I love you, human. I don’t even need to know who you are to know that I do. If you feel otherwise, then perhaps you and I have different parameters for ‘love’.
Yesterday I was having a conversation about pitbulls. That morning, I had listened to interviews with mothers of boys slain by police: Mamie Elizabeth Till-Mobley, Samaria Rice, Sybrina Fulton and more. I was walking past a yoga studio, and I got angry. I was angry at myself.
You see, I feel most alive engaged in the struggle for racial equality. It doesn’t feel good; it feels real. The word “resonant” may ring more accurately. And yet, I spend many days absorbed in other things. Teaching yoga in that studio, for example, calling out botched Sanskrit, playing Hindu songs, appealing to watered-down Buddhist for other white people who were using an Eastern religion to get their cardio in for the day. Of course, I was one of them, and of course, I tried to understand to the best of my capability the history of what I was teaching and playing, but of course, I am human. By definition, I am ignorant.
Other times, I’m teaching wealthy people things that I had to teach myself: math, writing, empathy. I tell myself that every heart I touch makes this world a better place, but it’s hard to keep believing that when I go back home to Bridgeport and see just how much justice there is to be redeemed.
I’m still not sure how best to help the world. I am sure, though, that the solution lies not in what caused the problem. In other words, the revolution will not be comfortable. Social norms and status quo must be broken, and that is by its very nature uncomfortable.
“Pitbulls simply are just violent dogs. They’re bred to be that way.” I couldn’t help but hear antebellum eugenicist rhetoric deep below these comments. I don’t believe anyone in the conversation consciously intended so. All I can say is this: there seems to be a lot of overlap between stereotypes of pitbulls and those of black Americans: violent, irredeemable, should be caged.
Part of me put water on these thoughts: that’s a fire that doesn’t need to be fanned right now. What’s more, no one was trying to have a conversation about race. We were just trying to have a conversation, to keep the empty space filled with commentary on safe aspects of reality, to be comfortable. Besides, the conversation would move quickly into another topic. Nothing needed to be done.
Every moment when that decision is made— to decide agains mentioning racial implications of a conversation or action— reinforces the status quo. It perpetuates the comfort zone of white people who can navigate society racelessly. For Americans of color, though, racial implications are unavoidable. To be in an all white space and to completely avoid the racial dimensions of a conversation is to essentially reconstruct reality, effectively destroying it. The conversation’s narrow scope appears complete and conclusive.
I’m ashamed remembering the times when racial undertones of a conversation screamed out at me, but I said nothing. I’m also ashamed that I’m unable to remember certain moments when this was the case because I failed to notice them myself. I prioritized keeping others comfortable, convinced mentioning race would do more harm than good in terms of understanding. However, it’s precisely because these topics are so emotionally fraught that they must be discussed in more casual settings. Confronting racism must be normalized. It is pervasive because it is normal. It is baked in to American’s daily lives. Thus, relegating it to the occasional forum or bedside book misses the point and the mark.
Confronting racism doesn’t mean confrontation. It starts with a question: “What kind of person do you imagine owning a pitbull?” or “What does ‘urban’ mean to you?”. It starts with a presumption of humanity and love. It starts with a humility that your perspective is the one that’s limited. It starts with a longing to learn, not to teach.
That is how I love you. Whoever you are, I come to you from you. I know you have humanity within you, and love, and pain, and wonder. If I can’t see it, I need to look harder. You must do the same. We all must, and it will be uncomfortable, but the only way to a better world involves growing pains.