I have been quiet on this. My brain churns relentlessly behind my mute white ambivalence. What could I possibly have to contribute? Over here in my privileged reality, wrestling with my white guilt, wondering what my role could be in this hate-filled divided world. I have benefited my entire life from the oppression my white ancestors participated in: building a country on the backs of kidnapped and enslaved black people, on land that was stolen from brown skinned people who were here first. I am white. No one pulls me over, handcuffs me, kneels on my neck. I do not struggle for breath. I do not have to teach my children how to avoid being killed in the streets.
My worries are the luxuries of the unburdened.
I worry about our distressed Earth, the cruelty of factory farming, the mad man at the helm and unchecked greed. Also, how to slow climate change, is remote learning working, invasive plants, how bad will hurricane season be, what’s wrong with my dog, are the kids okay, soil erosion, and what happens after we die? I worry these things all while tucked safely inside my white skin.
I am privileged. I can breathe. I do not fit a profile. I get the benefit of the doubt. I am not on the ground with my face in the dirt. No one kneels on my neck.
I fret about how divided we are, hate crimes and racism, pervasive ignorance, generational bias, systemic oppression, whether I’m doing enough (I’m not). Also current and future pandemics, police brutality, voting accessibility, and food deserts. Not to mention what’s happened to all the bats, when will the shunt in my husband’s brain fail, why are those two blueberry bushes turning yellow, are my parents okay, when was the last time I washed my sheets, and what will happen to the polar bears?
All while hermetically sheathed in my white skin. I am privileged. I can breathe. No one has their knee on my neck.
I toss and turn, not sleeping, not dreaming, a sweaty fitful non-rest. I wear a face mask, go to a vigil, say the names of those who have been killed. I listen to descriptions of black and brown skinned people killed in the streets, or in their backyards, or in their own homes. Feeling like an imposter in someone else’s cause, I lay down flowers and share the silence. I participate by choice. Nothing I do or say matters enough to make any kind of a difference. I am complicit. I feel bad about all of it. And then I go home.
And on the way home no one pulls me from my car. I am not put in handcuffs or pushed to the ground. I am not chased or beaten or afraid for my life. I am not held down. No one kneels on my neck.
White. Privileged. Irrelevant. Safe. I read books in a comfortable bed. I think about the things that trouble me with a backdrop of bird song, abundant gardens, and leisure time to run through the woods. I decide to do something or not do something on a daily basis. Because I can. Or I don’t have to. Who am I to speak? What can I possibly contribute to the conversation? Why do my thoughts matter? Are more white voices really part of the solution? Shouldn’t we be doing more listening than talking right now? My angst is the opulent distraction of the safe, the blue eyed and ivory skinned, the un-inflicted.
In the end, it is three words that propel me to break my silence. Three words painted in black ink on white poster boards carried down streets and sidewalks everywhere: Silence is violence.