She was seated across from me, with tears streaming down her face as she recounted her loss. The room was filled with sorrow.
She, a black woman, had come to consult with me, a white therapist. We had been meeting for over a year, and during that time, I had developed a deep admiration and care for her.
Her struggles did not revolve around depression, anxiety, relationship troubles, or the myriad of other problems people commonly bring to therapy. The most significant source of strife was the racism she faced in her daily life. It permeated nearly every aspect of her existence, leaving her drained and weary.
Race was a constant presence in our therapy sessions, whether we explicitly discussed it or not. During this meeting, as she shared her grief, it was clear that racism was directly involved. Reflecting on these times with her, I feel a surge of anger, just as I did back then.
"F*cking racism," I found myself thinking, surprised by my own internal reaction. The thought emerged spontaneously, yet it seemed fitting. Alongside the thought came unwelcome sensations of exasperation, sadness, and helplessness.
Here I am, privy to basic care and dignity in my daily life that she, despite being equally deserving, did not receive. It's during such instances that I become hyper aware of my whiteness. And noticing whiteness has seldom been a pleasant experience.
I resolved to be present with her while grappling with my own relationship with race. I did my best to take in her experiences, emotions, and perspectives without letting my own thoughts or feelings interfere. Despite my efforts, tears welled up in my eyes. It didn't feel right for me to cry. Although if you had asked me, I wouldn't have been able to articulate the entire reason why.
At the time and with little thought, I quickly attributed my hesitance to cry to my therapist training. I was taught to foster a safe and respectful environment that prioritizes the needs, goals, and autonomy of the individuals and families I work with. It was a protected space, one not to be co-opted by my own thoughts, feelings, reactions, or agenda. Although I had cried in therapy sessions before, it wasn't a suitable response on this day with this particular person. And the reason was about more than maintaining a professional stance and presence.
What I couldn't express then was that my tears were not just for her pain, but also because of my own relationship with whiteness. It's true, I was deeply upset by how much she was hurting. Yet what troubled me even more was whiteness itself.
The structural barriers and systems that unjustly favored me were detrimental to her. I had a vague appreciation for how my white skin linked me to racial inequity, causing a deep sense of shame and discomfort. At that time, I lacked the knowledge, clarity, and forte to confront whiteness, the emotional and psychological anguish it causes me, and the real harm it brings to people of color, like her.
Despite my training and experience, I wasn't prepared for the ongoing challenge I face with white identity and how this struggle can manifest, even when I pointedly try to prevent it. The profound influence of race on our lives, with different effects, was impossible to ignore. Sitting face-to-face with her pain and realizing that I am part of a broader social issue contributing to it also moved me to tears that day.
As I sat with her, I felt compelled to take action - to effect immediate change in our social system. I longed to voice my opposition to the racialized order we're trapped in. I wanted her to know that I stand with her and vehemently disagree with it.
But, that was not why she came to consult with me. She didn’t come to hear my views on why racism is wrong. I believe the same is mostly true when people of color share their experiences with me. They don't need a white person to point out the racial injustice in their stories or elsewhere, or for me to share my feelings about it. A person of color talking about race or racism is not a call for me to defend my position or perspective.
Moreover, a big show of emotion over racism from a white person is rarely helpful. While feeling the impulse to cry and protest against injustice and violence is a human response, I have to take into account that my reaction is influenced by my complex relationship with whiteness. I also can't ignore that when I respond this way, the focus of the conversation shifts. It's no longer about the other person's pain, but about mine. It's vital for me to examine why I respond in the ways that I do and consider who or what is served by my white tears.
My association with white womanhood unsettles me, sometimes it brings me to tears. Throughout American history, white women's tears have frequently been used to reinforce racial hierarchy. We have often portrayed ourselves as victims in racial contexts, a role that has been utilized to fortify our social position and reinforce racism. With this knowledge, I recognize how I've unwittingly used emotional responses to divert attention from my part in perpetuating harm and inequity.
Additionally, I learned to ignore or rationalize my discomfort with whiteness, instead of acknowledging it as a reflection of my complicity in oppression. The constant unease I have with whiteness feels like a persistent itch that I can't scratch. No matter how much I try, I can't find true relief or address its underlying cause. The incessant presence of this distress suggests that my attempts to soothe it may not lead to real relief. I need to find another way.
I've attempted to direct my anger towards systemic problems and social injustices as a way to tackle my personal struggle with whiteness. However, focusing solely on larger systems and trying to improve conditions for people of color keeps me at a safe distance. By avoiding my direct involvement, I limit my potential to make significant and long-lasting change, and do nothing to resolve my issues with whiteness. It's becoming more apparent to me that acknowledging the existence and harm of racism is not enough. I might still lack the personal commitment and long-term dedication needed to actively fight against it.
Today, reflecting on the therapy sessions with this remarkable individual, I’m reminded that we end racism together. Despite the powerful influence of social narratives and power structures, and our distinct relationships to them, they can be surmounted. With her, I witnessed firsthand the real harm racism inflicts on people of color. I also saw her unwavering refusal to give in to despair. As she resisted the oppressive structures that surrounded her, she thrived despite them.
Each week, I learned from her as I embraced curiosity and relinquished the need for immediate answers. My training stressed the importance of focusing on her and her pain, a crucial aspect for maintaining presence amidst racial discomfort. Even when my impulse was to react, my training encouraged me to slow down and listen. This experience is one of many that convinces me there's a better way for me to be with race and racism.
For those who have ever been disappointed by their past or feel constrained by beliefs or fears, I invite you to join me in nurturing hope. We are not bound by learned behaviors or adopted identities, as proven by my experience and that of many others. In America, race categorizes everyone, including white people, and we encounter and respond to race and racialization daily. However, we have the power to choose our response. Learned reactions to race, such as white tears, can hinder our efforts to dismantle the systems and structures perpetuating racial inequity. And, these reactions are not our only options.
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