Black Lives Matter to a White Girl

By Emily Turner

Originally posted Thursday, July 14, 2016 at

http://loveyoubudblog.blogspot.com/2016/07/black-lives-matter-to-white-girl.html

I was waiting at the coffee shop this morning for my iced latte and a black woman stood next to me. She had been ahead of me in line, so I was surprised that my drink was ready before hers. When the barista called out the name of the beverage, I looked her in the eye to ask a question – is this yours? She shook her head no and said she had ordered a hot beverage. We looked at each other for a few more seconds before I shook my head in confusion and gingerly picked up my latte, while a dozen questions flashed through my mind. I really didn’t know what to say to this woman. In retrospect I hope she saw the conflict in me, the angst.

Ya know, it wasn’t that long ago that I would not have given this incident a second thought. I would have chalked it up to a fluke, an unintentional oversight in the hustle of the early morning rush. And that very well could be the truth, couldn’t it? It’s easy to assume that this is the truth.

But then I read this post yesterday by a man who shared his story of discrimination and I haven’t been able to put this woman out of my mind. I will likely never see her again, but my mind has been unable to let go of her side of it. What did she perceive to be the truth in this incident at the coffee shop? How many times has she wondered if the color of her skin dictated the way someone treated her? The answer is a hard one to look at straight on.

I used to think race didn’t touch me. I have always considered myself an open person, accepting of people from different backgrounds and ethnicity. Isn’t that enough? I used to think it was enough. If I saw someone who needed help, I’d try to help them regardless of how they looked. But otherwise I’ve been silent. I made the subconscious decision a long time ago that racism wasn’t relevant to me and that it wasn’t nearly as big of an issue as it was during earlier times in our country’s history. But even as our laws have changed and the bureaucracy of our country claims to have improved, even if on paper things look better, we can see daily that reality tells a very different story.

At the most fundamental, human level, we still have so much work to do.

And I worry that in my silence and inaction I am inadvertently allowing a very true and very real problem to continue.

Do I need to protest at every march to fight this problem? Do I need to speak up to law enforcement, risk my safety, risk my place in life, to make a difference? Do I need to call up members of the government to tell them to get their act together? I’m not sure. These things all scare me. It’s easy for me to say I’m this lowly white girl who grew up in a white place and hardly knows the taste of fear or isolation. It’s easier to believe I’m not strong enough to make a difference.

But here’s what I do know. I am strong. I can love. I can look someone in the eye. I can smile. I can support people. I can ask people how they are doing. And most of all, I can try my damnedest to understand. I want to get it. I want to have the scales fall from my eyes. Rather than avoiding the black man on the street reaching out for help, I can ask him what he needs. These are things I am trying to do more of. These things are so very important. Because each and every one of us – black, white, brown, yellow, red – deserves respect. Deserves decency. Deserves a place of acceptance and empowerment in this complicated world.