An important
reminder came this week when I read my friend Athina’s reflection in her recent
Instagram post. During graduate school,
my cohort engaged in a challenging and tear-filled conversation. It was painful
and it was important. My fellow classmates—primarily BIPOC (black, indigenous,
people of color)—took the time to call us (white people) out and challenge us
to do the work to reflect on our inherent privilege, to learn the history of
our country, and to question our biases. A moment Athina remembered and
reflected, that I had forgotten, was when one of our classmates, Heather told
us, (and I paraphrase): “White people- speak up. Share your opinion. Don’t be silent because
you are afraid of saying the wrong thing. And know you’ll probably get
checked.”
The checking
each other is the space of learning, it is the place where we as people get the
opportunity to understand ourselves and others better and engage with the world
with more kindness and grace. What a gift it is when someone takes the time to
call out our behaviors, especially when our actions may feel to us innocuous–
there are often subtle undertones of racism and privilege that we are unaware
of.
The last
four months have been a trying period in our country and in our world. It is
rare that an issue hits and impacts an entire nation. We were instructed to
stay indoors, shelter in place, and avoid gatherings. We were all touched by
worry and concern for our bodies and the bodies of our family. One of my
closest friends had Covid 19, thank God she had a full recovery and was able to
heal at home. Many of my friends lost their jobs, or saw their salaries cut,
and I have been worried constantly for the health of my mother and in-laws, as
they are in the high risk category. I have worried for my friends and family
who live alone, who have not touched and felt the warm embrace of another
person for months, while I sleep each night cuddled against my favorite person.
Yet all of my worries are still the worry of a privileged person. While
impacting everyone in some way, the pandemic has not impacted evenly or fairly.
On a personal level, I have sheltered in place in my comfortable home, with my
favorite person, both of us still employed and able to do our work with only
minor modifications. I have access to high speed internet, a smart phone that
allows me to FaceTime and see my loved ones every day, and a car to conveniently
take us to the grocery store—with the flexibility to go at off peak times to
minimize risk and exposure.
The
communities and people most impacted have experienced institutional, systemic
disinvestment and inequitable treatment for generations, fighting for their
lives each and every day. The coronavirus has disproportionately taken the
lives of more black and brown people. We know the advice disseminated by the
CDC is through a white lens, as research so often is, and does not take into
account the inhumane conditions and underlying fears of the Western medical
system. https://features.propublica.org/chicago-first-deaths/covid-coronavirus-took-black-lives-first/.
People are dying. People are getting sick. People are experiencing anxiety, depression, and grief at enormous rates during the pandemic and recent demonstrations to call out anti-Blackness.
George Floyd was another victim of police brutality. He was murdered in front of witnesses who heard him cry out for help and those witnesses asked for the officer to stop. Another black man was murdered.
Our nation
gave a collective outcry and many of the bravest organized and took to the
streets to protest. Brave folks, despite the grave risk to their bodies, both
from exposure to Covid 19 and the violent aggression of armed, militarized,
“peace” officers. Protesting not just
the death George Floyd, but of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, Atania Jefferson,
Jonathan Ferrel, Raisha McBride, Stephon Clark, Jordan Edwards, Jordan Davis,
Alton Sterling, Aiyana Jones, Mike Brown, Tamir Rice, Trayvon Martin, Philander
Castile, Eric Garner, and so many more. People flooded the streets to protest
generations of police brutality, to call out the systemic racism that lays at
the very foundations of our country (and our police force), to challenge how
capitalism was built on the backs and labor of black folks and created to horde
power and maintain the status quo.
I am aware I
am a beneficiary and a contributor to the systems that exists. I, as a white
woman, benefit from these systems and often play a part in keeping them alive.
Right now,
during this season of increased awareness and public focused unrest, I am
trying to figure out the part I can play to combat anti-blackness. Over the
past five years I have been working hard to grow and change. To acknowledge my
privilege and to grow as an ally. I make mistakes—and desperately ask to be
called out and supported in my learning. I also acknowledge how unfair that
is—and know that it puts more work on the communities already struggling and
fighting. Therefore, I commit to doing independent work first:
Reading.
Listening. Questioning.
I am afraid
of the protest. I am scared to expose myself to Covid 19 and afraid of rubber
bullets and tear gas. I assuage my fear by saying I am not going because I am
pregnant, my happy announcement I have included in my title. It is a happy announcement. What a little
piece of joy Eitan and I have been able to carry throughout our social
distancing and now during this painful time. It is a happy secret, and now
announcement, shared amidst pain.
However, my
calculus to stay inside to stay protected is a privilege too. I have a job I
can do from home, so I don't have to decide between employment, paying my
bills, and protecting my little pomegranate from illness.
My calculus
to stay away from the protest is also a privilege. I said to Eitan “I am sure a
black pregnant woman would stay indoors too.” This is when he called me out.
The black mother-to-be has to weigh the risks of their fetus being harmed by
exposure to a virus or being hit by a rubber-bullet, or in the case of Saraneka “Nemo” Martin, an actual bullet shot
into a peaceful protest in Austin Texas, (link for her GoFUNDme at end of post),
against what happens to their child if the world doesn't change, if systemic
oppression continues and their child is arrested and then murdered for being
accused of using counterfeit money, or looking strangely at a white woman, or
reaching for their wallet, or going for a run.
For being.
My privilege
allows me to stay indoors and watch from my window rather than participate on
the ground. I will stand by my decision because I want to protect our precious
baby, this little person growing who I have waited 10 months to conceive, and
that is okay. It is okay for me to stay protected. But I have to own that it is
a privilege, that I am more afraid for my child now than I will be after they
are born because they will be white—and therefore protected.
And I still
want to do something.
Thank God,
my job grants me the privilege to provide therapy and support. In my role as a
therapist I have been given the gift to speak with and provide support and
healing to some of the brave souls on the front lines. I am grateful for this
privilege but also so tired, so sad, so drained. I also know that to do my job,
I have to take care of myself. I have to watch stupid TV, or take a walk, or do
yoga, so that I can go into session able to be present with my clients, able to
make them the center, and acknowledge their experience and pain, not my own. I
know that I can feel both of these feelings in parallel-- that my work is
important, than I can be a support to my clients, and that I need to prioritize
self-care during my downtime. And it feels selfish.
Right now,
my role as therapist is sometimes to remind clients to stay hydrated, to not
forget to eat. Many of my clients are experiencing grief and when we are
grieving we often forget to take care of our basic needs. It has been extremely
hard, as a social worker, knowing that trauma processing and personal
reflection – often the work of therapy, cannot happen if basic needs are not
met. And yet, for my Black clients, bodily safety is never guaranteed and
particularly threatened right now.
The job of a
therapist is sometimes to simply bear witness. Much of my time, both as a
result of Covid 19 and during our collective grief about recent murders, has
been to bear witness. Sometimes I speak, but often I just listen and sit with
clients in their pain and hold their feelings of sadness, hopelessness, and
rage. Sometimes all we can give to people we love, and yes I truly love my
clients, is our open hearts and a holding space for pain.
In addition
to my job:
I am
donating to causes that support black-owned business and help relieve bail fees
for protesters. I am sharing articles and causes that have challenged me to use
a critical lens. I am taking time to learn which will be a lifelong process.
And I
know I am not done learning. I may have said ignorant things in this post so call
me out. By calling me out, I believe it will help me to grow and more broadly
help us to change. That is how we change. I write this post as much for myself
as I do for others who may need to read it, and I acknowledge that. I thank you
for reading. I hope by reading this post it can change your perspective in some
way or inspire you to look inward and learn about yourself. Join me in this
journey of learning!
Thank you to
Athina, Heather and my entire cohort at SSA for reminding me that I cannot stay
silent and by not doing so, I may fumble and may say the wrong thing throughout
the learning process. I will try to do better next time.
