“What are you a brain surgeon?” A white police officer asked my black partner this when we lived in Boston. My husband had just picked me...

She’s biracial, bicultural, and she is perceptive. This little girl has seemingly known about race since her birth — ok maybe not that...

To mother doesn’t mean you have offspring. Mothering also doesn’t require that one possess eggs and Fallopian tubes. The act of mothering...

Whiteness offers a kind of belonging—at least on the surface. It gives me—a white woman in the U.S.—a sense of place, a group to identify...

My dear white people, you’ve asked, so let’s talk about it. Many a time you’ve directly asked this of me. Other times, it goes unspoken,...

You’re behaving like an a**. This brand of leadership is the sort we need to be rid of. If you haven't heard about what the governor of...

I’ve been told that I write and talk about race because I think it’s “cool.” Some have said that I’m trying to fit in with the “woke” or...

I have a secret I don’t feel proud of. Photo by krakenimages on Unsplash Sometimes I catch myself hoping my biracial children don’t end up partnering with white people (if they choose to partner at all). Or, if they do, that they don’t build lives in mostly white spaces surrounded by mostly white people. Even writing that makes something in me tighten. I’m white. I don’t hate white people. I don’t hate myself. And not long ago, I wrote about how I can’t give up on white peopl

I want to say this as plainly and gently as I can: I’m not interested in calling you a racist. Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash Not because racism isn’t real. It is. Not because harm isn’t happening. It is. But because the moment the conversation turns into— “Are you calling me a racist?” —it almost always pulls us away from the deeper, more important conversation. And that deeper conversation is the one I really care about. I care about us. I care about whether we can stay