So, I have to admit to you all, that "White Privilege Weariness" has already become one of my most read blogs… not this year but since I started blogging. I am amazed that it resonated with so many. As I have reflected on this a little more after receiving great feedback, here are a few more thoughts spinning in my head. I have a feeling this is going to make some people upset, but here we go! 

One of the responses I received came from a black woman who was brave enough to point out that conversations about white privilege were always difficult for her because she didn't share many of the "traumas" the other black people did. The conversation served to alienate her from other people of color because she did not share in their distress. 

I think this is a perfect example of why I am rethinking white privilege conversations that center on white folks. When people of color become the textbook for educating white people on their privilege, it's kind of a requirement for people of color to all share the same story in order to present a "united front" or at least a clear indication of the widespread nature of white privilege. But that assumes people of color all experience white privilege in the same ways, at the same points in time. It assumes that all people of color have the same narratives, the same experiences, the same instances of pain, shame and annoyance. And the way this conversation has been traditionally led requires that people of color find those commonalities and present them as neatly packaged as possible so that white folks can't deny our stories. Consequently, when one of those stories doesn't seem to fit, like my friend above, she becomes ostracized, tossed out of the group, a non-member. Since her story doesn't serve the common goal of teaching white folks about their privilege, her story has no place in the discussion. This is the danger of centering whiteness.

People of color are not monolithic. Our stories and experiences are not one note. But when we are required to be pawns in helping white folks get it, we must seek a monolithic narrative. Heaven forbid white privilege be complex, systemic, and impact people of color differently. 

By decentering the conversation we would give people of color the opportunity to tell our own stories. Finally our stories would not be seen through the lens of accomplishing some white ideal of success (namely, white people walking away feeling… something). We would be able to determine our own connections to one another. There would be no reason to toss out someone's story for not "matching" all others. We could seek diversity and talk about the number of various ways white privilege has effected us, or how we were teased by black people, or the wedge between asian americans and black folk, or the need for connection between blacks and latinos. If our stories become a song, let us each contribute our own verses and make up the chorus as we go.  We can make space for one another's differences because we are not required to sing the same tune. We can explore and laugh and learn. We can remind ourselves that we are not monolithic, that our varied stories are truth, that we need not conform our stories to one another. We can let them breathe. 

In the previous post I mentioned that I don't think people appreciate how traumatic race related stories can be for people of color. I have been unable to stop thinking about how much healing we need for ourselves, another reason why we must decenter whiteness. We cannot continue to teach from emotional and mental brokeness, unwinding our bandages, poking at the scars hoping they'll bleed and thereby have an emotional impact on someone else in the room. We must be given the space to seek our own healing, within our similar communities and across our colorful bodies. We have operated largely in isolation for so long. It is time to move out of our corners, and move to the center together- to validate, affirm and hold the stories of one another. To find solidarity. (I love the work Suey Park is doing in this regard.) We must be able to identify oppression no matter where it lies and work to identify and uproot it. If we spend all of our time focused on white folks, we lose the opportunity to deeply connect with one another.  

Now, I know someone is concerned that my decentering of whiteness means that white people no longer get to learn from people of color. Thats not what I'm saying. I am not suggesting that white folks get tossed out of the room while people of color commiserate together behind closed doors. What I am saying, is that I believe white people are intelligent enough to listen. I believe that white people can sit in a room and take ownership of their education. I trust that they have the ability to raise their hand and ask for a resource on a concept I just tossed into the conversation. I trust them to write down the name of the activist my friend just referred to in the discussion. I think white folks are capable of ordering a kindle book a peer says changed her life. I also trust the power of narrative. I trust the healing effect of people of color. I trust the power of our voices in unison seeking and offering healing. I trust that the healing can and will overflow. I think that white people don't need me to sit in a cage so they can poke at my wounds to see if they are real. To do this work, white people need to be able to reach into the depths of complexity no matter the cost, to realize how they have benefited from systems and structures no matter whose story is being told. Those with eyes to see and ears to hear will find the thread of the truth even in narratives that sound different. White people can try harder. I am tired of presenting an incomplete story.  

And if they don't, I trust them to walk away. And thats okay, because they aren't the end. 

I don't think I am helping white folks by centering them in the conversation. I think I might be doing more harm than good by presenting a false narrative of monolithic experiences. I believe I might be setting up white folks to think that other people of color will whip out their scars on demand and submit to being on trial. I don't think centering whiteness is doing white folks any favors. I rob them of the beauty that expands across the narratives of people of color. I make it too simple, too easy. I let them off the hook. I don't teach them to take the journey, because I'm teaching that they are the journey. That capturing their hearts and minds are the ends that I seek. It cannot be. Reconciliation with all humanity is the end. White people are only a small part of humanity. They are part of the story for sure, but they are an incomplete story alone. By centering whiteness I have eliminated the complexities of race, of varied stories, of the richness and wonder and goodness and humor and strength that is the experience of people of color. 

I want to seek healing. I am tried of mini-courtrooms where people of color have to prove the existence of racism and privilege and discrimination. I want to seek healing. 

I am standing in the infamous white privilege line. Our class has answered all the activity's questions one by one. As usual the White participants are grouped at one end of the room, the Black and Latino participants at the other end. In between stands a handful of Asian participants. The facilitator asks a series of questions, mostly directed at the group of White participants. Their conversation continues... and continues... and continues. After a few minutes, I notice all of our bodies have naturally turned to reinforce the focus of the conversation between the White participants. The people of color form a quiet outer circle, glancing at each other as the conversation continues largely without us. One of the young women next me raises her hand; she is too far away to be noticed. Remaining unseen, she gives up. As she lowers her hand, I suddenly become very weary.

Let me pause here to note that this is not a critique of the facilitator nor the activity. I myself have led the white privilege conversation more times than I can count. I've led it. I've chosen it. I've started and ended classes with it. I've done it with young people and elderly people. I've done it when the racial mix is huge and when I'm the only person of color in the room. I am quite sure I have facilitated the resulting conversation well some days but from a place of hurt and bitterness on others. My weariness is not from being tired at the activity itself.

My weariness is rooted in realizing how often starting the race conversation with white privilege automatically centers the experience of white folks. On the day mentioned above, I so clearly saw how focusing on white privilege filled the space. There was no room left for the stories, the experiences, the realities of people of color except in service to the education of white folks. We almost served as more of a comparative study than live humans standing on the opposite side of the room.

How often have you been a room where the feelings of white people take priority? Do they feel guilt or shame? Are we making them feel guilt or shame? How uncomfortable are they? Is the room safe for them? Do they get it? In the natural occurrence of asking these questions, people of color have a tendency to become background music to the story being created for white people. As a result people of color must manage their own expectations, emotions, language, questions, frustrations. I think the trauma of racism (and recalling it during these sessions) is severely underestimated. It is such work, such risk for people of color to enter spaces created with the purpose of serving white people.  

So here's what I've been contemplating. Is it possible for us to talk about race, even white privilege, without making white people the center? I wonder if it's possible to bring the narratives of people of color to the center, to hold them for their own sake. I'm trying to recall if I have ever experienced a workshop/training that sought healing for people of color rather than education for white people. Isn't it weird that white people would experience such privilege even when trying to make them aware of that same privilege? One day I would like to try hosting a workshop where people of color tell their stories, and thats it. Period.

Where people of color talk, vent, laugh, cry and affirm one another's racial realities. 

Where white people don't talk, don't justify, don't question.

Where white people are given different rules that require seeking permission to participate.

Where white people are expected to connect the dots themselves, to own their learning, to manage their emotions.

I wonder if white privilege could be taught by eliminating even the small privileges/rules that typically serve white folks well in a classroom setting.        

This is not an exercise intended to be mean or to make white people feel awful. Nor is it an exercise to minimize the stories and experiences of white people. I just want to spend a little more time asking myself what it would be like for the priority to be reversed. Rather than judging the success of my training on whether or not white people walked away understanding privilege; could I define success based on the emotional energy of people of color after the training is done? Could I so center the experience of people of color that they walk away feeling some measure of healing, of energy, of understanding about themselves and each other? Could they leave more alive then when they came? 

I often lead with conversations on white privilege because I work with predominately white institutions. It kinda feels obvious. However, I am beginning to believe that this reality makes it even more important that I not center whiteness. It's possible that my little training or class will be the only space when people of color are at the center simply because their stories are important- not so that white people can have an "aha" moment- but because people of color need to speak their truth. My weariness of white privilege is creating an energy source within for new ways of training, of leading, of being. I'm kinda excited about it. 

This post is a little ramble-y I warn you in advance. I kinda switch themes and points throughout, but rather than trying to fix it, I am going to leave it as is. I hope that it illustrates my point of how it feels to always have one portion of myself emphasized and another shunned. It is nothing nice to feel like a metaphysical dilemma, and turns out it isn't easy to write out either. 

Last week I shared a post with you about my metaphysical dilemma of rarely being what people expect when they meet me. While this has made for many an awkward moment, it is not the only time I feel like a metaphysical dilemma. There have been many posts written about this, but it has been weighing on my heart, so I have decided to add my two cents, even if its only worth exactly that. 

Can I be really honest and tell you that as much as I love conferences, I enter them with a certain level of fear and trepidation? My fear is not that I will experience an overt act of racism. I have no fears that I will be stopped at the door or rejected. I have no fears that someone will say or do anything unkind. My fear is not at all physical. Rather I fear the number of ways I will feel devalued, unimportant, sidelined, monolithic, or invisible. I never fear that I will standout. I fear that I will never be seen at all. 

It is really hard to walk into women conferences when I know there will be few (if any) women of color on stage. There are many things women experience in similar fashion. I truly enjoy talking about relationships and body image and calling and marriage and even kids (thought I don't have any). I enjoy the sense of camaraderie, the sense of knowing that can transpire within a room full of strangers. It is a profound experience, but it is also one that is too often limited. There are so many cultural nuances, even within these topics that never get spoken because there isn't anyone present to say, "the way you describe this experience is based on a cultural norm not experienced by everyone". While I realize it is impossible to cover every culture in existence, it would be so nice to see a diverse group of women represented from various socioeconomic backgrounds valued as speakers, contributors, experts whose stories and wisdom are valuable for everyone in the room. Conference planners clearly expect women of color will have something to gain from white women (and its true), but why is it not assumed women of color can also contribute greatly to the lives of white women? 

Not only this, but I believe I have much to learn from other women of color. I love seeing black women represented on stage, but I have so much to learn from my Asian sisters, my Latino sisters, my First Nations sisters and so many others. I have much to learn from their history, their theology, their success and failures. I have much to learn from their languages and customs and celebrations. I have much to learn about things we absolutely have in common and things that will blow my mind. I want to hear from all woman. I don't want women of color to be a checkmark on a list. I want women of color to be pursued, chased, overtaken because we all must sit at their feet and learn. I want us to believe God can and will speak to our hearts through them. 

While I appreciate the small steps women conferences are taking to make sure that the line-up isn't all white, it is not uncommon to feel like I need to leave my blackness in the hotel room. It is indeed a metaphysical dilemma. I am both black and woman- both- all the time. Hard as I try, I cannot separate the two. I am sure I will not be able to adequately explain this, but if I cannot be fully black in white spaces, somehow my womanhood is also not fully represented in that same space.  

It is not just women conferences where I feel like a metaphysical dilemma. I often feel it at justice themed conferences, too. You may not have noticed, but these conferences have a tendency to be dominated by men. I have found that it is not at all uncommon to find justice conferences perfectly willing to proclaim the equality of potential, value, and role of every human soul before God when talking about color but use an asterisk as a provision to exempt women from that statement. 

Justice conferences seem enamored with people of color, but sometimes only as products to be saved rather then experts to employ. The rhetoric of these conference has gotten so good at proclaiming the innate value of the marginalized, and yet seem to stumble through finding speakers from multiple walks of life.

Let me tell you, its also really demoralizing to see more faces that look like mine on posters of sponsored children than in the speaker line-up. I am grateful for the desire to see women and girls around the world receive a great education. I am grateful for the energy being given to end the trafficking of women and girls. I am grateful for all the efforts worldwide to make sure that women and girls reach their full potential. it would also be nice to be considered an invaluable and necessary resource, a leader, a must have expert, a needed voice on the stage. I realize that conferences only make their money by employing famous names, famous authors, and famous pastors. Really I do, but this reality of wealth does nothing to ease my dilemma of not being fully represented. 

Its all very confusing folks. In one arena my womanhood is proof that I cam called by God to be a leader, but my color is not considered an important part of that calling. On the other, God wouldn't hesitate to use my color and culture to proclaim his Kingdom but my vagina is a definitive boundary of my leadership potential. Feeling like a metaphysical dilemma is wearying.

I want to give space to say that there are conferences at varying levels of getting this right, and believe me, the ones I trust, I attend faithfully. Yet these feel more like exceptions than the rule.  

If it is at all inspiring to planners, please let me say that I want to be a full member of your conference. I want give my money to register. I want to meet lots of new people. I want to make purchases at your resource tables. I want to travel and experience the locations you choose. But I also want to bring my full self. The last place I should feel like a metaphysical dilemma is surround by my brothers and sisters in Christ in a space where we all are supposed to leave with notebooks full of revelations. Too often I find myself seeking friends and mentors who will offset the discomfort of not being fully known, fully valued as women of color. Too often we huddled in corners and hotel rooms and lunch counters dissecting, retranslating and making applications that will fit our full selves. How wonderful would it be to gain all this during the conference, rather than need therapy after?!

I don't know if you've noticed, but it is actually pretty strange for the name Austin to belong to a black girl. Growing up in the mid-eighties I could usually find my name engraved on little keychains and cups, but they were always in the "boy" section, never the one designated for girls. The teachers doing roll call on the first day of class always expected me to be sitting among the group of boys. I usually had to do jumping jacks to get teachers to see me waving on the other side of the room. When giving the librarian my card, I always got the second degree as if stealing someone's library card was my highest aim at 11 years old. If ever I was out and ran into another person named Austin… always a boy (except one time in junior high, in the Appalachian mountains at a corner store- the cashier was female; we celebrated!) But in my day-to-day life, always a boy. 

Completely fed up with the frustration of constantly being assumed to be a boy, I asked my parents why they gave me the name Austin. My mother's reply, "Your father and I had a terrible time trying to find a girl's name we both liked. Had you been a boy, you would have been a junior. Easy. But we didn't know what to name a girl. So I suggested my grandfather's last name, Austin. No boys have been born to carry on the name into your generation, so I thought you could be the "last" Austin. We both loved it."

"But why?" I insisted. "Why did you love it?" 

Then came the answer that changed everything. "We knew that if you ever applied for a job, wrote a resume, filled out an application for school, people would look at your name and assume you are a white man. We knew you'd be smart and charming enough to make it through anyone's interview. But we had to get you to the interview." 

And something clicked. It was true. The people named Austin weren't just boys… they were all white boys. (Even as I grew up and met a couple more female Austins… still white.) Let me tell you, that far from giving me a complex, it all suddenly made sense. People were curious about me, sometimes suspicious of me. People didn't just ask me once if I was "sure" about my name. (what does that even mean?!) People asked me twice or even three times. The surprise on people's faces lasted far longer than other girls with traditional boy names. I finally understood why. When people read my name, they had no expectation of a black girl waving back. 

Carrying around a white mans name has created some interesting (and awkward) moments. Most are minor- people who have written emails giving me the title "Mr." feel the need to apologize when they meet me in person. Or on the telephone I typically have to say my name a couple times before the caller realizes they do have the right number. Occasionally, though, its a really jolting experience. 

I've applied for a job. I got the interview. Its a group interview. I sit outside the conference room waiting for someone to bring me inside. A person carrying a clipboard emerges. They look at my resume in their hands. They look around the room. They look at the resume in their hands. They look around the room. Tentatively, they ask, "Are you Austin?" I smile and nod, pretending not to notice their confusion. I walk into the conference room. Everyone glances at each other. They look back down at my resume, too. They look at me. I am asked again, "You're Austin?" I keep smiling and nodding. I know what's coming next. "That is such a ______ name." The adjectives vary, but this is always the transition. People need to comment on it to move passed it. Finally the interview begins. 

Now this may not sound like a very traumatic experience. It only lasts a couple minutes. To be honest, the hard part only lasts a few seconds. But its excruciating. It happens somewhere between me stepping into the room and the glances at one another and/or my resume. There is a moment, when all of their expectation are undone. A moment when they must decide if it matters that I am not a white male. A moment when they must determine if their expectations will now be different. A moment when they must glance down at my resume once more to see if my accomplishments now mean something different. A moment when they must confirm with one another in silence by admitting, this is not who I expected. That is the trauma. 

In my body, I know that we have work to do because a moment of adjustment is needed. A moment to gather oneself. A moment to make sense of everything. Usually the moment passes without incident. Usually my parents are correct, and my charisma dismisses any awkwardness from the room. But not always. 

Occasionally there is a presence who simply cannot reconcile that I am not the white male authority that was expected. Occasionally, I find myself responding to questions like, "So who is really in charge here?" Occasionally, it becomes inconceivable that the lesson I taught is as good, as thorough, as meaningful as it would have been if only my name matched the expectations of my body. Occasionally, people aren't entirely sure what to do with me- so they leave the room, or hang up the phone, or ask me for an explanation. How? Why? I think some people genuinely feel deceived.

When I first learned to write my name, I had no idea it would be so subversive. I had no idea it carried meaning, expectations. I had no idea it was tied to race or gender- how others would perceive me. I had no idea. But I experience the "surprise and wonder" pretty regularly. 

Though most of this post has focused singularly on me, my point is actually for all women of color. My experience of being sized up next to my white counterparts, is obvious and sometimes over the top, but in a more subtle way, I think many women of color who spend the bulk of their time navigating white evangelical culture experience this.

Glances back and forth between white colleagues after voicing an opinion. Or worse, being "translated" after speaking our piece.  

Checking and double checking our professional history, "Did you really…?"

Demanding to know how we got here, wherever here is.

The awkward apologies when incorrect assumptions have been made about our lives.

Always wondering if we are being sized up based solely on our contributions or only in relationship to our white counterparts. 

Desperately trying to figure out what people expect when we show up. 

My name is Austin, so I notice the shifting in the seats, the long pauses,  the looks of curiosity. But this is not my story alone. It is one grain of sand in the experience of being a "colored girl" and Ms. Ntozanke Shange's words still ring with truth in my soul, "bein alive & bein a woman & bein colored is a metaphysical dilemma / i have not conquered yet"