Bully Pulpit

A bully has taken the game. A game of power where bullies excel, all the others sit dumbfounded because this bully that has been placed in power is louder and brasher than all the other bullies. The others look on and can’t imagine how this bully can be so impossible. They had the game rigged with keeping up appearances and subtle nods to equality that would keep their constituents just satisfied enough to look past the underlying manipulation, but their bluff was called and an “honest man of the people” was put in the President’s chair. Finally, the people, though not the majority, pulled the mask off Washington and showed them what we already knew was true. Though no one dared speak it. The game is not only rigged, most are only there to serve themselves. And no one really wants to change the rules. In fact, what are the rules to those who can make and take them in a day? So now the junior bullies look on in disbelief, but won’t take impactful action to throw the President out because they may show or may themselves be revealed as the manipulators and self-serving grabbers they are.

Oh, but there are a handful of good ones. Presently, the number of good folks in Washington may be the highest number in history. Those voices (most female) are making quite the fuss- turning over tables and announcing the king has no clothes- but as they’ve always been, they are shushed back and asked to be respectful. After all, no one wants to truly upset the status quo (read majority White patriarchy). Besides, there are so many checks and balances, how much harm could this imbecile of a President possibly do?

race talk as a white girl

I got on the train and noticed only shades of brown from coffee to dark earth. No one seemed to notice me and no one made space for me. I had no expectations of either. It was my first day of work and the train would take me from Brooklyn to Midtown Manhattan. On the way home that same afternoon, I got on the train and noticed a lot more creamy beige to pink faces. We got to my stop, the first stop in Brooklyn, and it seemed all the fair-skinned folks exited the train. That’s when I realized, I’d moved into Honkey Heights. I thought sarcastically, “Well, mom would be glad. I found the one neighborhood in Brooklyn that is safely white enough.”

I would walk down the streets of New York and see so much diversity. It was a thing I’d never really known growing up in Texas, then being in Colorado and stationed with the Navy in Washington. I’d worked with many people from the Philippines, as well as blacks and Latinos. I’d always gravitated toward people from other cultures and had dated many guys of varying skin tones – often not bothering to ask about heritage because it would come up if it was significant. I had experienced huge fights with my mother over dating “black” guys, but I still dated the people I liked – smile, smarts, eyes – regardless of color. My grandmother grew up in Arkansas in the 20s, she was unapologetically racist and I called her on it, but of course it was a quiet “house racism.” She may have been racist, but she sure would be friendly face-to-face, afterall, “Times have changed.” But through all that I’d never personally felt uneasiness or openly, public race negativity until I moved to Brooklyn.

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Once in Brooklyn, I heard race. Shopkeepers switched languages with different customers. Customers made barely under-the-breath comments about the immigrant shopkeepers trying to gyp or jew them out of change. High school kids hooted and hollered on trains, laughing about their day, or commiserating about having been slighted.

Kids threw around color descriptors (which while not negative, I’d never heard in public).

“You know that new girl?”

“The coffee baby?”

“No, fool, the darker girl with the tight baby dreads.”

When we later rented an apartment from a Hasidic family, the wife refused to shake my husband’s hand when we signed the lease and the husband would not take my rent check from my hand – rather I had to place the check on a counter and he would pick it up. They were not culturally permitted to touch Gentiles or opposite sex is my understanding now. 

I soon spoke to a shop owner who wanted me to be sure to know we had moved into a Puerto Rican neighborhood, not Dominican. (Which is also very different than a Dominica area, do not be mistaken.)

Cops would get on trains and I would see darker skin folks avert their eyes. Blue intimidation had arrived.

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This blatant race talk and behavior of cultural division shocked me. I thought I’d moved into one the most diverse places in the country and with that I somehow expected there would be openness and acceptance. Was I ever naïve.

The thing about it all however, was I never knew how Talk About It. I was the white girl from Texas, what did I know or what could I possibly contribute/change and more immediately was it any of my business? I was just one, insignificant, uneducated voice. Now, ten years later, as a mother, having grown through a divorce, our return to Texas, and a country stirs with ongoing racial tensions, I have that question even more.

As a white privileged (need we even put those two words together?) woman, I am intimidated to talk about race. I’m afraid I’ll insult someone or be misunderstood. I fear my good intention will lead to no progress so trying seems almost pointless. And before you tell me my fear is nothing compared to the fear of living Black in America, let me say I know I am being a fool to think all the things I think. I recently read an article that pointed out white people are “deathly afraid, even if unconsciously, of falling off the pedestal.”*

The balanced and sane amongst us so badly want to be in the moral and ethical side of race politics that we are frozen in a place of inertia that appears apathetic. I want to fall off that pedestal, but the problems of race in this country are So Big that I don’t even know where to start a conversation on race. Sure, I talk amongst my white friends and we wring our hands and say things need to change, but then we go back to sharing videos of cats smacking dogs.

And that might be just the thing we do not get as a country. As a social majority, white folks are like a bunch of damn cats running around acting like they are sharing space, but in truth getting everything they please and leaving the leftovers for the systematically disadvantaged. And minority groups are those poor, beaten dogs who get fussed at if they ever bark at the cat or growl when the cat, once again, steals their bed. They are told to be happy with having a new bed to share because they no longer have to sleep outside, but the problem is the bed isn’t really theirs and can get taken at any time for no good reason. And our police and laws keep the imbalance in motion. 

White folks are running around, perching high on our pedestals, and burying our shit so it don’t stink. When anyone tells us we should clean out the litter we give them a self-important swipe:

“Oh, but that’s not ME. I accept everyone.”

“I would speak out if I saw a cop out of line.”

“But the Civil Rights movement brought equality.”

“But I do everything I can.”

The reality is I might accept everyone, but what do I do to embrace those I do not know, those whose struggles I’ll never be able to truly sympathize with? How do I learn?

The reality is if I ever saw a cop behaving out of line, I’d likely be terrified to intervene. They carry guns and have no remorse over using them.

The reality is the Civil Rights movement started the change, but government/finance/private business continues to put barriers in front of equality.

The reality is I do not do everything I can because I am comfortable, scared, and embarrassed. I was born into that golden ticket of white privilege and I don’t know how to use it to leverage for others. What can I do? I suppose, to start, I will work to find that edge of the pedestal and dive off. I will make an effort to be part of hard conversations. I will not wait for those conversations to begin, but I will work to read and learn more history and start those conversations. When I see something that is unequal, whether local or distant, I will speak up and ask why. I don’t know if falling off the pedestal and making a fool of myself through my ignorance will help, but it high time I try harder because staying on the pedestal will definitely not create change.

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* http://www.onbeing.org/blog/transforming-white-fragility-into-courageous-imperfection/7701