When It All Boils Over
It’s Sunday. I begin writing this as I glance at the security cameras for the SoHo condo where I work. My eyes are mostly on the exterior, focused on the giant windows of the Dainese retail storefront at the point of the flatiron-shaped building, as well as the vehicles parked along the side, which include my motorcycle, hoping the teenagers that descended upon this neighborhood to wreak havoc don’t bring any harm to my environs as they flee down the sidewalks with trash bags full of looted designerwear, jumping into luxury cars waiting for them. On this night, I’m frustrated. It’s hard not to be angry, but I know it’s a symptom of a bigger disease, one that has taken a big hit to the face over the last few days.
I woke up feeling utterly exhausted, flattened both by the trials of personal life and the added weight of the world in all its current pain. But then I opened my phone and saw a black square. I scrolled through six more before I saw something different, then more black squares, followed by posts about those black squares and how to tag them, and posts on calls to action. It brought me back to what I had been seeing across my social feeds the past few days: a complete embrace of change, sharing of pain, sincere attempts at empathy, and most importantly, acknowledgement of privilege and a responsibility to listen.
I’m used to the incisive posts from the usual outspoken agitators I could always count on for a great take on a well-researched highbrow article. But these were coming from everyone: childhood classmates, community elders, church ladies, college peers, coworkers. People who I had never previously seen share more than vacation pictures and stories about their pets or kids. People I had never seen as political or culturally engaged or even jumping on social bandwagons for a few quick likes. And, to my own shame, people who I assumed would lack the empathy or self/social-awareness to hold those perspectives.
For so many people, my understanding of their inner thoughts and complexities were limited to the narrow context through which I knew them. It turns out I underestimated the awareness and investment of the people around me. It’s hard to look inward and accept you aren’t wholly self-made, that you have unearned advantages built on the suffering of others, and that you can never truly understand what it’s like to exist outside of that. Getting to that point of acceptance is a painful journey an encouraging number of you have taken. Here’s mine:
I grew up in a small town a lot of you were familiar with. There was one black person in my elementary school, where we learned about slavery, Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglass, and Martin Luther King Jr. Funny names and darker colors meant people came from different places. There was an Indian kid that got called “chocolate boy,” and this seemed wrong to me and what I had been taught, even though he didn’t seem to mind and was otherwise treated fine. There was one black lady at our church of 400, and she was an active and respected leader. My grandparents ran an urban ministry in the grittier parts of Philly, D.C., Buffalo, Lancaster, and York, and had a camp managed by leaders of all colors that had come through the program. Racism, to me, fell in the broad category of bullying people for their differences.
Later, in my same small town, fewer than 10 people at my high school of 1200 were black. We watched Glory in history class and learned about Crispus Attucks, Nat Turner, Emmitt Till and Marcus Garvey. We listened to Marion Anderson and Duke Ellington in music class, read Fallen Angels and analyzed the work of Langston Hughes in English, and studied the Harlem Renaissance. We even included a Kwanzaa song in our holiday choral performance in an effort to be inclusive (there was a Hanukkah song too, and we had even fewer Jewish people than black ones). I came to understand brown skin as an indicator of poverty, mark of disadvantage, and occasionally a target of bad people. Aside from one jarring instance in 11th grade when I heard the n-word used disparagingly by a peer (but at least not directed at someone), all this remained academic. I understood, factually, that there had been slavery, Jim Crow, segregation, that black people were on average, poorer, and that somewhere out there, there were still racists of the hood-wearing and swastika-tattooed variety. But I had never seen a black person treated poorly, held no ill-will of my own towards minorities, and saw the situation as mostly fixed. We just needed a few more racists to die out and for black people to bootstrap the rest.
I headed off to college in 2004, a Christian environment outside another small town. Despite the superficial familiarity, things would get a little ugly for me. My assigned roommate was black (one of maybe 100 in a campus of 2900). It struck me as odd, when walking to dinner with him and my parents on move-in day, a black student leader approached to welcome him while barely acknowledging me. David was from a middle-class black suburb of DC, wore knee-length white tees and Cavaliers jerseys, and listened to gospel go-go music, a unique Washington-area black cultural export. It was all pretty foreign to me, but I recognized his outlier status during Welcome Week and tried to invite him out whenever my nascent social group was doing anything. With time though, first-year students of color drifted into the orbit of existing minority circles, gradually pulled closer by the gravity of their shared identity. Seeing black students mostly sitting at the same tables in the cafeteria started to eat at me. My idea of what was right was to be post-racial. If they wanted to be treated as equal, why were they self-segregating, and why did I not feel welcome at their table? I had signed up for African history and multicultural communication electives. Why did I feel like my whiteness was under attack in core courses when I had never done anything wrong? I grew defensive, resentful, openly complaining about the fact that marginalized people wouldn’t get aboard the white idea of equality. I said things I’m not proud of and made arguments I would consider incredibly ignorant today.
Of the student approaching my roommate, my narrow perspective prevented me from seeing an imperfect vessel using his position to make sure someone who looked sorely out of place knew he had a home there (my roommate eventually married a classmate and stayed in the area). Of the kids sitting together (several of whom went on to work there after graduation), I couldn’t see that I was viewing my whiteness as default, and taking for granted the comfort I had in being overwhelmingly surrounded by people who looked like me and had similar life experiences as I did. I couldn’t see that in order to earn a figurative seat at that table, I had to come with an attitude of humility, to put in the work to understand their perspective and know when to stay silent even if I disagreed (this inability to step outside of myself in more than a superficial way was the main driver of my racial animosity). In my social psychology class, I immediately took issue with a handout on examples of white privilege - an idea that wasn’t in the mainstream in 2006, and took part in a discussion where I argued against its validity. I used my and my white peers’ calm and unjudging statements against the animated, emotional, and sometimes jumbled responses of my black classmates as evidence, somehow, that my opinion was more logical and grounded, when really, I was uninformed and myopic. I remember vividly a moment when I glanced at the professor (Dr. Stevick, for my peers) during the course of the exchange. He didn’t weigh in, just watched while leaning against the desk. I still wonder what he was thinking as this played out, if he knew the best he could do was introduce those ideas, let the immediate conversation breathe and hope it bore fruit in the coming days, weeks, months and years.
This wasn’t the only instance I was confronted with the concept of white privilege through the course of various classes, events, and seminars, (and it happened too long ago for me to evaluate the effectiveness of how it was introduced to naive white children) but I do know I confronted it with defensiveness instead of an open mind. I didn’t want to believe that I was any more than an innocent bystander, that my responsibility extended beyond simply the golden rule, that there was so much that still needed to be undone. I clung to the words of black Republicans (officials I admired like Colin and Condi, as well as peers I looked up to like Chris) as affirmation of a socially conservative worldview, referenced Bill Cosby’s (whoops) admonishment of black youth for sagging their pants and black fathers for running out on their responsibility to their children. I kept anecdotes of my roommate’s car being stolen by a black man in Harrisburg, my girlfriend being mugged by black teens in Harlem, and me being the victim of road rage by an SUV full of black women in my back pocket, not as examples of black inferiority but as justification for why some people feared them, in case the discussion came up.
My friends and I joked about race insensitively, quoted movie and song lines we didn’t have the right to speak, often dismissed cultural differences we didn’t understand, and then laughed at comics like Dave Chappelle for the wrong reasons. I do think my exposure to the often crass self-deprecation of comedy put the first few chips in my own defensive facade, paving the way to my eventual self-awareness and acknowledgement of systemic inequality.
I took some time off from school and moved back home. I remember being out for a run in town. I was pacing down the sidewalk, closing in on a black male walking the same direction. The closer I got, the more nervous I became, and I noticed my fight-or-flight adrenaline seeping out. Just as I went to pass him, he jumped, yelped, and in the most unintimidating voice imaginable declared “you scared me!” He was a baby-faced kid in his late teens, wearing a white dress shirt under his jacket and a pair of slacks, completing what I assume was either a private school or Jehovah’s Witness uniform. I smiled and kept running, but I was immediately embarrassed, ashamed even. I had spent so much mental energy over the past two years building up resistance and arguments in defense against what I thought were attacks on my whiteness and moral compass that they had given life to attitudes and fears that didn’t represent who I was.
Over the next few years, I was more intentional about seeking out new perspectives. I read more from thought leaders like Ta-Nehisi Coates and Cornel West. I began a long process of dismantling those walls I had put up to protect my childish innocence. In a sadder-but-wiser sense, I began to “see color.” Any interaction I had with black people, particularly strangers, I took the same approach that I had already learned to use with persons with disabilities: be aware of the social power dynamic, their likely past experience, and my subconscious words and actions that might be perceived as microaggressions.
One experience stands out in my mind as my graduation of my self-education on wokeness that began with that afternoon jog in E-Town. I was at the mall, in one of four blandly indistinguishable department stores shopping for some article of clothing. A black man, probably early 20’s, backed away from a clothing rack he was browsing and bumped into me. His apology was immediate, loud, and embarrassingly conciliatory. His posture shrunk and his facial expression softened, eyes wide like a begging child or fearful animal. I again brushed it off with a smile, but what had happened made me incredibly uncomfortable. All the details of our interaction were the product of implicit and explicit conditioning. He was in an environment often hostile to black people, where their every move is watched and scrutinized under sterile white shopping mall lighting. When he bumped into me, he reacted the way he did because someone, likely a family member looking out for his well-being taught him to. Look up “the talk.” He made himself small, weak, fragile, inoffensive, like he probably had so many times before to avoid the type of interactions that lead to harassment, getting turned away, being arrested, or worse. I was, willingly or not, part of the problem, and I needed to do everything I could to work towards a solution.
The wave of attention brought to the civilian and police killings of innocent or unarmed black people, beginning with Trayvon Martin in 2013 and Michal Brown in 2014, stirred many to action. But I saw just as many, people who I care about and know to be good humans, dig in their heels just as I had earlier, trying to justify the deaths, and minimize the significance of both individual events and the broader problem, while employing dismissive phrases like “he should have complied,” “what about black-on-black crime,” or “all lives matter,” and playing savior to the flawed institution of policing or the unjust concept of vigilantism.
This time feels different. Those reactionary voices are now few and far between on my feeds. Even in the more toxic corners of Twitter fed by bots and trolls, and the ignorant myopia of sheltered small town community Facebook groups, the opposition is vocal. I’m immensely proud of my friends and acquaintances who have come forward from their comfortable lives to say: “Enough is enough. I’m here to speak out, hear your truth, and take an active role in making things better.” Your presence has inspired me, and the public opinions of many civil servants and public officials give me hope. But it’s just the start.
It’s now Thursday. I stepped outside at 8:00pm, for a nightly act of resistance organized by occupants of the building across the street. They stood with signs in defiance of the citywide curfew in solidarity with the oppressed. But everyone I saw was white. It reminded me of the uncomfortable dynamic of my own neighborhood and my own continuing subtle clinging to my comfort zone. Now, I embraced intentionally moving into a minority-white neighborhood, but I couldn’t ignore the influence of three words on my apartment listing: “West of Broadway.” It meant, implicitly, quieter, safer, cleaner. Less brown.
Was this genuine racial bias, or me as one of the black kids from college scanning the cafeteria for a table that felt familiar? Maybe some of both, but it reminded me I have to continue evaluating both my thoughts and actions through the lens of racial inequality. If you are just beginning this journey, a white person emerging from the gates of your comfort zone you thought contained peace and equality, let me tell you it will be difficult. Get comfortable with the idea of you having unearned advantages. Accept that, despite your own hurdles, others have had to face much more to make it to the same position in life. Know that you can never fully understand the experience of being black in America, no matter how hard you try. Even when you don’t understand how that existence is experienced daily, accept it as truth. Know that you’ll get mixed instructions: ask your black friends about race - don’t bother your black friends, do your own research. Participate in black culture - don’t appropriate, leave space for blackness. Take to the front lines - stand in the back and don’t co-opt. Speak up - don’t whitesplain. Seek compromise - burn it all down. Accept the paradox of these instructions all being right.
Be humble. Be humble. Be humble. You’ll mess up. You will be dismissed, scolded, and corrected, sometimes abrasively, by the people you’re trying to help. Listen anyway. Their anger and frustration, formed over a lifetime of existence under a system that devalues them, outweighs your pride, pride that itself is rooted in privilege. There’s even a good chance I’ve typed something in this essay I’ll get called out for - I’ll learn from it. Keep learning, keep advocating, keep fighting. A friend of mine I admire from college has gone through several evolutions as an activist. They put it well in this public post:
Hey folks, just a friendly reminder that if you get "called out" it's a great opportunity to not think about your intentions but about the effect. We all have good intentions. Sometimes there wasn't even a better way to handle something than how we handled it, and it's about being aware for the future or just taking a moment of empathy. It's not a time to absolve yourself, say you aren't racist, list the things you are doing correctly, but a time to be humble and recommit to the fight.
Trust me, I know, it feels bad. Don't take it personally, even if you feel it's misguided. People won't remember the original matter, they'll remember your response. (Again, even if you feel the call-out is wrong or misguided! It's not the time to argue about it! As someone who conflates my value with what other people perceive of me I know this sucks!)
-Tyler Chick
When you see injustice, say something. Don’t defer to the fragility of your friends and family. Be irritating. Too often, I moderated my message, fearing it might be “too much,” and frustrating people who I care about but disagree with me. That ended for me when I saw the news on May 26, and the flood of righteous anger and sadness from all of you that followed. Thank you.
George Floyd’s 6-year-old daughter was recently filmed stating the profound: “Daddy changed the world.” This is already true, but to what degree depends on how we speak, listen, and act in the coming weeks, months, and years. Systemic racism and police brutality (two different, but heavily overlapping issues) are deeply woven into our society, and will take an immense amount of energy and endurance to dismantle. But the volume, depth, and conviction of your response has me hopeful we’ll get there.
During the nine minutes my neighbors and I stood outside, representative of the nine minutes George Floyd spent with a knee to his neck, a woman led a call and response of names, lasting the full time. Though a stain on America, let these deaths not be in vain.
Trayvon Martin. Michael Brown. Dontre Hamilton. Eric Garner. John Crawford. Ezell Ford. Laquan McDonald. Akai Gurley. Tamir Rice. Antonio Martin. Jerame Reid. Renisha McBride. Charley Leundeu Keunang. Tony Robinson. Anthony Hill. Meagan Hockaday. Eric Harris. Walter Scott. Freddie Gray. William Chapman. Jonathan Sanders. Sandra Bland. Samuel DuBose. Jeremy McDole. Corey Jones. Jamar Clark. The Charleston Nine. Aiyana Jones. Rekia Boyd. Timothy Russell. Malissa Williams. Jamar Clark. Bruce Kelley Jr. Alton Sterling. Philando Castile. Joseph Mann. Abdirahman Abdi. Paul O’Neal. Korryn Gaines. Syville Smith. Terence Crutcher. Keith Lamont Scott. Alfred Olango. Deborah Danner. Elijah McClain. Ahmaud Arbery. Botham Jean. Atatiana Jefferson. Jordan Davis. Omarian Banks. Allan Feliz. Breonna Taylor. David McAtee. The collateral deaths of Officers Lorne Ahrens, Michael Krol, Michael Smith, Brent Thompson, and Patrick Zamarripa. And many more. Remember their names.
Further Resources
A visual primer on systemic racism
List of Articles, Books, Movies, Etc.
*for the names above, if you only have time for a few, the stories that were most frustrating for me were Tamir Rice, John Crawford, and Atatiana Jefferson