Racism Might Well Ruin Us.
- Jessica Kiragu
- Mar 14
- 6 min read
It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun’s warmth felt heavenly on my skin. Every now and then, a cool breeze would come by, keeping the temperature perfectly balanced—not too hot and not too cold.
As an indoorsy person—someone who’s more comfortable within the confines of four walls and a roof—that I found myself facing an entire day outdoors, soaking up the warmth of the sun and relishing a gentle wind, was a small miracle.
I’d found a spot on the sideline of a youth rugby match. One of my very favorite humans—my son—was on the field. Even this early in his second season playing, I could see his skills getting better and better with each match and a growing camaraderie among his friends and teammates. I was proud of his expanding ability and knowledge—of sport and teamwork.
Despite all this goodness, something had me on edge.
That day, my mixed-race family and I found ourselves in Johnston County, NC, a place once known for billboards proclaiming it “Klan Country.” The very ground beneath my feet stirred an unease that was difficult to shake. As I passed a row of the county’s school buses on my way to the rugby field, I couldn’t help but notice the unnerving resemblance between the flame logo on their sides and the burning cross once depicted on the billboard.
Until the 1970s, visitors to Johnston County were greeted with the image of a klansman holding the burning cross and the message, “This is Klan Country. Love it or leave it.” My persistent urge to “leave it” was keeping me from fully delighting in the day.
The klan country billboard, something that since I first glimpsed a photo of, seems forever etched into my memory, no longer stands. Yet, experience whispers that this manner of holding pride and love for oneself, in a way that starkly contrasts with a hatred of others, doesn’t simply vanish. That an identity which demands the devaluation of other human beings isn’t so easily replaced.
The awareness of who and what this place has been, and might still be, to people like my brown children and black husband and to families like ours, lingered with me. It was this energy—pride in the KKK and a lack of tolerance for those who might not “love it”—that I witnessed when my son tackled another player from the home team. As they both stood up, the tall, blonde-haired, white kid angrily threw the ball and yelled to my black-haired, brown skinned son, “Get your hands off me, boy.”
Just to give a bit of context, this moment was unusual. Our rugby league is pretty small, with the same teams playing one another week after week. Each game day is like a mini-tournament featuring different age groups and multiple matches. We’ve been in the league for two years now, and all three of my kids play—it’s safe to say we’re well acquainted with the other teams and the league culture.
With several games going on throughout the day, players watch from the sidelines when their team isn’t on the field. Interactions—between players, spectators, and coaches—are typically kind and respectful, which is important because, instead of forfeiting games due to insufficient kids in attendance, players from teams without a scheduled match will join and play for the team that’s short on players. On most days, I find myself cheering for my son and his teammates as they play for teams they previously played against.
The incident itself was a routine tackle—no whistle was blown, and no penalty was given. The white player roared the command for my son to get his “hands off” with an air of confidence and disdain. He appeared to believe that something egregious had transpired, and his volume indicated that he thought others would agree.
What stood out to me on this day was that my biracial son has never been addressed as "boy" by any of his peers, referees, or coaches. In this environment, players usually don’t shout at each other to stop touching—physical contact is a part of the game. Also, this was our first time playing at this location.
Before I could stop myself I blurted out, “Did that white kid just call my son ‘boy’?” I glanced around and noticed that we were surrounded by white people who appeared unbothered by the whole scene. I couldn’t help but wonder how many of these white folks had ancestors who were members of the KKK. Did the white player feel emboldened to yell this because of where we were? What else might white folks here feel emboldened to do?
It didn’t seem to register with the white player—or the white adults cheering him on—that the way white people address black and brown people has a long and troubling history—a history deeply rooted in Johnston County—this place they call home. My thoughts drifted to the fact that our country has yet to truly confront the causes and consequences of the existence of the racial category white. I thought about how it’s in these seemingly insignificant everyday moments that, when left unaddressed, unchallenged, and unchanged, we perpetuate the same spirit, beliefs, and patterns that keep us living our racist histories in the present.
This isn’t about feeling bad about ourselves or our pasts. If we feel bad, we feel bad—but we can’t get stuck in a cycle of feeling bad and doing nothing. Instead, it’s about examination, acknowledgment, and accountability. It’s about understanding our history and how, in both big and small moments, we perpetuate racist ideas and behaviors today. Recognizing our power to change is crucial, and then taking action is essential. Without this, I don’t believe we can ever truly remedy our failings with racial equity.
Now, some folks might think that I need to let this go—that it’s just a little thing that happened at a kid’s sporting event. They might say things like, “Why can’t you just get over it?” Some could advise me to stop stressing myself out and to stop making everything political. They might say, “You can’t judge people or a place based on its past.” Or, these are just a few of the things that people have said to me before.
But I can’t let it go because it is a big deal. To me and my family it’s one of the biggest deals and with each day it feels bigger. In that moment, my son gained an understanding of how that white kid saw him and felt empowered to treat him. It was one of many lessons on race he’s already learned, and upon which more lessons will undoubtedly be built. I’m willing to bet that the white player learned a lesson in whiteness that day too.
These moments of observation and interaction are instrumental for my growth and understanding as a white person. They show me who stands by our side—those who are safe for our family, who are willing to listen to our experiences with race and be changed through hearing them, and those who pose a danger. By attending to these day-to-day experiences, I’m gradually unlearning habits of ignoring race and choosing to do and to be something new.
Today, these kinds of moments are particularly important to me because it’s clear that racism is still trying to ruin us—all of us. In the U.S., we seem to be going backwards—moving further away from the dream that many have tirelessly fought for—that of freedom, wholeness, healing, and thriving for all of us. The world is looking more difficult and more dangerous for many of our neighbors—for people who are marginalized in our culture—far more people than those for whom this inequitable system actually works.
The practices that normalize and perpetuate white supremacy, patriarchy, capitalism, heterosexuality, ableism, and more are deeply ingrained and visible in our daily lives. I’m not making things political when I bring attention to race. In my view, refusing to acknowledge how race influences our lives is taking a political position.
I’m not sure if Johnston County, NC is concerned about the thoughts and feelings of a mixed-race family like mine. Nevertheless, I have an idea to offer—perhaps reconsider using a flame that resembles the burning cross on your old billboard, to serve as the logo for your education system and educator awards. The impact of our history with race is not null, and when we fail to scrutinize the symbols and practices associated with this history, it continues to be passed down to the next generation.
And maybe, if you’re trying to distance yourself from the “Klan Country” image or seek a new narrative about who you are, it might be beneficial to teach your tall, blonde-haired, rugby-playing white kids not to refer to a person of color as “boy.”
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