My Dear White People, I'm Not Going Argue About Whether You’re Racist.

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 connected long enough to tell the truth. Connected long enough to shift things.

When that question shows up—as it so often does, I notice something. It seems the fear of being seen as racist is overwhelming. Sometimes it feels more urgent than the reality of racism itself. More urgent than the policies, patterns, and everyday interactions that harm black and brown people. More urgent than the lived experiences of people we both say we love.

That’s hard to sit with. And it’s human.

But what if we paused right there together? What if instead of trying to settle the question of who you are, we got curious about what’s happening? Why does the possibility of being complicit in racism feel so threatening? What does it seem to say about your goodness, your identity, your belonging?

Here’s what’s true about me: I’m not interested in naming you with a single word and calling that insight. That doesn’t move us anywhere meaningful. It doesn’t move us toward connection. It usually makes people brace. It narrows the room. And I want the room wide enough for honesty and growth.

I’m far more interested in how we were shaped. What did we absorb about race without realizing it? What did we learn to normalize? What did we learn to ignore? What did we learn to defend?

Race isn’t neutral in the U.S.—where we find ourselves. Whiteness is something we were formed inside of. It teaches us what’s normal, what’s threatening, what’s “just the way things are.” It shapes our instincts before we’ve had the chance to examine them. So when I talk about whiteness or racism, I’m not stamping your character with a verdict. I’m trying to make visible the water we’ve been swimming in.

That’s not an accusation. It’s an invitation.

An invitation to notice. To reflect. And to act.

When I bring up something you said or did around race, I’m not making a claim about your essence. I’m talking about impact. I’m talking about how certain words land in my multiracial family. I’m talking about how system of white dominance show up in seemingly small, ordinary moments.

And I try to only have those conversation with people I want to be close to.

If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t risk wasting my energy. I wouldn’t risk being misunderstood. I wouldn’t risk you pulling away. Silence would be easier.

When you ask if I’m calling you a racist, I hear fear. I hear shame trying to guard your goodness. And shame is powerful.

But responsibility isn’t the opposite of goodness. It can be a path toward integrity. It’s often how we align who we believe ourselves to be with how we actually move in the world.

I’m not trying to pin you down. I’m trying to stay with you. Because we need each other in this. Because ending racism requires white people who can tolerate discomfort long enough to grow. Because our humanity is bound up together.

So no, I won’t argue about whether you’re racist or not. That conversation is too small for what’s at stake. I want us to be able to look honestly at how racism operates—in systems and in us—without collapsing into defensiveness.

Can we stay in it?

Can we let curiosity and care be stronger than the need to prove we’re good? Can we believe that facing where we’ve been shaped is actually part of becoming more whole and more free?

I believe we can. And I believe we need to.