could be contributing to the oppression of others, of people I love, of my own family, and not even know it.
I Don't See Color
Kay and I became friends through our shared faith. She is a Black woman who exemplifies 'Abdu'l-Bahá's words when he says, "Thou art like unto the pupil of the eye, which is dark in color, yet is the fount of light and the revealer of the contingent world." Unfortunately, like many Black women experience, Kay's profound impact on my journey with privilege, racism, and racial justice came at a cost to her—a cost she never should have had to pay.
Soon after Emily and I were married, a small group of six of our friends flew from Los Angeles to Nashville, Tennessee, for a wedding. Kay was in that group, and not only was she the only Black woman in the group, she also was the only Black person at the wedding. The wedding was beautiful and fun, and the newly married couple reveled in the joy of being surrounded by their loved ones. After the celebration, our group of six headed out together to go explore the nightlife in Nashville. As we got into the car, Kay began to cry. Something at the wedding had gone completely unnoticed by the rest of us and had deeply hurt her. And the fact that none of us had the awareness to notice she was uncomfortable and hurt made it even worse. When we first arrived at the wedding, each guest was handed a program and a small bag with instructions to toss the contents of the bag in the air toward the married couple as they walked up the aisle. At some weddings this happens with bubbles or rice; others lead the couple out of the reception with sparklers. At this wedding, however, each bag was filled with fresh cotton that we were to pick apart and toss, like confetti, in celebration of their love.
That's right, Kay was being asked to throw in celebration what her ancestors were forced to pick in slavery.
There are some of you who may read that and have your jaw drop at how painful, triggering, and emotional that must have been for Kay. Perhaps you instantly knew, before you even read it, that the bag was filled with cotton. You will empathize with her, and if you are Black, it will undoubtedly remind you of similar stories in your own life and the lives of your friends and family. There are also some of you who may read that and wonder what the hell the big deal was. Of course, the bride and groom didn't choose cotton for its implications of slavery! You will not only be confused by Kay's reaction, but you will be frustrated by it and feel that it is irrational. I get both reactions, because our initial reaction to our dear friend was the latter, and unfortunately it took us way too damn long to get to the former.
Later that night when Kay shared her raw feelings and her experience at the wedding, and the pain around the cotton, instead of listening, empathizing, and honoring her, as a group we downplayed the whole situation, and in doing so, we downplayed her feelings and really her humanity. We bypassed her pain and came to the defense of the couple, imploring her to know that they were good people and it had nothing to do with race. She felt abandoned and told us that she did not feel seen by us. With the intention of being a "peacemaker" and bringing "unity," I responded to Kay's pain by telling her that when I look at her, I don't see a Black woman, I just see my friend. I don't see color; I see her heart. In other words, I made her exact point.
As a white person, I was taught to say that we don't see color, that we don't see our differences, that we treat everyone equally. While this concept of color blindness initially sounds very nice and idealistic to white people, it not only ignores the socialization and foundation on which the United States was built, it also ignores the very rich, beautiful cultures and humanity of people of color.