Always Recognizing My White Privilege

First the red and blue flashing lights.

Then the shrill siren blurp.

Then saying "Fuck!"

Then looking at the speedometer.

Then lifting my foot off the gas.

Then realizing I wasn't speeding.

Then trying to figure out what I did.

Then looking for a place to pull over on a narrow road with no shoulder.

Then finally pulling into a dark dead end street.

Then a flashlight shining in my eyes.

Then a request for my license and registration.

Then the news that I ran a stop sign.

Then a sheepish "I'm sorry."

Then a rather polite conversation about following the laws.

Then a mini lecture and a request to be more careful.

Then a return of my documents and a pleasant "have a good night."

Then a grateful sigh that I didn't get a ticket.

Then appreciation that my insurance rates wouldn't go up.

Never an officer harassing me.

Never an officer getting aggressive with me.

Never an officer threatening me.

Never an officer suspecting me of a crime.

Never an officer pointing his gun at me.

Never an officer shooting me.

Never an officer killing me.

Always recognizing inequity.

Always recognizing hypocrisy.

Always recognizing racism.

Always recognizing my White privilege.

Always challenging White folks to recognize their White privilege too.

As If. . .

"If they would've just complied. . ."

As if compliance ever guarantees safety, or survival.

As if the origin of police departments wasn't to protect the property – including slaves – of rich White people.

As if the primary purpose of police departments didn't evolve to keep freed slaves in line once slavery ended.

As if there aren't direct links between police departments and White Supremacist groups like the KKK since 1865 that continue today.

As if White men like Dylann Roof, John Cowell, and Kyle Rittenhouse weren't casually – politely – apprehended by police officers after they murdered of Black people.

As if people arguing the compliance line of thinking aren't recruiters and hiring managers and VPs and executives and board members in Fortune 500 companies who have the power and influence to create a more equitable world, but choose not to.

As if Black people aren't expected to be "professional" and comply by not wearing dreadlocks or never getting angry or always code switching.

As if complying to the norms and expectations of a White supremacist society is conducive to the intellectual, emotional, physical, and mental health of those who comply.

As if we live in a meritocracy that treats everyone equally.

As if compliance is the answer to our current global problems.

Actual, Real Live Black People Matter

To be clear, when I say Black lives matter, I'm not talking about the organization.

Or the hashtag.

Or the movement – although I wholeheartedly support it.

I'm saying specifically that actual, real live Black people matter.

I'm saying the lives of my Black friends matter.

I'm saying the lives of my Black colleagues matter.

I'm saying the lives of my Black connections matter.

I'm saying the lives of my Black neighbors and community members matter.

I'm saying the lives of billions of Black people around the world who I don't know and will never meet matter.

I'm saying the lives of Black people who have criminal records matter.

I'm saying the lives of Black people who are drug dealers and addicts matter.

I'm saying the lives of Black people who don't comply with police matter.

I'm saying the lives of all Black people matter.

The individual circumstances, criminal records, histories, socioeconomic status, behaviors, family situations, employment status – none of that changes my belief that Black lives matter.

"If he would've just. . ."

"If he didn't do. . ."

"But what about. . ."

None of it justifies murder.

As long as people justify the murders of Black people, we will need to say Black lives matter.

As long as Black lives don't matter to all of us, all lives don't truly matter.

All Lives Matter

All lives matter.

Unless you're a Black man checking on your kids in your car in Kenosha, Wisconsin. Then that life gets seven bullets in the back at point blank range.

All lives matter.

Unless you're a Black man jogging down a road in Brunswick, Georgia. Then that life gets two shotgun blasts to the stomach from vigilantes who say you're a robber.

All lives matter.

Unless you're a Black man who fell asleep in your car at the Wendy's drive through in Atlanta. Then that life gets chased down and shot in the back while running away.

All lives matter.

Unless you're a Black woman sleeping in your apartment in Louisville. Then that life ends in a barrage of police gunfire after they batter down your door.

All lives matter.

Unless you're a Black man arrested for allegedly using a counterfeit bill in Minneapolis. Then that life gets kneeled on until there's no air left to breathe.

All lives matter.

Unless it's a life that an individual or a group of individuals or a police department or a judicial system or a legal system or a political system or a governmental institution or an administration or history says doesn't matter.

Then, I guess, it seems that not all lives matter.

Which is why we say Black lives matter.

Some folks need to hear that message over and over again.

That’s the Way the World Goes ‘Round

"That's the way that the world goes 'round
You're up one day, the next you're down
It's half an inch of water, and you think you're gonna drown
That's the way that the world goes 'round"

– John Prine

Fires are ravaging California with more lightning strikes expected soon to exacerbate the spread.

My son is playing The Entertainer on the piano on the main level while I read in the basement.

While the global health pandemic rages, many people I know personally are not following the rules, seemingly cavalier about their role in stopping the spread of the coronavirus.

I am fortunate to have steady opportunities and I'm feeling very aligned with the work I'm doing, the people I'm working with, and the impact I'm making.

Many people in positions of power and influence are not doing anything to fight racial injustice, and their inaction is actively propagating its perpetuity.

Many other people are coming to realize their role in the fight for racial justice, and there are pockets of momentum and progress.

Last month was the 20th anniversary of the death of my father from AIDS. The emotions are still strong inside me.

My family is safe, healthy, and relatively happy, given everything that's going on.

I definitely have my downs. But I'm not drowning.

Another Conversation About Race Ended Before it Began

The girls' basketball game lets out. A couple hundred teenagers standing in the quad outside the gym.

My best friend and I waiting for his girlfriend who's on the basketball team.

Not our high school. Didn't know anyone. Waiting by ourselves, minding our own business.

When suddenly a Black kid runs across the quad, punches my friend in the face, and runs off to a waiting car to speed away.

His face bleeding, but he's okay. It happened in the middle of a quad, but no one seemed to see it, understand why it happened, or know what to do.

A few decades later, not long before I ended our friendship because of his consistently stubborn racism, I asked if getting punched by that Black kid in high school had shaped his views on race.

Defiantly, with no little display of annoyance, he said no. Why do I make everything about race, he challenged. And why didn't I do anything when he got beat up?

Since it happened thirty years ago, there wasn't a lot I could say or do.

And the conversation ended.

Ended like so many of our conversations about race and racism. With expletives and resentment and accusation.

And a total unwillingness to explore themes, motivations, patterns that have shaped racist views.

Ended definitively, I suspect, like so many conversations by so many White people.

Feeling Good to Be Alive

I miss the commute. Being alone with hundreds of people.

The walk from the BART parking garage to the BART platform. Passing shuttle buses, cop cars, bicyclists, panhandlers, musicians.

Lines of people weaving around the two platforms. Waiting for trains to arrive. Four tracks with trains in four directions.

People reading papers, books, phones, each other. Old. Young. Black. White. Asian. Latinx. In wheelchairs. With bikes. Professional. Casual. Hip. Nerdy. Barefoot.

Cars whizzing by on the freeway – light traffic going east, heavy traffic going west.

Slithering onto a crowded car. Backpack between my legs. Book open ready to read. Headphones on. Standing in a sea of humanity. Living.

Breathing in BO, pot, shit, stale breath, breakfast sandwiches, perfume, gum, deodorant – an intermingling cacophony of aromas.

The train lurches forward. I lose balance. Bump into people. Mouth sorry. Regain balance. Resume my book.

Each stop. People getting on. Getting off. Smiles. Frowns. Sighs. Coughs. Conversations. Games. Movies. Phone calls.

Under the bay. Into the city. Emerge in a new world. Tall buildings. Street cars. Mopeds. Scooters. Joggers. Suits. Peddlers.

Walk to an office. Ready to work.

Experiencing the vast dynamism of the human condition.

Feeling good to be alive.

Addicted to Racism?

It's interesting to observe White people clinging to their racist views at the merest suggestion that something they said or did might be racist.

I have no expertise in the science or psychology of addiction, but it kind of seems like addiction.

The vehemence with which people object to possibly exploring an alternative perspective.

The lack of equanimity, unwillingness to engage in a conversation, or do the tiniest bit of self-reflection.

When you're addicted to drugs or sex or power or gambling, that thing owns you. Controls you. Drives every decision.

I wonder if – perhaps unconsciously – racism is like that. I don't know.

I forget who said it, but I like this saying about White supremacy:

When you're used to 100%, 98% feels like oppression.

I think we're dealing with some of that these days.

While there are many White folks genuinely awakened to striving toward antiracism, there are plenty doubling down on their racism.

I wonder if, because they've never thought about it before, the recent brouhaha about racial justice is too threatening.

That 2% shift feels oppressive.

And to think it will shift more? Frightening!

So instead of walking away from the blackjack table where they just lost $500, some White people are pulling out another $500 and playing another hand.

What Would You Do if You Weren’t Worried About Money?

About five years ago, I was in a dead end job, making no money, with no direction, and a permanently cloudy sky blocking my North Star.

I wasn't depressed, but the life had been sucked out of me, and was oozing into a pile of puss on the floor.

I had to make a change, but I didn't know how.

A friend recommended I see a coach. I didn't want to spend the money. What was she going to do for me?

I'd think about it.

I talked with her. A few times. She listened to me. She heard me. She appreciated me. She was patient with me.

And this was all before I paid her a dime.

Her work changed my life. She got me back on track. She realigned me with my purpose. She reminded me that my work has to have meaning. It can't be a means to an end.

She taught me the difference between work-life balance and work-life integration. My work-life balance was fine. My work-life integration had disintegrated.

She encouraged me to be an entrepreneur. To leverage my teaching and storytelling and relationship building and coaching and facilitating skills to build inclusive communities.

I said I was worried about making money.

"What would you do if you weren't worried about money?"

"That's easy, I'd sit around and talk with people all day."

"Go do that."

So I did.

And so I am.

Wanna talk?

Imagine What Our World Would Be Like

Imagine if the most influential, most powerful, most visible leaders were willing to be vulnerable.

Imagine if they saw vulnerability not as a weakness, but as a show of strength.

Imagine if they revealed a little bit of who they were behind the veneer of "successful, competent, all-knowing business person."

Imagine if they humanized themselves by admitting mistakes, by being transparent, by sharing what they didn't know, by asking for support.

Imagine if the people who worked for these leaders actually saw them as real live human beings with feelings and emotions and hardships and doubts and uncertainties and challenges.

Imagine if they modeled empathy and compassion and curiosity and equanimity.

Imagine if they consistently and intentionally strove to create a culture of belonging for themselves and everyone in their sphere of influence.

Imagine if we could relate to them, and trust them, and respect them as fully, imperfectly human.

Imagine if we were able to truly connect with them.

Imagine if we actually had a meaningful, non-hierarchical relationship with them.

Imagine if we felt we could be vulnerable with them, admit to them our struggles, our doubts, our fears, our worries.

Imagine what our companies would be like.

Imagine what our world would be like.

The Human Repercussions of Covering

Let's talk about covering.

That thing we do where we hide a little or a lot of who we are because we don't feel safe to be all of who we are.

We don't tell our colleagues we're gay because we've overheard too much casual homophobic banter.

We don't talk about our kids because we don't want our boss to think we're not committed to our job.

We don't talk about our religion because everyone else practices the same religion and they talk about it all the time.

We don't mention our invisible disability because it's just not worth the effort to explain to people who aren't interested.

We cover all the time – little things and big things: who we voted for, our favorite hobbies, the TV shows we like, the books we read, where we grew up, our dad's profession, our ancestry, our ethnicity, our arrest record. . . and the list goes on.

The economic repercussions from covering are huge: the loss of innovation, creativity, productivity, efficiency, team cohesion.

All goes down the drain because of the mental bandwidth we use worrying about whether we can be ourselves in front of our colleagues.

And the economic repercussions are nothing compared to the human repercussions.

Maybe if we paid as much attention to humans as we did to economics we wouldn't have to talk about any of this.

It All Begins With Curiosity

For me, the work starts with being genuinely curious about the lives of other people.

I'm curious about the history and culture and lived experiences of other people.

Individual people I know. People I consider friends. People I work with. People I connect with online.

Individual people I don't know. Musicians whose tunes I groove to. Writers whose stories I absorb. Artists whose creativity inspires me. Speakers whose words move me. Politicians who policies motivate me.

Social justice and equity and diversity and inclusion and belonging work requires you learn industry best practices and know your history and understand systems of oppression and familiarize yourself with many other nuances and subtleties.

And.

If you're not curious about the lives of other people – how they live, how they hurt, how they love, how they grow, how they navigate the world.

How they're different than you. How they're not.

If you're not curious about the vast dynamism of the human condition.

If you don't center empathy and compassion and connection and love.

Then are you really doing the work?

I find the more curious I am about other people, the more curious I am about myself.

Who I am. Why I care. What drives me. What keeps me centered. Who I might become.

It all begins with curiosity.

Why Would You Do That?

Would you tell a contractor to build your house out of balsa wood? Probably not.

Would you tell a vintner to make your wine with horse piss instead of grapes? Probably not.

Would you tell a professional athlete to prepare for games by chugging beers? Probably not.

Would you tell a tailor to make your suit out of fiberglass? Probably not.

Would you tell a sushi chef to give you three-day-old salmon? Probably not.

Would you tell a lawyer to just wing the defense argument in your murder trial? Probably not.

You know why you would never do any of that?

Because even if you’re not a contractor, vintner, athlete, tailor, sushi chef, or lawyer, you know enough to know those suggestions are absurd.

So why if you're cisgender do you have no problem telling transgender people they’re confused?

And why if you're White do you have no problem gaslighting Black people?

And why if you're a man are you so comfortable mansplaining things to women?

Why do you use your privilege, power, and social capital to speak with such disparaging authority on the lived experiences of people you know little to nothing about?

What weird combination of hubris and malice has led you to dismiss with such confident disdain another person's truth?

And, most importantly, when are you going to change?

Hanging Out With Our White Friends

It's difficult for many White folks to fight for racial justice because we have very few, if any, meaningful relationship with people of color.

Until age 25 I knew a grand total of eight people of color.

In fact, here they all are.

Langston: Black boy; playground friend in first grade; never invited him to my house.

Antonio: Mexican kid; co-champions of fourth grade chess competition; played chess after school sometimes.

Vanessa: Half Mexican/half Filipina girl; close friend in middle and high school.

Ryan: Japanese kid; moderately close friend in high school.

Mike: Chinese kid; my roommate and close friend my first three years of college.

Chad and Lee: Two Black guys; played soccer together in college; occasionally had a beer after a game.

Eric: The only Black guy on the college lacrosse team; barely knew him.

Tom: Black friend of my dad's; we'd hang out when I visited San Francisco in high school.

That's it.

25 years, 9 people of color.

Only two of whom I was close with.

I suspect this is similar to many White people's childhoods.

Then we enter the real world, perpetuate self-segregation, and never seek to understand, appreciate, or validate the truths of people of color.

We show little empathy.

We ignore, dismiss, or gaslight them when they share their lived experiences.

Then we go hang out with our White friends.

That’s So Gay

I was ten watching the Super Bowl with my dad and his roommate.

Sitting in the living room of his Hollywood flat as a bunch of beefy men beat each other up.

Actually, one team was doing the beating. Which meant the other team was receiving the beating.

Which prompted me to say that team was "so gay."

My dad and his roommate looked at each other. "What do you mean they're 'so gay'?" my dad asked.

"They're bad. They suck. They're, you know, gay!" I said, a tone of "duh" exuding from my lips, as I rolled my eyes back toward the screen.

I don't remember what my dad or his roommate said after that.

I do remember my dad telling me he was gay four years later. And I remember crying because I was confused and ashamed.

And how it suddenly made sense that his roommate was more than his roommate. And how it made sense that he questioned why I said the losing team was so gay.

But it took me several more years to accept that I had a gay dad. I wasn't ready to have a gay dad, so I didn't tell anyone I had a gay dad, so no one knew I had a gay dad.

Except me. I kept my secret all locked up inside. Afraid to share my whole self with the world. Afraid of my full humanity. Depriving people of all I had to offer. Telling a story that just wasn't true.

Like so many others still do today.

The Personal Is Universal

Thanksgiving night, 2010. We were hosting. Waiting for everyone to leave. I had to make a phone call.

To a good friend. A father. Like me. And a writer. Like I wanted to become.

And the author of a brand new "daddy blog". Like I was nervous about launching.

I needed support. I had the website and a few posts ready. But I had never written anything publicly. At least nothing vulnerable.

My style was the self-deprecating dad of toddler twins who "had it all together". Sarcastic, snarky recountings of parenting fails.

Sample titles:

"Is Elmo Really Your Friend?"
"This Is Why We Don't Go Out to Dinner Anymore"
"A Twelve Step Program for Binky Addiction"
"How You Will Unintentionally Become a Deadbeat Dad"

It was funny shit. I was finding my voice.

And expanding my topics.

On October 2, 2011, I wrote about my dad dying of AIDS.

A few weeks later I submitted the piece to an online magazine. They accepted it.

Explaining why, the editor said: because the personal is universal.

September 29, 2020 was 20 years since my dad died. He's the main inspiration for my work.

We all have an origin story. We all need to share it. Even if we're scared.

The personal is universal. People need to hear your story.

Here's a sample of mine.

You’re Not Racist Because You Told Me You’re Not Racist

That's right, you're not racist because you told me you're not racist. I suppose there's no more to be said on the subject.

Since you've told me you're not racist I shouldn't bring up any of your other racist thoughts, actions, or behaviors.

Since you're not racist I shouldn't ask why you laughed at that racist joke at the party last night.

And how could you be racist when you voted for Obama? Twice.

And would a racist like you date a Black woman in college? Unlikely.

And if there was a racist bone in your body you wouldn't be listening to Beyonce on repeat on Spotify.

You couldn't be racist because you've checked and your ancestors didn't own slaves.

And how on earth could you be racist when you liked two Black Lives Matter posts on social media last week?

And even though you're not racist, you just think Black people would get more support if they stopped talking about race so much.

And you're the least racist person I know, which should be obvious because you live in Brooklyn. Or was it Oakland? Atlanta?

I guess you've made your point. You've repeatedly told me you're not racist. And you're getting pissed because I keep bringing it up.

It's people like me who are racist because we can't stop talking about racism.

You're wondering if I'll ever shut up.

What Should I Do?

"White people want to start with strategy. White people want the answer, but it has to emerge."

– Resmaa Menakem

What should I do?

You should get intimate with other White people.

But what should I do?

You should develop your awareness.

But what should I do?

You should self-reflect on how you perpetuate racism.

But what should I do?

You should evolve your consciousness.

But what should I do?

You should unlearn what you've been taught – or not taught – about what racism actually is, how it manifests, and how it negatively impacts people of all races.

But what should I do?

You should examine who you were, who you are, who you're becoming, why you care, what you need to learn, and what's your role in the struggle.

But what should I do?

You should challenge your White family members, friends, colleagues, and community members and stay present in uncomfortable conversations.

But what should I do?

You should create a new normal for yourself – intentionally surround yourself with non-White perspectives, books, news, and media.

But what should I do?

You should stop asking what you should do, and start asking who you should be.

But I know who I am.

You should dismantle who you think you are, and become who really are.

But that might take a long time.

Exactly.

I Will Stay Relevant

Sometimes as a writer, I feel that I've said everything I have to say. That no ideas are new ideas. That anything I'd write I've already written somewhere else.

That any social justice framework or equity metaphor or belonging analogy I might come up with would be trite, flat, too abstract.

I see and hear things all around me – people doing and saying good things, people saying and doing bad things, people doing and saying inspiring things, people saying and doing horrible things.

I know my space in this work. I know what I can offer. And what I can't.

I'm a writer, a coach, a facilitator, a speaker, a storyteller. I affect change by writing, coaching, facilitating, speaking, telling stories.

I am a cis, straight, White man. I bring my cisness, my straightness, my maleness, my whiteness to the work.

Mindfully, intentionally, humbly, respectfully. I don't try to be something or someone I'm not.

I know I have limitations. And I know I have tremendous power to drive impact.

Maybe I can't pen awesomeness every day. Can't influence every day. Can't motivate, spark dialogue, provoke intrigue, precipitate action.

But I can – and will – stay relevant. Stay present. Stay committed. Stay informed. Stay true to who I am and what I believe in.

And I invite you to come along with me.

Playing the Wrong Chord

Taj Mahal is playing a show in Germany. After a few country blues tunes on the guitar, he transitions to a barrelhouse blues on the piano with a big back beat.

The crowd starts to clap along. After about six bars, he stops playing.

You're on the wrong beat, he says. You're clapping on the one and three, which is fine for classical music. But for blues, you clap on the two and the four.

One and two and three and four, he instructs them, and then resumes the song. Taught, they clap along on the two and four.

Do you ever feel that way doing DEI  work? You're grooving to the beat on the two and four, and the people in charge, the people you need approval from, the people with no fluency, the people running the budget – they're clapping on the one and three.

And they're clapping loudly: one!!!! and two and three!!!! and four. No rhythm. Eyes closed. Totally clueless.

But unlike Taj's audience, they don't change their clapping when you tell them they're off beat and ruining the song.

No, they don't listen to you. They just clap louder, more defiantly: one!!!!!!! and two and three!!!!!!! and four.

Clapping right in your face. A clamorous cacophony of dissonant pandemonium that makes your eardrums bleed.

And then when things go wrong, they accuse you of playing the wrong chord.