Before we dig into this post, a disclaimer: As a healer, I don’t view political and social constructs, such as class and race, as independent from personal well-being. I’m not sure how many future blog posts will have a justice-related theme, but I can’t honestly push toward the healing of individuals without pulling for the healing of the collective. In most shamanic lines of thought, we’re all essentially one; if one person falls ill, the whole village is considered sick. While civilization has seemingly dragged us away from these roots, the truth in them hasn’t changed – just the number of people involved.
That said, as 2020 – and the Trump-era – draws to close, I feel compelled to reflect on the aspects of our collective shadow that have come to characterize these times. So let’s begin.
I’m white.
My ancestors, on my father’s side, participated in genocide, owned slaves, and nabbed “free” land. My dad’s dad was a cop. My mom’s parents, while first generation immigrants, were solidly middle class, reaping the fullness of the American dream with ease.
But “check your privilege” is a term that, at best, leaves me numb. At worst, it turns me off to popular social activism entirely.
Before you roll your eyes, dismiss me or get angry, let me elaborate. There’s a very good reason for this – one that many people might relate to, whether they like it or not.
Systemic racism is a hard truth in the US and abroad, and it begs to be dealt with head on. Our nation has a brutal history that we cannot ignore. Few people are ignorant of it, and fewer still wholeheartedly support it. It is a rare and terrifying individual who truly believes their skin color is an inherent marker of superiority.
Racism is a fear-based model of living, and many white people are triggered by this – but not because they feel they are going to lose their privileged place in society and history. They’re triggered because facing their inheritance means shaming their ancestors. Bringing shame to their family. Exposing wounds they’ve likely been raised to hide in order to defend the fragile facade of their happy homes.
White people are fragile because they’ve also been abused – by the same people who abused their nonwhite counterparts.
It isn’t easy for me to write the following; part of me still questions the validity of my perspective after a lifetime of gaslighting. And doesn’t it seem crass and indecent to air your family’s dirty laundry online? Regardless, such exposés are crucial if we want to get to the roots of the larger systemic issues plaguing our society. I only share these things in the service of justice, and on the off-chance that someone reading might benefit.
My grandfather, the cop (previously a military man) would come home from wielding unchecked power over his community, and abuse and torment his wife and children. It’s arguable that he drove my grandmother into a mental asylum. My father, their only son, slogged through bouts of homelessness, having to take off school to care for his sisters in his mom’s absence – and turned around to beat his own wife and children. An unpredictable loose cannon, he nonetheless “pulled himself up by his bootstraps” (with a little help from Reagan) to attain financial stability, social prestige, and a respectable place in the community.
Our “privilege” was a prison, though – our whiteness a mask that fooled even me. I believed things couldn’t be that bad, given my neighborhood, my house, my luxuries – and society at large agreed. Systemic racism and classism wove together to bias even me toward thinking my family was “perfect” and “we had it all” – even as my dad punched holes in the wall, gaslit us all to high hell, and held us to public displays of performative niceties that made my skin crawl.
My mom supported it fully, more willing to defend the image of the family than the family itself. My sister took to drinking and dysfunctional relationships, swinging wildly between admitting and denying that our childhood was troubled at all. Both of them are aware of inequality in our nation, but by and large are too steeped in chaos to act.
The seeming apathy of my family is not coming from a place of “privilege.” It’s coming from fear, and a sublime lack of energy. It takes all you have to deny abuses, and going that route doesn’t leave you with much sympathy for those who fight for their own power, truth, and freedom. If anything, it makes you resentful of their courage.
My family is not the only one like this. “Privileged” white families everywhere have their own baggage, in no small part because of their history. My father’s heritage of slave owning imbued him, generations later, with a subconscious belief that he could own and control other people. While there is measurable evidence that people are biased towards those that look like them, it should also be noted that if a person finds it acceptable to dehumanize another on such arbitrary terms as skin tone, there is likely a trend of dehumanizing people in general.
As far as I know, all cultures around the world have some version of “family values.” Slandering your ancestors and turning away from your tribe are tantamount to heresy just about everywhere.
Yet that’s what I did. A little over a year ago, at 37, circumstances drove me to go completely no-contact with my entire family. And it was the single best decision I’ve ever made.
I did it for my own well being. I did it because I was sick of being scapegoated. Because I wanted to align myself with a sense of moral clarity. Because I wanted to raise my children free from narcissism, gaslighting, and learned helplessness. I did it because my soul was begging and screaming for genuine self-expression, and I was crazy and suicidal and nothing else helped.
Becoming a better ally to the marginalized was just a side effect.
I’m not encouraging white people to abandon their families. Mine was (I hope) a more extreme case (though I’ve certainly seen worse). Not all parents are narcissists or abusers – but unless there’s an inherited pattern of doing the work – of intentionally exploring and divorcing from unhealthy family patterns – it’s on us, as a generation, to be the rebellious children. Learning about social justice and touting slogans is well and good, donating money even better, but in order to actually undo systemic racism we’ve got to get personal. We have to face the shadow of our own heritage and bravely name it.
And that comes at a price.
Sometimes, digging into the truth triggers mental breakdown. Sometimes, opening closets with skeletons gets you kicked out of the house. Sometimes you yourself have to leave. True self-reflection requires a level of introspection that goes far beyond checking your privilege – and indeed, often reveals a striking lack of all we associate with privilege: choice, freedom, and self-expression.
Activists need to make space for that lack – not shame or deny it – if real change is ever to take place. That lack is where many white people will find archaic legacies that keep them bound up in systems of oppression. It’s that lack that keeps them afraid, defending the actions of their families out of fear of retribution, of being ostracized, of losing their foundation in life. That lack, when denied, is the psychic drain that keeps even the most well-intentioned among us from giving wholeheartedly.
If, as a white person, your knee jerk response to accusations of “privilege” is anger, there is something to that. Explore it. Lean into it. You’ll likely discover that you own suffering and that of “the other” is deeply intertwined.
And if, as an activist, your knee jerk response to those who deny their privilege is to turn your back, you are selling your movement short by refusing a profound opportunity for generational healing, personal growth, and true empathy. No meaningful change comes from a place of shame. When space is created to embrace potential allies who might at first seem less than aware, you exponentially expand the potential of any movement.
While systemic racism has obvious mental health repercussions for those at the bottom of the hierarchy, those at the top also suffer. Exhaustion, mental chaos, and an inability to genuinely give of yourself are all side effects of denying hard truths in the name of defending a system that you know, deep down, is flawed. At worst, even passively supporting abuse generates and perpetuates great pain, and wreaks havoc on a person’s ability to empathize. Defending the myth of whiteness is too often rooted in personal family baggage that we resist unpacking out of fear of family reactions – and fear can be paralyzing.
It’s on us to encourage others to “check” their privilege more like a doctor checks our bodies – helping people feel safe and welcome to unpack their baggage, to reflect on their own stories as well as listen to those of others, and to engage in meaningful dialogue without feeling threatened. “Check your privilege” is disturbingly in line with what abusive parents often tell their children: “You don’t have it half as bad as I did. You should be grateful.” The whole sentiment is triggering. It makes wounded people feel cornered and defensive – and wounded people are the ones, statistically speaking, most likely to inflict wounds on others. “Fragile” white folks aren’t necessarily lost causes – many could be guided into the fold, with a little care. And by developing their self-awareness (not just their awareness of the other), we can only improve the outcome for everyone. These people, after all, carry puzzle pieces we need to build a new picture of our society.
I’m not asking anyone to pity white people. I understand the resistance to being gentle with a demographic so famously not gentle – and in no way do I expect those who’ve been targeted by weaponized white rage to expose themselves to more of it. This message is for people like me: white activists. And none of it is intended to apologize for prejudice, violence and hate. Quite the contrary: it’s a call to undo the ignorance and denial behind them. It’s a call to see the inter-connectedness between the public and the private. A call to stop finger-pointing and go within. To stop seeing others as the problem, or adopting a helpless posture of white guilt. It’s a call to stop divorcing the political from the intimately personal. It’s a call to internal action.
Everything is connected. Everything is a microcosm or macrocosm of everything else. Racism is a dream born from the unconscious mind of countless dysfunctional families. People who vote for racists aren’t necessarily doing this because they are racist; it’s just as likely because they’ve normalized narcissism and abuse, and feel at home when they see it. It’s familiar and even comforting to them. It’s what they think America is – and honestly, thus far in our history, they’re not wrong. Learning about narcissism in my own upbringing has made one thing abundantly clear: America is a narcissistic cult, and the so-called “minorities” are the scapegoats. The rest of us need to figure out how to cease being enablers – something that requires us to accurately identify the narcissists, get free from their lies, and stop feeding them our energy. They will never change. But our culture can – and in order to make that happen, our energy is needed elsewhere.
So, white people: go ahead and explore your wounds a bit. It takes effort, honesty, and time – and it’s probably gonna hurt, as shadow work often does. But if you don’t clean out your wounds, they get infected.
And infections spread.