I hope we never meet again.
Let me start by saying, this might sound strange, or maybe not surprising to some, but my race hasn’t always been something I paid attention to. For a good part of my life, I only took note of my whiteness when I was around people of color.
Recently, I really felt my white skin at the gym. It was during a weight lifting class. Less than two minutes into our first set, I realized that the weight I’d chosen was too heavy.
As I made my way over to swap out my ambitious choice, I found a black woman standing in front of the weight rack. I waited a few seconds, hoping she’d see that I needed to get to the equipment. There was no other way to reach it unless she moved. When she looked at me, I motioned to the weights behind her.
She didn’t move. Just as I began to say, “Excuse me,” she interjected, “Can I just work out please?” She said more about me being in her space making it clear that she was displeased by my presence. Given the tone and volume with which she spoke, everyone around us knew it too. Suddenly, the moment didn’t just involve the two of us — other folks were watching to see what would happen next.
At that point, I froze. I didn’t express my need for her to step aside for a second or two. I also didn’t immediately exit her space and return to the spot where I’d been working out. I just stood there, staring at her.
I felt terrible, as if I’d personally wronged her. I was embarrassed and confused too. We were in a shared space with shared equipment that her setup was blocking access to. She had gotten her own weights off of the same rack — she must’ve known it was right behind her. One thing seemed certain, whatever was happening, it had to do with race.
I found my way back to the spot I’d set up, annoyed with myself and wondering what the heck just happened. I felt as if everyone in the room now viewed me as weirdo, who invades personal space or, worse, as a Karen. I believed that this brief exchange made any chance of a communal vibe and positive mood impossible for the entire class.
Even though there were better options, I was too rattled to consider them. I simply acted as if nothing had happened and struggled to finish the class with overly heavy weights. My workout was horrible, and with each rep, I grew more bothered with how I’d handled the whole thing. I left the gym that day, hoping to never cross paths with this person again.
A myriad of things could’ve been going on for this woman who happens to share the same gym and similar class schedule as me. While I don’t know her personally, I’ve seen her several times since our encounter in the class. Each time after she’s been pleasant. Considering that I’m still white and she’s still black, maybe for her our interaction that day had nothing to do with race.
For me, on the other hand, there’s something about race that made me freeze and made the experience difficult to shake off. When I shared this story with a friend and they asked, “what would’ve happened if she was white?” I immediately knew that I would’ve behaved differently if I found a white person standing in front of the weights that day.
My friend’s question helped me see that I was the one who made it about race. I made it about her race. Moreover, I attributed her response solely to an assumed issue she must have with whiteness, while ignoring my own struggles with race. In reality, my inability to respond, the strong negative emotions I was left with, and the lasting, unwelcome impact this incident had on me, were all tied to my relationship with whiteness.
Whiteness has always been a part of my story. Even though it’s a part that I didn’t consciously develop or invite, it’s always been there. I’m a white person no matter where I go, and that carries a certain significance, even if I’d rather it didn’t, and even when I’m the only one giving it meaning.
My own struggles with race are what ruined my day, not a short encounter with a stranger. This isn’t a first, either — I’ve frequently felt overwhelmed, confused, unsettled, defensive, and generally unable to respond as I’d like when race is in the mix. And, paying attention to how race impacts me, opens up new possibilities. It helps me counter the stories, beliefs, and ways of being that only feed my troubles with whiteness and get in the way of my becoming the person I desire to be.
So, it’s not the black lady that I hope to never encounter again. It’s the person I was that day — I don’t like that version of myself and hope to never meet her again.
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