I’m a white American man who has lived on three continents and traveled on five. I’ve brushed shoulders with people of dozens of different ethnicities and nationalities. I’ve even taught — for years — on the beauty of the human patchwork and the importance of finding and celebrating the good, true and beautiful in every culture.
And yet our learning journey never stops. They say a good teacher is one who never stops learning, and I hope this will always be the case for me.
Ever since I can remember, I considered myself colorblind when it comes to race. If you know me well, you’ll see the humor in this statement, as I actually am colorblind. Not that I only see black and white and shades of grey, but I definitely miss a lot of what others see, as well as often mis-identify colors I do see. I find it impossible to explain to others, and look forward to the next life when I will be overwhelmed by the dazzling array of colors that awaits me.
This has actually been an important metaphor for me for years. The spectacle of the full spectrum of colors I expect to see in the next life has been a symbol to me of the incredible palette of humanity we see here and now. You know, “red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight,” and all that. And this is as beautiful to me now as it ever has been.
And yet…I had a serious blind spot. We all have them. It’s fascinating to me how blind spots can be so insidious, how they’re so good at remaining out of sight, and often for so long… and I often find myself wondering why.
About four years ago, I interviewed for my podcast a mixed-race couple who are dear friends of mine. I asked them questions on what it’s like to live as a biracial couple in today’s United States, particularly the South. The conversation was challenging and enlightening, and I encourage you to listen to it. But one part in particular stands out in my memory. I told my friend Mike I had always considered myself colorblind. (If I’m honest, it was actually a point of pride for me.) I’ll never forget his reply: “I just wish I had that luxury.” That simple sentence has lodged itself in my memory.
Around the same time, my wife Becky and I had developed a new course for high school juniors and seniors called Global Studies at the college prep tutorial where we teach. We designed the course to expose these amazing kids to the big, beautiful world (not the big, bad world). The course includes an overview of the main culture “clusters” that make up this human patchwork, but also highlighting some of the great contemporary issues we are facing on a global scale. The first such issue we look at is racism. We decided back then to shine a spotlight on the Black Lives Matter movement, still in its nascent stage at the time. Our required reading for the class included an excerpt from Ta-Nehisi Coates’ amazing book, Between the World and Me. Between that and other research we did along with our students, I began to discover layers of systemic racism I was previously only mildly aware of. It is one thing to be made aware of individual cases of racism, not to mention of course the history of racism in our country; it is another thing to discover, largely through simple yet telling statistics, how the odds in our systems are stacked against people of color.
We listened to testimonials of black men who had been pulled over multiple times by policemen for no apparent reason, other than the color of their skin posing some kind of apparent threat. We listened to conversations black parents have to have with their children, from a young age, about how to conduct themselves in certain situations — and not just when you get pulled over in your car.
This was not a case of willful ignorance, as I frankly believe is sometimes the case, but as I said, a major blind spot. I cannot unlearn or unhear what I now know, which leads me to a higher level of responsibility.
It must be said, however, that not all black people have felt the weight of the metaphorical knee of oppression on their neck to the same degree. Just today, a black friend of mine posted on Facebook, asking “what would happen if we stopped telling our kids that they’ll never make it, they are going to be oppressed and they will always be less than somebody else.” He credits his mother, who raised four children on her own, with guiding them, praying for them, and giving them room to make their own way.
While I am encouraged at such testimonials and am so happy my friend apparently hasn’t suffered under the abuse or neglect of white-controlled culture, for me it doesn’t negate the presence of injustices on a societal level, the focus of the current tidal wave we find ourselves living through. It doesn’t negate the need for police reform, including police culture, police training, and addressing the militarization of American policing over recent decades. It doesn’t negate other systemic issues such as minority salaries or equal educational access for minorities. And I could of course go on.
I’m still learning, but this much I believe: we white people don’t get to dictate the terms of the reform. Our most important role is to listen — not to opine about all lives mattering, which completely misses the point. But I can’t come down too hard on those who chant this mantra — they used to be me.
Here’s to dealing with those damned blind spots, whenever they raise their ugly heads.