On Racism

I don’t speak publicly about my experience of racism often - not as much as I could anyway, but it’s something I spend time and energy navigating every day.

Some days are much worse than others. Some places, some spaces, hurt more than others - but the awareness is constant. Every move I make, especially in public, is shaped by the question:

How do I keep myself safe?

And it’s hardest when I think I’m in a space, where I can finally relax, where people have already unwound their biases, judgments, projections - only to realize, they haven’t...

The thing is, it’s so hard because you never really know who’s with it and who’s not. What white person is actually safe - and who’s not. So even if I want to be open-hearted with everyone, I have to keep my guard up, be on the defense, wear a mask, have a wall - until I know it’s safe to take it down and down regulate my system.

The racism I experience most often comes in the form of devaluation and disrespect. It shows up in the way white people watch me in a space - curious, measuring, assessing whether I meet some internal standard of acceptability. Whether I’m “white enough,” curated enough, assimilating enough.

Or sometimes people watch in awe - how I move, how I take up space in ways they don’t. Embodied. Expansive. In my power. This is what we call: living under the “Lens of White Critique”.

The act of watching melenated bodies is deeply ingrained in the nervous systems of white-bodied people - whether it’s watching us in awe of our power, strength, and beauty, or in an effort to maintain control or prevent escape from abuse. This surveillance extends to the monitoring of incarcerated bodies of color, to police scrutinizing Black movements, and to the constant association of Blackness with crime. This gaze is pervasive, persistent, and often remains present even under the guise of good intentions.

Devaluation also comes as erasure - as lack of acknowledgement - whether verbal or energetic.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve stood beside a white friend, only to have someone address only them- as if I’m invisible. Or walked down the street and watched a stranger greet the white body next to mine while avoiding eye contact or acknowledgment of my presence. Or entered a room of strangers where I’m actually the one in charge -the leader, the manager - yet still overlooked, as if my presence doesn’t register, as if I couldn’t possibly have the skill or authority to carry the task at hand.

Whether out of fear, discomfort, or unconscious bias it deems my body unworthy of attention, of presence, love, connection - of touch.

https://www.cutproject.org/

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I just bought a new car. And I dress really well these days. Not just because I love beauty and good design - but because these things help keep me safe.

The hat I wear every day isn’t just a hat - it’s a signal. A tool I use to communicate with different kinds of white people. A sign that I belong. That I relate. Sometimes a symbol of wealth. Other times, a quiet nod to the earth.

I’m treated better when I look polished.

To want to know us - not fear us.

To approach us - not just watch us.

To actively care for our bodies in a space, knowing that - unconsciously - you and those around you have been programmed not to.

Your anti-racism is moment-to-moment awareness.

Just like my survival of racism is moment-to-moment awareness.

My survival of racism is not easy. When acute harm happens, on top of the rest of this world, it can spiral my mental health to a faltering place.

Like chronic pain - always there, but often invisible, yet so exhausting - leading one to sometimes just wanting to give up.

Do your anti-racism work.

Not for the performance. But Because Black Lives, just like all lives, depend on care, connection, safety and love.

And don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon b*tches.