White on White

In an earlier post, I wrote about a thread on Facebook, on the page of a popular black blogger, in which she prompted her black readers to ask white readers one question that they'd always wanted to know. In that previous post, I described how, while the thread contained a great deal of good discussion and what seemed to be real discovery for many people, there was also a theme that kept popping up among white respondents who did not find themselves identifying with some of the questions that were asked. Time after time, commenters who were white, but did not recognize themselves in some particular aspect of a question, responded by giving some version of the answer "I guess I must not really be white," or even, "I guess I must be black."

This joke, I wrote, can be a joke for people who have the option of seeing their race as inconsequential. Like other serious subjects, it is easy to joke about if it has not touched you in ways that are painful or difficult. If it is not a matter of life or death.

Today, however, I'd like to pose a different question. And that is, when is a joke not a joke?

I think that most of us haven't reached adulthood without realizing that at the root of all jokes is some kernel of truth, or at least the intention of one. All of us, I imagine, have at some point been on the receiving end of a "joking" statement that hit too close to home, or was knowingly meant to hurt. That's a negative example, but there are positive ones also--in fact, I'd guess that most of the jokes that the majority of us encounter in our lives are well-meaning, and often occur without any conscious intentional subtext. Nevertheless, it's the truth behind the joke that makes it funny, and I also think that can tell us something important about what the speaker is really saying, even if it's not something they are conscious of trying to communicate.

In all these responses where white people joked about not being white, I believe there was an intended kernel of truth that is important to see and name. Despite all the protests admonishing me to lighten up, enjoy the fun, and appreciate the joke when I suggested that maybe the joke wasn't appropriate, I believe that at some level, the joke wasn't really even a joke.

What I heard, over and over, was a striving to separate from whiteness--to say, "I'm not THAT kind of white." Some people even went farther in putting this into words. I saw responses that said, "There is Florida person white and other person white." More than one person adopted, "I am invited-to-the-cookout white and you are I-want-to-see-the-manager white." As a white person, I heard other white people working hard to say two things. First, "I am one of the good white people. No, really. I'm a good one." And second, "I'm like you. We think alike. I know just what you're talking about. All those other white people might be clueless as hell, but I get it."

I believe I can hear these things being said because I can identify with the impulse to say them. I think our shared history in this country, a history of racism and oppression, acknowledged by all, not only has deep roots on which we are all drawing, but casts long shadows in which we are all still living. Racial discrimination and inequality in this country are not things of the past. And while both the marginalized and the privileged may wish it were so, we are coming to that wish with different motivations, and often with different understandings of how to make that reality.

People and communities of color understand that the only way to overcome and move forward from our past is to face it head on. Our legacy of racism and injustice must be acknowledged honestly in order to be reckoned with. But for those of us whose white skin has afforded us generations of privilege at the expense of people of color, there can be a deep desire to move away from the shameful heritage of oppression in our past by a process of disassociation--to say, "I am not one of the people who caused this, I am not one who perpetuates it, I have no desire to prolong it." We feel the need to distinguish ourselves from the bad actors of both the past and the present. This is not only because it is painful to connect ourselves to unjustifiable wrongdoing, but because it is difficult to admit that our connection to it could create feelings of anger, resentment, and animosity, and that it's reasonable and appropriate if those feelings are directed toward us, even if we aren't personally, intentionally, individually responsible for specific instances of this wrongdoing. It would be much easier, much more pleasant, to put all that behind us--not only to expect to be already forgiven, but to expect it to be understood that we don't need to be forgiven, that we have nothing to be forgiven for--and to move on to being friends. We would like to focus on being accepted by each other, on being liked by each other, on being like each other. Instead of doing the hard work of listening, hearing, understanding, we would like people of color to know that we already understand. That we never would have made those mistakes in the first place like our ancestors did, like those other people did. Because we are the cool white people, the woke white people, the nice white people, the innocent white people. We get it. And we hope this will make everything OK again.

The problem with all this is that, of course, it can never make everything OK. Racism and discrimination continue to exist. White privilege is still real. And one of the things that allows these injustices to endure is a persistent refusal by those of us who benefit from them to allow ourselves to be made uncomfortable by acknowledging that benefit, which is the bright dividing line between us, and in which we are complicit. But the line is still there--our refusal to acknowledge it, as with so many things, makes it no less true. Paradoxically, our refusal only highlights the reality of the distance between our experience and the experience of those on the other side of the line. We don't get it. We can't get it, and we won't get it. And the worst thing we could do, under these circumstances, is insist on acting as though we do.

I know all this is difficult to swallow, but if we can make it past the worst of it, there is good news. The good news is, fellow white people, we don't have to get it, we just have to receive it. We need to listen--humbly, and without defensiveness; we need to make our best efforts to understand how our actions have impacted others and continue to do so; we need to take the initiative in finding out how we can be an ally; we need to be open to hearing about our own mistakes. But we cannot gloss over or seek to eradicate our differences by distancing ourselves from our white experience. It's important that we respect the dignity and make room for the voices of people of color, but it is equally important that we own the responsibility and the power of our whiteness. We must be able to see ourselves clearly and come to terms with that truth in order to move forward together honestly and with real humility, not just shame or guilt. The barriers between us can never come down until we learn to accept and appreciate both ourselves and others, just as we are.

White Noise

Yesterday, on Facebook, the source of much of the world's troubles, a popular black blogger posted this query:

Okay black people...

ask white people one

question you always

wanted to know 🤣

The resulting thread was fascinating. Responses were funny, touching, wise, and real. I learned a LOT. Some themes just kept recurring. For example, white people, if you, like me, were under the impression that mac and cheese can be a main dish, we have all apparently made a grave error. Discussions ranged from the absurd--"What is a Hooting Nanny?? Did I spell that right?"--to the sublime--"You do know Jesus wasn't white, right?" 

Soon, though, another theme began to make itself apparent. Not all white people recognized themselves in all the questions. And when that happened, white people who don't let their dogs lick their mouths, or who don't put raisins in their potato salad (WHO DOES THIS, I MEAN IT), or who always use a washcloth when they shower, began responding with a similar comment--"I guess I must not be white!"  White person after white person responded to questions by saying, "I sure don't say, 'I'm just going to sneak by you', and I don't know anyone who does--I guess I must be black!"

At some point, one of the commenters called this out. "What a white person response," she said.  I was relieved, honestly, that someone else brought it up, because I was feeling uneasy. Which is what I said in my own comment of agreement. Maybe, instead, we could say, "This one doesn't apply to me," or "I don't do any of these things," I suggested. But it seemed to me like maybe it's a bit disingenuous to answer by distancing ourselves from our white experience, when the whole point of the post is to elicit honest discussion about it. After all, even if we can't relate to the specific question, we are white. We're not black. So maybe, although it is important to acknowledge what we have in common, it's not respectful to act like we're the same.

You might be able to guess what happened next.

Replies started rolling in to my comment. I was being too serious, they informed me.  People were just joking. Couldn't I keep things light, funny? Why did I have to ruin everything? It's all in good fun, there is no harm done. Why did I, one person asked me, have to make everything about skin color, when we are all just humans? 

Now, I think it's pretty obvious that the entire point of the original post was to spark discussion between people of different skin colors, so this was hardly a difference being raised by me. Also, on this post, questions have been asked such as, "If you're not a racist, why don't you speak up when you see racism?" So I also don't believe I was personally bringing down all 800K+ commenters with my seriousness. However, if you guessed that all the people who immediately chimed in to tell me that it is fine for white people to make this joke, and I am wrong for suggesting that it might not be OK, are, in fact, white people, you would be correct.

I will be the first to admit that I know nothing about this, and I might be wrong and all those other white people might be right. However, here's what I do know. I'm a single mom. I haven't always been one, just for the last six years. Just while my kids went through adolescence, so no big deal. 🙄  Sometimes, I will hear a married mom, when her husband is out of town on a trip, or is working long hours, or is temporarily physically separated from her for some reason, jokingly talk about how she is a "single mom for the weekend", or some other similar phrase. And I know this. You can't be a single mom for the weekend. Not for the day, not for a month, not for a while. If you have a partner in life, in responsibility, in investment in your children, with an equal share of hope and dread and fear and joy in everything that you carry together, you are not a single mom. 

Before anyone gets all upset (as if that didn't already happen back there when I started talking about white people), I'm not trying to say that every mom's job isn't a hard one. We are all just slugging it out the best we can. But the experience of a single parent is a different kind of hard. And it's a kind that is difficult to understand unless that experience has been yours. It's OK. There's no blame and there's no shame. But it's not all right for you to invoke it so casually. It's an unintended, well-meaning blow to those of us who are just white-knuckling it through the real thing. 

I'm not the first to point this out. There are hundreds of articles, blog posts, and online discussions about it--Google it and you'll see. And it's not the only thing of its kind. Many of you may have just recently seen all the social media posts around April Fool's Day, asking people to realize that it's not a funny joke to read your fake pregnancy announcement for someone who has just experienced their third miscarriage. Another example is the conversation I had with my teenage son about why some girl was "overreacting" to a joke someone (thankfully not him) made, that she called sexual harassment. To you, I told him, it was just a dick joke, because to you, it can be. It can be that way to everyone who never had to hear an unwanted dick joke when they were just being a professional, respectfully doing their job. Those of us who are parenting together can be unaware of the challenges of parenting alone, and those of us who haven't battled infertility can be cavalier about surprise pregnancies, and those who don't feel sexually endangered (largely men) are often unconscious of the constant vigilance that is routinely experienced by women.

We all have some area in which we have been untouched by pain or struggle, and this can make us not only insensitive, but unseeing, to the difference between our experience and that of others. For those of us who are white, our race has often been an invisible experience, seen only by those who don't share it with us. Our whiteness is so taken for granted that it is simply part of the backdrop of our lives, real white noise--constant yet unheard, blocking out all other sound. It seems harmless to us to set it aside, to say, lightheartedly, "Well I guess I'm really a black person!" But when I listen to my non-white friends, race is not something they can jokingly set aside. They cannot un-see their own skin color, cannot, as one of my scolding commenters on the Facebook thread told me, feel free to "identify" with whatever race they choose, black or white. In many ways, blackness defines their experience of the world, and it is a vastly different experience than anything myself and my white friends can identify with just because we might think we share an equal knowledge of how to correctly season chicken or discipline our children.

The bottom line is that jokes are made by people who can afford them--the people who have power, or safety, or resources. But if you feel unsafe, the constant recipient of unwanted attention that invades your space and violates your bodily autonomy; if you are in pain and grieving the loss of something deeply wanted and longed for; if you are struggling just to make it through the day, deeply convinced that you are never doing enough, can never be enough; if you continuously experience a deck stacked against you and the constant invalidation of your dignity, your personhood--it's hard for the joke to sit lightly. As a result, when we are in the power position, the position to joke, we can instead unknowingly hurt, and I think that means we have a responsibility to be more careful. All I'm saying is maybe we should consider it. I'd like to try.