I remember standing in a crowded room, part of a mixed-race group, waiting for a guest speaker. The white person next to me asked if I knew who the speaker was. I pointed and said, “The tall white guy by the planter.” Then came a question I hear more often than I’d like: “Why do you make everything about race?” Photo by bridget bartos on Unsplash For a moment, I froze. What? Was that a joke? Their expression made it clear — it wasn’t. In that moment, I realized something: thi

Now, please trust that I’m doing my best. Please also recognize that doing my best at teaching my children about race and racism, looks different from your best. Image of the author’s 3 curly haired, biracial children looking at the moon illuminating the ocean. First, my kids are biracial — and whiteness does not count them as white. This makes our worries, conversations, intentions and goals unlike yours. This isn’t because I think you’re racist. Rather, it’s because we live

With other white people, I keep finding, it’s really hard. Photo by Jason Rosewell on Unsplash I had an epic discussion with another white person over the weekend. This person is one who I dearly love. Someone I admire for their kindness and patience and their strength, generosity and goodness. We talked about race, marginalization, power, privilege, faith and about how whiteness is entangled with these things. It started off as a simple conversation about faith and what it m

What is whiteness? Honestly, it’s hard to pin down. For most of my life as a white person in the U.S., the goal was to not even notice...

Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash There’s an idea I first encountered while training to be a therapist—one that has stayed with me ever since. It goes something like this: the thing we don’t talk about, the thing that stays hidden or unnamed, is often the very thing that most needs our attention. I can’t say this is always true. But I can say this—whiteness fits that description in my life. For a long time, I didn’t talk about whiteness. I didn’t think about it. I didn’t no

In all honesty, I’m still figuring it out. The story I have of my first memory of race happened when I was 4 years old. It was Easter and...

“Mommy, your skin is white and you are good to us… and other white people love us too…” Image of the author’s young daughter She looks at...

It’s a real question. And I don’t ask it lightly. Image by Martino Pietropoli on Unsplash When I look back on my life, I realize that...

My brother and I were talking about a syrup bottle. Picture of the author and her brother It was sitting on the table at a family gathering the day before—familiar, unremarkable, the kind of thing you grow up with and don’t really see anymore. And then he said it. “I just don’t understand why it’s a big deal. Why does taking the picture or the name off of a bottle matter?” I didn’t pause. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t ask what he meant or what he was curious about. I jumped. “Be