When I was in pre-K I had a black teacher. Her name was Dorothy. I loved her so much. I have a few vivid memories of that daycare. One involves Dorothy.
We were sitting together drawing and I was drawing her. I knew I needed a different crayon for her. A brown one.
I looked at Dorothy and asked, “Why are you brown?” because I didn’t know how that happened. I’m white. My family is white. She may have been the first black person I had a relationship with.
She said it was because she came from a different part of the world where they have darker skin. I didn’t ask more because that was enough of an explanation for me.
I’m not perfect. I’ve grown up hearing various people make racist remarks. “Black” was a whispered adjective in some people’s mouths. I’ve had to do some unlearning and educating.
I didn’t fully understand what systematic racism meant until recently. I didn’t know the depth. It was my responsibility to learn about it and I’m not proud that it took the murder of George Floyd to make me open my eyes to that fact that just having friendships and not understanding why racists are racists was enough. It’s not enough.
I used to date someone whose family members would hard R use the n-word. I would get into shouting matches with them about how that was not okay and it actually is racist even if they didn’t say it to a black person. My ex called me a social justice warrior. I can’t imagine what he would say now that I’m out protesting, calling attorney generals, and getting into Facebook fights all the time. I should’ve left the relationship the first time their parent called me an Italian slur.
I want to be the solution. I’ve been a problem long enough by not doing anything. I see injustice and I can’t stand by. I can’t imagine my future children down the line asking me what I did to participate in (what I think will be) the turning point of modern American history and having nothing to tell them. I would sit with shame in my rocking chair telling my grandkids that I just watched how things unfold.
I want to show them the books I read. I want to pull out the sign I brought to protest. I want them to know I tried to do the right thing and I was on the right side of history. I want them to carry the fire with them to hold our law enforcement accountable for the disproportionate murder of our black and brown community.
If this entry makes you mad and you want to comment, you’re free to do so. I won’t engage with anyone making counter arguments about this topic.
If you’re coming across my blog for the first time or you’ve been here before and read my entries, hi. I’m glad you’re here. If you’re out there fighting the good fight, I see you. Thanks for reading my thoughts.
Oh, also. Please vote this November.
Xoxo
Fly with Time 