What Am I Supposed To Do?

I deliberately try to keep this blog apolitical. Yet, the theme of this blog is “one writer’s journey through life and time,” and sometimes my journey through time demands commentary. The past couple of weeks have been one of those times.

We are caught in a pandemic that has led to the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression. And on top of that, we witnessed a white police officer kill George Floyd, an African American man, who pleaded for help. Since then, our nation has seen the largest protests for racial equality in decades. Most of the protests have been righteous and angry, yet peaceful. Many have been followed by violence and looting that detracts from the core message of indignation over Mr. Floyd’s death and the many other racial injustices of recent years.

As Judy Woodruff says almost every night on the PBS NewsHour, “What are we to make of this?” I found myself asking a similar question in my journal last week: “What am I supposed to do?”

I am a white woman, a woman of an age to worry about the pandemic, a woman with a reserved demeanor not given to protesting much of anything. An introvert who does not like crowds, so I will not be joining any marches. A user of social media, but I think it’s silly to change my profile photo for a day—even for causes I believe in.

Yet over the past two weeks I have seen posts by my African American friends, people I love dearly and respect highly, full of anguish. One friend wrote:

“When you feel anxious most of the time. When you don’t want to watch / listen to the news because it’s a story about someone who looks like me, my husband, my sons, my brothers, fathers, uncles, grandfathers, friends who have to face another day of hatred. It’s draining.”

That post made me cry, because I don’t want my friends to feel that way. I don’t want anyone to feel that way.

What am I supposed to do?

After some reflection, I decided I was supposed to write about how I try to internalize what is happening in our world these days. I don’t write this to equate my experience with the experiences of my friends of color, nor to tell other people how to feel or respond. I write it as a way of describing my personal journey through these times, my own ongoing struggle to understand what is meant by white privilege, with the hope of nudging others to reflect on their own journey.

All of us have had occasion to feel isolated, to feel alone, to feel others watching us and treating us unfairly for reasons we cannot help or do not understand. Maybe it was the first day in a new school when the other kids stared at you. Maybe it was at a party where everyone else seemed to fit in and you felt outcast. Maybe it was at work as you struggled to understand the workplace norms and culture. Whatever it was, I know you’ve been there.

I can think of many such occasions in my life. One minor incident occurred about thirty years ago when I wanted to cash a check in the bank branch located in the grocery store near my home. I cashed checks in that bank branch every couple of weeks, typically for $100 or $200, in order to have cash in my wallet (this was when I used credit cards much less than today, plus my husband helped himself to money out of my purse).

I usually cashed checks on my way home from work, dressed in my coordinated skirt suit and heels. Or I cashed my checks after getting groceries, my cart piled high with our family’s food for a week. So usually when I was at that bank branch, I looked prosperous.

One Saturday as I was packing to leave on vacation, I realized I didn’t have any money for the trip. I hadn’t yet changed into my nicer traveling clothes. I just grabbed my purse and rushed to the bank. “I’d like to cash a check for $200,” I told the teller.

She looked down her nose at me in my grubbiest jeans and sneakers and said, “Our limit is $100.”

“But I’ve cashed checks for $200 here many times,” I argued, embarrassed that she thought I was trying to write a bad check. Or even to get around the bank’s policy.

“Our limit is $100.” Disdain dripped from her voice, and she would only let me have $100. I am convinced the reason she wouldn’t let me have $200 that day was because I was sloppily dressed.

I think about that little incident in my past when I hear people of color talk about “driving while Black,” or “shopping while Black.” In situations when I am treated with suspicion or condescension, it is likely to be because of something I can change. And such situations don’t happen often. But my African American and Hispanic friends cannot change their skin color. They face incidents of disrespect every day. Not only do they suffer disrespect, but they fear violence might result from the encounter.

They should not have to experience any of this.

In the last couple of weeks, there have been many calls for us to listen to each other. Listening is critical. But I don’t think it’s enough. We also have to hear. And to hear, we have to try to put ourselves in another’s shoes. We have to think about when we have felt similar pain. Then we have to imagine feeling that pain every day, not being able to avoid it. And we have to overlay the pain with fear of violence to self and loved ones. Only then can we empathize with our friends of color.

Perhaps if we do that often enough, we will try harder to treat everyone around us equally in our daily encounters. Until we do, our nation will continue to experience events like those of the last couple of weeks.

What are you supposed to do?