This post is taken from a talk I gave in October 2017 at Diffrint—a quarterly event where Quad Cities’ artists and storytellers explore various topics. The goal is to create a sense of community around issues that tend to isolate us. The theme was systemic racism. Diffrint is led by Brandon Carleton.
I’m Jason. I’m a pastor of Connection Quad Cities, a church in Davenport. Since I’m a pastor you might think I grew up around religion. But I didn’t. It wasn’t until my senior year of high school that I started participating in a local church. It was at that church I became good friends with James.
James and I became close because he was the first guy I could talk about God with. At the time, I didn’t have any other friends I could talk about God with. James and I bonded over God, video games, and sports.
Why am I telling you about James? Because there’s a couple of stories about him that are important to my gradual awakening to racial inequality and White Privilege.
James had a Black dad and a White mom—so of course he was my “light-skinned Black friend” instead of my “dark-skinned White friend,” because, well, of the “one-drop rule.” I’d never heard of this rule until recently. This rule is a social construct that was established back-in-the-day that said anyone who was 7/8ths White but 1/8th Black would be considered Black. So your skin pigmentation can be 88% White and only 12% Black, but because of the one-drop rule, you’re Black.
Why was this social construct constructed? So White slave owners could have as many slaves as possible; so Americans could prevent as many interracial couples from marrying as possible; so the White race could maintain it’s supposed purity. And by “purity” they really mean “power.”
James was multi-racial. But socially—experientially, existentially—he was Black.
You Must Have Done Something
One time, during high school, when James was driving through our town, something happened. I wasn’t there; James told me this happened. As James was driving through town, some White guys followed him to his house—and after James parked his car and went inside, they began to yell nasty racial epithets at him.
I remember James telling me this story; I also remember what I was thinking as he told it. I was thinking, “He must have done something to provoke these guys. These guys wouldn’t do what they did just because you’re Black. You must have pulled out in front of them on the road or went around them because they were driving slow—and when you did, they gave you a mean look so you gave one back.”
He must have done something to cause this.
Later that year, James and I (along with some other friends) were at a Christian music festival in Ohio. We were walking through the acres and acres of campers, tents, and lawn chairs to reach one of the stages when James suddenly asked “Did you see the look those folks gave me back there?” I hadn’t seen it. “What happened?” I asked. “They gave me a dirty look. It’s because I’m Black.” “James,” I quickly responded. “They didn’t look at you that way because you’re Black. It’s in your head.” I was sure James was projecting. James was confident he had it right. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he said.
He’s right: I didn’t know what it was like. I was sure James had done something to provoke the dirty look. Maybe he’d stepped on their blanket and got it muddy? “Christians don’t give dirty looks because of skin color,” I thought.
He must have done something to cause this.
From One Neighborhood to the Next
Fast-forward fifteen years. I’m in Chicago at the funeral of my friend Edward Ellis. Ed grew up on the south-side of Chicago. At some point he moved to Muscatine, and pastored a church there—which is where I met him. Ed was a great guy—besides the fact that he liked the White Sox. I miss Ed.
Ed was the real deal: He worked with underprivileged kids in the Muscatine school system, was a community college professor, and a tender-hearted pastor. A year or so before he suddenly passed away, he moved his family back to Chicago, back to his roots.
Ed was Black and his funeral was at a Black church—which gave him a Black funeral. I’d never been to a Black funeral before. White funerals last, what, an hour—tops? Ed’s funeral was nearly three hours. Beautiful music; memorable, inspiring, and hope-filled words from the pastor, family members, and friends.
I remember a lot about that day. One thing I remember is the area of Chicago where Ed’s funeral was. It was a poor part of the city: boarded-up houses, empty and run-down businesses, green spaces with broken fences and scattered litter. I don’t mean to make a caricature of a poor, predominantly Black neighborhood. I’m just trying to paint a picture of what I saw.
I’m also trying to communicate the shock I felt when the car I was riding in crossed over from the predominately Black neighborhood to the predominately White neighborhood. I’m not from Chicago so I don’t know the details of the city's neighborhoods. I just know how quickly things changed from my car window.
On one side of the stop light were broken curbs and homes with tape on the widows to keep cold air from getting in; on the other side were well manicured lawns, garages with room for work benches—let alone 2-3 cars—and, this is what I’ll never forget, people walking their dogs on the sidewalk.
It’s all about context, right? Because in many contexts I wouldn’t think twice about someone walking their dog on a cool March afternoon. But when you suddenly shift contexts, from one—where it seems like a lot of people are struggling to feed their families and keep their children warm and safe at night—to another—where people have enough money (and time and energy) to take their dogs on afternoon walks, to book their mid-week appointment at the dog groomer with high Yelp ratings, and to send their children to the nationally ranked private school that’ll surely get them into a good college one day.
I know it’s weird to bring up dog-walking when talking about systemic racism. I’m just trying to capture what I felt when I went from the poor neighborhood to the rich one, when I crossed over from the overwhelmingly Black part of the city to the White part.
I was shocked. Confused. Speechless. Bothered.
This isn’t about having dogs. I have one—and yes, I take her on walks and get her groomed on occasion. This isn’t about predominantly affluent White neighborhoods not having problems, too. People with every skin color and every economic level have challenges and stresses in life.
What I’m talking about is my experience that March afternoon, of the dramatic change from one part of town to the next: that it speaks to the reality that not everyone starts from the same place.
There’s this idea in our country that everyone has an equal chance, that everyone has the same opportunity, that everyone experiences the same challenges.
The word is “meritocracy.” It’s a word people often use to talk about our country: that our country is a place where people are chosen and advanced purely on the basis of their hard work, talent, and achievement. Meritocracy means:
Women don’t make as much as men for the same job because, well, they’re not working as hard, aren’t as talented, aren’t achieving as much as men.
Black people are pulled over by the police more than Whites because they’re obviously breaking more traffic laws than Whites.
An Iraqi refugee named Aziz has just as good of a chance to achieve the glories of an upper-middle class American life as a sixth generation, European-American citizen named Michael.
President Obama was questioned for months and years about where he was born because people were so passionate about the truth. That, of course, includes Present Trump—who led the “birther movement.”
White Americans would be just as angry at NFL players if the players kneeling were mostly White—and if these White players were kneeling because they were protesting the low pay firefighters are making fighting the horrific forest fires in California. “This isn’t about the flag,” so many White Americans would say. "This is about justice or being fair to those brave firefighters.”
The original intent of the Declaration of Independence, when it says “All men are created equal,” meant women too—and Black people, and Indigenous people. That what they didn’t mean, at the time, were just White men who owned property.
When the US Census Bureau releases shocking numbers of income inequality between races, they’re just kidding. The latest numbers say the median net worth by race/ethnicity per household: White ($132,483), Hispanic ($12,460), and Black household ($9,211).
I’m far from an expert on racial inequality and systemic racism. I was nervous to speak tonight because I didn’t want to say too much because, well, I really don’t know that much.
I’m just a lower-middle class White guy who’s learning that meritocracy, while a nice idea and maybe something to strive for, isn’t real. It’s a lie.
I’m learning that slavery hasn’t ended—it’s simply evolved.
I’m learning that while we’ve come a long way as a country in terms of treating people with compassion and justice, we have so far to go.
I’m learning, that simply because I’m a While male, I’ve had advantages and opportunities, and quite frankly, power that everyone else hasn’t had. I don’t know the full extent of that power. I just know I have it.
I also know that my primary place, especially at an event like this, is to do a lot more listening than speaking.
It’s been a gradual awakening for me. My friendship with James was important. As was that Fresh Prince of Bel-Air episode I watched when I was in middle school where Will gets pulled over by driving a nice car in the wrong neighborhood. I learned a lot from President Obama’s presidency—how such a seemingly good man was treated so terribly by so many simply because his dad was Black and his name sounded funny. When Trayvon was killed—that was really uncomfortable. When Philando Castile was murdered, I started to get angry—because it seemed so obvious that the only thing he did “wrong” was have the “wrong” skin color. And when Kaepernick took a knee, it seemed like he was drawing attention to some real and important issues.
I applaud Kaepernick’s courage, and yet, so many, it seems, misjudge his intention and blame him for “disrespecting the flag,” when all he’s doing is calling our nation to be who we say we are: a land where all people are created equal.
A year ago at this, I was walking through a Halloween store with my friend Omar. I met Omar four years ago when he came to the Quad Cities as an Iraqi refugee. One of the costumes at the store was a Donald Trump mask. Omar looked at the mask and said “I hope Donald Trump doesn’t get elected.” “Why?” I asked. “Because I don’t want to get sent back to Iraq” Omar said.
When Omar said that, it pissed me off. It was infuriating not because Omar and his family would actually get sent back to Iraq (since Omar was already settled in America, he was safe to stay) but because he really thought he might. That’s stress a middle schooler doesn’t need to feel—a middle schooler who already was getting bullied for his religion, broken English, and hand-me-down wardrobe. The last thing Omar needed, a vulnerable resettled refugee, was to feel even less secure.
I was anxious about Donald Trump being elected, but my anxiety didn’t compare to Omar’s. I’m a White male. The way our society is constructed gives me way more power, opportunity, and security than someone like Omar.
That’s not meritocracy. That’s White Privilege. That’s Male White Privilege.
My response to (Male) White Privilege isn’t to live immobilized in shame, but rather, to mobilize, first, by leaning in and listening, and second, to work to create a better world. To help create a more compassionate and just world where systemic racism is no more.
The tendency, whenever those with Privilege realize they have it, is to deny or blame. It’s one reason so many are bothered by Kaepernick taking a knee. A common response is to either say his peaceful protest isn’t valid or that he’s “he’s disrespecting the flag.” Instead of turning a blind eye or making him the enemy, why won’t we, instead, lean in and listen to Kaepernick?
If taking a knee bothers you, lean in.
If you’re ever been startled like I was in Chicago that March afternoon, lean in. If you’re shocked like I am at the median household income numbers from the US Census Bureau, lean in.
Those of us with White Privilege have moments in our life when we’re confronted with our Privilege. For example, we say we’re not racist—but then our White daughter starts dating her Black classmate and, for “some reason,” it bothers us. We say our country is the “greatest country in the world” but then we watch that Netflix documentary about our country’s history: we (re)learn the stories about how often Africans, Asians, and Indigenous people were enslaved, imprisoned, or flat out eradicated because they weren’t White. We believe oppression is a thing of the past, but then Trayvon Martin dies, and then Eric Garner, and then Philando Castile, and then… We believe our country was founded on the highest ideals and practices, but then we realize which men were created equal…and which ones were not.
Researches say the easiest and most common thing to do, when faced with the pain of our own racism or faced with the reality that we’re participating in systems that perpetuate inequality, is to deny or blame. Let’s commit tonight to stop doing that. May we, instead, lean into the pain—so we might learn from it.
If any of us feel like we have racial privilege, this is our sacred call: to lean into the struggle, to listen and pay attention to the stories of those who oppressed.
To those of us being oppressed, may you continue to fight for equality. To those of us playing some part in perpetuating a system of oppression, may we, first, listen to to our brothers and sisters being oppressed, and second, join with our brothers and sisters in building a world where systemic racism is no more.
