Seeing more to "I don't see color."

NOTE: After I wrote this piece, several friends directed me to Brené Brown's Facebook Live address on Charlottesville. Ms. Brown puts into words the concepts I try to capture here much more eloquently, bolstered by years of academic study. If you haven't seen it yet, I recommend clearing 30 minutes in your day to watch.

I never thought I’d publicly share the most humiliating moment of my life to date, but if doing so prompts a bit more kindness in our current environment, I’ll consider both the living and reliving of it worthwhile.

What did I say???

The last time I’d been blinded by spotlights was in the 5th grade school play, so at age 18, I felt both honored and terrified to have been invited on stage. Following the traveling troupe’s performance, five other students and I climbed the steep stairway to join the facilitators onstage for a discussion about race relations.

The aptly named “fish bowl” talk took place in front of the entire freshman class. While I couldn’t make out any individual faces through the curtain of light, I was keenly aware that hundreds of sets of eyes were watching as I navigated challenging topics as a representative of our school.

When my turn came to speak, it will surprise no one who knows me that I tried to convey a message of hope and encouragement. I wanted to acknowledge that we – as a society and as a school – had work to do while reminding everyone that we had the tools to listen to each other more, understand each other better and move in the right direction together.

That was my intention.

Did I mention I was 18? And the audience was the entire freshman class? And that I was almost always in the chorus in my elementary school plays, never a role with speaking lines? To say I didn’t have public speaking skills then would be like saying giraffes don’t have very good juggling skills.

Whatever I actually said, apparently my words didn’t match my heart.

No sooner had I spoken, one of the facilitators grabbed the microphone and suggested that attitudes like mine were part of the problem. She proceeded to berate me with a string of invectives that hit me like knives in the gut. Without giving me a chance to clarify, she misconstrued my words, told me that I was unenlightened and close-minded and, well truthfully, the rest of her diatribe was a bit of a blur. I sat frozen, completely mortified, feeling like I was about to throw up and wishing I could disappear all at once and all in front of my peers.

As soon as the event ended, I practically flew to the door of the auditorium, passing at least one person along the way who snarled at me and, with a voice dripping with derision, said, “Nice job.” Until now, only two people knew that from there, I ran to the space for student organizations’ offices and dissolved into a river of tears, feeling thoroughly misunderstood and humiliated.

Looking for “Deep fried racism”

I recognize now that the facilitator – a fellow white woman, if you were curious – could (and should) have been more skilled in her facilitation. But she was speaking at a school that Pops in a recent episode of Black-ish said has “deep fried racism.” So I imagine she expected (you could say “prejudged”) my peers and I to think a certain way.

When I misspoke, I fulfilled her prejudgment and she pounced.

The facilitator didn’t know my background. She didn’t know that I sensed deeply in my core as early as elementary school at a “magnet school” that we still have work to do in America before we live up to our ideal of “liberty and justice for all.” That my high school Teen Involvement partner and I saw the unlevel playing field facing kids in the toughest schools in our town. That I was a founding member of a multicultural group on campus working to promote more acceptance and understanding. That I had a sense of my privilege as a white woman but also enough sense to know that I had massive amounts more to learn – something I’m still trying to do. That I wanted to be an ally, before I knew that word or what it meant. (And if "ally" is a new term for you, I use it to mean being actively part of the solution instead of actively or inactively part of the problem.)

She did not recognize that I was on the same side out of the cave,* meaning that I was aware inequality exists and causes myriad problems and that I wanted to be part of the solution, even though I wasn’t sure how and certainly didn’t have all of the vocabulary just yet.

Instead, she pigeonholed and humiliated me. That’s not a great way to make people feel safe to ask questions and learn what they don’t yet know, now is it?

*Out of the Cave

There are many ways people talk about race. For example, there's the analogy of a moving walkway. I began this post thinking of people being on various points of the “road to woke.”

But a “road” implies a final destination, and understanding experiences other than one’s own is a lifelong journey. I don’t think we ever fully understand other people’s experiences – the question is whether we try.

The analogy that feels most apt to me is Plato’s cave. We grow up in our own little cave of personal experience. Childhoods vary dramatically, but it’s safe to say that we all still have much to learn beyond what we knew and were taught at a young age. As we grow, we start to come out of our caves and into the light – away from the shadows and into the sun.

If we’re lucky, childhood includes people who love us, care for us and teach us how to leave the world a better place than we found it.

If we’re lucky, we are taught the complex reality of the world: that we are all born with equal value but in unequal circumstances.

We are not all so lucky.

For some, coming out of the cave is a long process. Some are taught to stay in. Some have fewer opportunities to learn how to come out. Everyone who does emerge will need time to adjust. Just like turning on a bright bathroom light in the middle of the night hurts your eyes, the light of truth is blinding at first and your eyes – and mind – need time to adjust.

In the case of understanding race, that adjustment isn’t mere seconds. It may be a long process that may require unlearning ideas we were taught at a young age. We may meet people unlike people we’ve ever known. We may not have the vocabulary for concepts that are still unfamiliar.

Regardless of where anyone is in the process, the question is:  

Are they trying to come out of the cave? Or are they determined to stay in? Or worse, are they trying to pull other people back in?

“What I hear you saying is….”

Were the “fish bowl” discussion to happen today, I’d like to think I’d have the ability to express myself more clearly in the first place. But if I were so misunderstood, I’d certainly have the wherewithal to take the mic back and make space to say, “Now wait just a minute – that’s not what I meant to say. Please allow me to clarify.”

At 18, unfortunately, I still needed someone else to make that space. I needed someone to give me the benefit of the doubt and mirror how my words might have been heard. If instead of jumping to conclusions, the facilitator had said, “What I hear you saying is….” I could have clarified that her interpretation was about as polar opposite of my intention as one could get.

And THAT is why I’m sharing this story.

If you take two things from this post, please let them be:

1) LISTEN to hear if someone is actually disagreeing with you – or if they are coming out of their cave with eyes that just aren’t as adjusted as yours. Do they mean well but don’t have the experience or words? Or are they actually ill-intentioned? Call me naïve (I prefer “a stubborn optimist”), but I’d be willing to bet you a dozen of these cookies that more often than not, giving them the benefit of the doubt will yield a more productive conversation.

2) Make space to let that person clarify – and learn. Shaming someone for not knowing what they don’t know – or worse, accusing them of being something they are not (or don't mean to be or want to be) – doesn’t do any of us any good, and it certainly doesn’t help your cause.

How to make space.

Start with a statement of fact without judgment. Depending on the situation, you might also share more of your perspective: your view, your feeling, what you need and what you are willing to do. That might look something like this:

1) What I hear you saying is…. [keep this factual and, as much as possible, free of judgment – i.e., “I hear you think that….” rather than “I hear you making racist statements.”]

2) I believe that ….

3) When you say that, I feel….

4) I want to you to [understand that/consider that/be aware of]…

5) I would be willing to… [talk more about this/share information about/attend an event with you, etc.]

“I Don’t See Color.”

At a recent workshop on stereotypes and race relations, a fellow participant expressed deep frustration with the phrase “I don’t see color.” With the sigh of someone who has spent years struggling against prejudice and toward more celebration of diversity, her tone grew increasingly exasperated as she lamented that people still think being “color blind” is a good thing, rather than a denial of part of someone’s identity.

I heard and understand her frustration. But in listening, it struck me that there may be cases in which people aren’t actually saying what she is hearing.

As someone who grew up in a small town where we had diversity of overall population but not often within neighborhoods and where conversations about race were considered impolite, what I hear is reason for hope. I hear “I don’t see color” as a first step toward wanting to acknowledge that this country has a problem with color, wanting to promote equality and wanting to do what is right – but simply not having the awareness, the vocabulary or the understanding of the bigger picture – yet.

In my experience, someone who says “I don’t see color” is not someone who wants to return to the ways our country used to treat color. Someone who says “I don’t see color” is someone who is trying to come out of the cave. They may be in incredibly nascent stages, but they are heading in the right direction.

Sailing and self-care

Still, I get the frustration. I really do.

There are only so many times you can have the same conversation and explain the same concept over and over and over until you grow so frustrated you want to scream. The problem is that the person you scream at is just one person – and they don’t know the thousands of conversations you’ve had before. They only know their one conversation with you.

At a recent dinner at a new Smithsonian Institute in DC, I sat next to a marvelous older couple whom I’ll remember as both darling and distinguished. As we broke bread together and answered questions posed to each table by the evening’s speakers, the couple noted that they’ve been having the same conversations for decades.

“We’re just tired,” she remarked with the tone of someone who has worked hard and is ready to pass the baton to the next generation.

“It’s true,” chuckled her husband, whose eyes betrayed the fact he’d seen more than his fair share of ugliness in the world.

They are now sailing around the world and enjoying a well-earned retirement. While they’ve retired from paid employment, their attendance gave away the fact they won’t likely retire from conversations about race, at least not entirely. But they will take a break – as well they should.

Now more than ever, we need to be aware of our strengths – and use them – and our limits – and respect them. Just this morning, a friend told me that he opted for music instead of his usual news program. Bravo. We aren’t much use to anyone if we’re completely burned out.

Take a break when you need one.

The news – and the work – will be there tomorrow.

Limits also apply when you are engaged in difficult conversations. We all know that messages are received differently depending on the messenger. There may be times that your message would be better received from a different messenger. As frustrating as that is, you may not be the one to move a person far forward. Personally, I'm trying to remember that every step counts and, at the least, aim not to be the person to move anyone back.

In sum, let’s aim to be open and patient with each other as we come out of our caves, no matter how recently we began or how far we have to go.

I began ruminating on this topic in the weeks since the workshop where "I don't see color" arose, but last weekend’s events in Charlottesville got my fingers on the keyboard to write. I appreciate your reading what became a rather long post and I welcome your thoughts. I know my eyes are still adjusting and while I’m actively trying, there’s still much more I have to learn. What did I miss? Did something here resonate with you? How can we improve difficult but much-needed conversations across the country (and beyond) right now?