It’s time to come clean. I am a Racist.

Maybe not the torch-wielding, Confederate flag-waving, “All Lives Matter” type of Racist, but a Racist nonetheless. Someone who was raised with Racist ideas, who was steeped in a Racist culture that bent and twisted my perception so severely that it’s taken four decades to even acknowledge my participation in it.

But I am also becoming an Antiracist.

As author and scholar Ibram Kendi points out in his book, “How to be an Antiracist”, people can indeed be both. I’ve only recently begun awakening to the privilege I’ve experienced being White in America. I believe that the current upheaval in our country is serving as a much-needed wakeup call to many Whites, who, like me, have not yet done the hard work of examining their own Racist ideas.

A disturbing trend among conservative White commentators is to flatly reject the notion of White privilege. This is most typical in the lower economic classes, who see “privilege” in strictly economic terms. But that’s not the (only) type of privilege we’re talking about. True, there are solid arguments to be made about land grants, generational wealth, inequitable distribution of G.I. Bill benefits, and discriminatory housing policies. But there are many Whites, particularly from poor, rural communities, who claim to have never experienced any of this economic “privilege” first-hand.

I, too, came from a poor, rural community, but I have slowly come to realize that “privilege” refers not only to immediate, tangible wealth, but also to many other social and emotional factors that, by and large, White people take for granted.

For instance: 

  • I’ve never worried about not getting called back by a potential employer because of the color of my skin.
  • I’ve never had to try harder than others at school or work, only to receive less benefits than those of a different race than me.
  • I’ve never been watched suspiciously by store employees while shopping.
  • I’ve never been pulled aside for additional questioning while going through Security at an airport.
  • I’ve never worried that a routine police stop would leave my children fatherless.
  • I’ve never had to sit my teenage son down and have a frank discussion about how he needs to act and respond to law enforcement, so he won’t get shot.
  • I’ve never had a shiver of dread run down my spine when I see someone flying the Confederate flag.
  • And I’ve never had to conscientiously avoid the White monoculture of the deep South.

Hell, I’m a product of the White monoculture of the deep South. Raised in the rural backwaters of Florida, I learned to be wary of Black bodies. Always lock the car doors when driving through “those” neighborhoods. Always watch your wallet and valuables if you see any of “them” around. Never walk too close to a group of Black teenagers; surely the “gang” will attack you if you enter their “’hood”. And don’t even get me started on the Mexicans!

White people of my generation, growing up in the 80s and 90s, were taught to avoid public discussion of race. Despite being instilled with all manner of Racist ideas, we were supposed to appear “color blind” in public. Likely a strategy concocted to avoid awakening the ire of the Angry Black Man. We were given only a surface-level introduction to the immense struggle of African Americans in the United States, so the justified antipathy toward White power, rightly felt by so many Blacks in this country, was portrayed as unjustified rage. Disproportionate. Uncontrollable. Something to be Feared.

What were “they” so angry about, anyway? Slavery happened a long time ago. MLK won. We don’t say the “N” word out loud anymore. What more did “they” expect from us?

I flush with embarrassment as I recall standing by while a group of boys mercilessly teased the one black kid in my grade school gym class. I’ve convinced myself that I’m a good person because I never joined in, but I don’t even know if that’s true. Memory is a fickle beast, and things you don’t want to remember or are deeply ashamed to remember can easily escape recall.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I had no idea what Juneteenth was until a week ago. I’m embarrassed that I thought a depiction of the Tulsa Massacre of 1921 was part of a fictionalized history of the United States. Surely that couldn’t have actually happened! Gunning down an entire Black neighborhood and fire-bombing their community? Using planes? In the sky? Preposterous! But it did happen. The Atlanta Race Riot of 1906 happened, too. Ocoee and Rosewood, both in my own home state of Florida, happened. So much collective guilt. So much to seek justice for.

If I had known about these and so many other incidents of brutality, unjust policies and oppressive systems, I might have been more sensitive to what I saw around me. But probably not. Because I was a Racist. I held Racist ideas as facts and spared no time for empathy or understanding. I was constantly surrounded by racial injustice as a child, but I did nothing. I said nothing. I was silent then and remained so into adulthood.

Which leads me to my Apology.

For the last twenty-five years, it has been my wife that has borne the brunt of my Racist ideas. I am married to a gorgeous, intelligent, strong-willed and vocal Black/Latinx woman who I am lucky still puts up with me. She is kind-hearted, thoughtful, generous, and honest to a fault. And she’ll kick your ass if you deserve it, so watch out! She’s raised three beautiful children, one with special needs, and one that’s a teenage girl, which may be even more challenging.

But despite being married young to this beautiful Black woman, the Racist ideas that had already made their home in me did not disperse easily. Or quickly. Over the years, these ideas have manifested as unfair judgments, ignored concerns, and, perhaps most damning, my silence when I should have spoken up in my wife’s defense.

  • I have stood idly by and said nothing as people mistook her for our children’s nanny, instead of their mother.
  • I’ve kept quiet while people, upon first meeting her, wondered aloud if she even spoke English.
  • I’ve mistaken her quiet fortitude for callousness and failed to support her when she felt vulnerable.
  • I’ve mistaken her passion for anger and her defiance for cruelty, and thought ill of her for it.
  • I’ve embarrassed her by showing my own discomfort with the loud, joyful closeness she shares with her extended family.
  • And I’ve minimized her very real concerns about economic stability. Concerns born from generations of struggle just to receive opportunities I take for granted.

To my wife, I apologize. I am truly and deeply sorry for all the times I have misjudged and abused you. Rejected and shamed you, or made you feel less than.

And I lay my Racism out for all to see. Including myself. Because the only way to heal a nation so divided and broken, is for people like me to own up to what we’ve done. To what our parents and grandparents did, and our great-grandparents. It’s time to acknowledge the sins of our fathers and of ourselves.

White privilege, power and policy has committed Economic genocide against a people who have already been abused for centuries. A people whose bodies have already been enslaved, tortured and killed. Who have been hanged, drug behind vehicles, and shot in the back by police. Whose collective neck has been crushed until they can barely breathe. We did that. I did that.

So if you are White and reading this, make no mistake. You have privilege. I don’t care how little money you have or if you’ve never owned your own home, or if you didn’t get an inheritance from your dead aunt Sally. You. Have. Privilege. You have the privilege to jog through a neighborhood without being hunted down like an animal and murdered. You have the privilege to move up in a society where the color of your skin is not considered a threat. You have the privilege to seek justice from police and courts and expect to receive it. And you have the privilege to breathe without fear.

Lucky you.

Now go apologize to your wife. Or your friends, neighbors or coworkers of color. Tell them you’re sorry for your legacy of White oppression. Empathize with their struggle. Tell them that you were conditioned by Racist ideas and that you’re still learning, that you’re not perfect but you’ll change. And after you’ve done that, go use that privilege of yours to make a damn difference. It’s time.

June 19, 2020



All is Light. Awareness.
Vibrant Life. Being.
Wholeness. Connection. Unity.
Undifferentiated world, full of Light and Vitality.
Awareness is All and All is Light.
All is Joy.
All is Love.

Passing. Distinctions. Separation.
Consumption. Production of Waste.
Differentiated world, separated by Time and Pain.
Anger and frustration. Change.
Tears. Suffering.

Unity gives way to Separateness,
Connection to Chaos.
Colors and Sounds. Objects. Disarray.
What is mine? What was All?
I am Me and You are You. We are not the same.
We are Divided.

Body and Mind.
I am these and these are mine.
Mine are not yours.
Hands and Feet. Fingers and Toes.
Clothes and coverings.
Disguises. Masks.
Lies. Fear.

I am learning.
Symbols and patterns. Abstractions and metaphors.
Thoughts morph into words. Syllables. Sentences.
Communication and Judgement.
Because we are Different. Because we are Separate.
Unity is Lost.

I have aged. I have grown.
My mind is my own and you may not have it, you may not know it.
My objects are my own and I do not share.
Clinging. Groping. Grasping.
Change is inevitable; Life is Suffering.
God is Dead.

Abundance. Is this Joy?
I have accumulated much and you may not have it.
I am Important, you are not.
My life is significant and I do not know who you are.
Do I know who I am?
Only that I am not You.

Time has passed and I am old.
I bear regret and shame. These are me and I am them.
What was that?
A faint echo, a brief glimpse. All? Light? Love?
Forgotten and Alone,
I don’t remember.