Why Do I White So Hard?

"White people be out here white-ing so hard."

A Black friend said this as we chatted and caught up on each other's lives. She mentioned feeling exhausted lately—I could hear it in her voice.

Photo by Icons8 Team on Unsplash.

She went on to explain that being part of our mostly white community was taking its toll on her. While I couldn’t fully understand the specific experiences that led to her exhaustion, this phenomenon of white people white-ing hard was something I could relate to.

What do I mean by white-ing hard? White-ing hard describes a way we white folks show up and take up space. It happens in those moments when we unconsciously or intentionally create an atmosphere where only one way—the white way—is welcome and accepted.

So what exactly is the white way? It's a shared familiarity among white people—a common way of being and thinking—like an unspoken social playbook. It’s norms, preferences, perspectives, and behaviors I learned that, when I stick with them, help me feel belonging among other white folks.

But the white way goes beyond simply having things in common or wanting things to be how we like them. It’s also that we white folks tend to expect other people to conform to and make accommodation for what’s comfortable and normal to us. It’s how the lie embedded in U.S. culture—that white is best—gets reinforced.

I’ve witnessed other white folks white pretty hard. I’ve seen us do it with food. It’s when white people easily reject unknown dishes and flavors—or what some call "ethnic food"—without a taste and without a thought of how it might impact other people.

At my wedding reception, some of our guests were white-ing hard when they brought their own fast food instead of trying the Kenyan dishes we were serving. The white way was on full display—our white guests showed that they couldn't step outside of whiteness, even briefly, to embrace my new partner and his family and celebrate our union in the way we’d chosen.

They seemed unconcerned about what their actions might communicate to my partner about their feelings toward him and his culture. Among our guests, only white folks completely opted out of the Kenyan meal, and only white folks acted as if this behavior was acceptable. Who and what were they celebrating that day?

There’s a white way to the stories, media, and art we white folks gravitate toward—how often it’s white people who are the creators and stars in what we consume. It’s in the kinds of music and rhythm that bring us together (picture a bunch of white people belting out the lyrics to Sweet Caroline, Cotton Eyed Joe, or Teenage Dirtbag together). There are certain songs that white folks reliably know at least some of the lyrics to.

It’s how there are books, movies, shows, and art that I can expect other white folks to know and appreciate. And it’s the white way to insist that beloved fictional characters or historical figures are white—I’ve only ever seen white folks insist that Santa Claus, a mermaid, or Jesus Christ has to look like us.

The white way is why my home church wasn’t included when my multiracial college gospel choir was performing at the choir member’s churches. The themes, spirit, and language of the gospel songs we sang didn’t fit with the white way of worshipping and my church let me know that they weren’t interested in having the choir come. I bet the choir's racial diversity was also a source of discomfort for the white congregation—in my years of attending the church, we’d never had that many people of color in the building.

My Intent is not to shame behavior that I don’t agree with—I white hard too. In fact, it’s rarely my intent to shame because shame generally isn’t an effective way to create positive change. Rather, I’m trying to speak about the things that we white folks often leave unspoken. My hope is that as a community we’ll come to better understand how much race impacts us, how we see the world, how we relate to other people, and how we take up space.

I want us to consider how whiteness often has us showing up in ways that create division or harm even when our intention is to be kind, loving, inclusive, or supportive—that I’ve seen whiteness influence me in this way and witnessed it do the same with other white folks. I’m speaking to the power of our racial context in shaping us and how when we white hard—when we insist on the white way as the best or default way—this separates us from other people and from ourselves. I say all of this as someone who is not immune to the influence of whiteness and the racial context we all find ourselves in.

I know I’m white-ing hard when I’m overwhelmed with defensiveness or discomfort about being called white—when I can’t handle even carefully worded observations about my relationship to whiteness because I’m stuck in these reactions. It’s the moments when I struggle to acknowledge the true history of race in the U.S.—the one where people of color have consistently recognized and resisted racial inequity and violence.

White-ing hard is when I think I’ve got race and racism all figured out—when I shut myself off to learning more and doing better. It’s not seeing how it makes sense to follow the lead of people of color—taking the time to read, listen, and learn. It's failing to recognize that many among us have been resisting injustice since the start of the U.S. White-ing hard is clinging to stories about white innocence instead of wisdom passed down through generations that can help us white folks reclaim our humanity from whiteness.

I white hard when I say I believe in fairness, but I fail to notice the ways that race creates very different realities for people. White-ing hard looks like me neglecting or downplaying data that shows how race impacts us differently when it comes to things like wealth, jobs, education or just moving through daily life. It’s denying these truths so that I can avoid addressing my connection to the problem.

It’s in a response of “yes, but” when hearing or personally witnessing examples of racism. Or when I simply shut down discussions of race and racism altogether. White-ing hard is when I, or other white folks, can’t see or act on anything but the racial beliefs, behaviors, and stories we absorbed while growing up white in the U.S. It’s choosing to keep those beliefs, that worldview, and those stories we learned from whiteness, even when faced with evidence that proves them wrong.

Sometimes when I white hard, I think that I’m actually trying to fix racism by proving I'm not part of the problem. I search for ways to show that I'm different from "those other" white people. I look for affirmation from people of color—wanting them to tell me, through words or actions, that I'm one of the good ones. It's an insatiable need for external validation to confirm that I'm on the right side of racism.

When I white hard in this way, I turn justice work into an endless performance about my personal efforts. I waste energy trying to prove what I'm not when I could be putting that energy towards taking apart structures, stories, and ideas that make any of us feel we need to prove our worth.

I do all this—I white hard—because it’s how I came to understand and relate to my race in a cultural context where racial norms and systems perpetuate inequity. White-ing hard is connected to the meanings and narratives of whiteness that I was raised with in the U.S. It’s something that I actively have to work on unlearning.

Learning to not white so hard isn’t just understanding how being white shapes me—though that’s important. I need to create something new—a racial identity and story that isn’t based on the whiteness I’ve inherited. I need connection and relationships with like-minded folks who help keep me honest about my blind spots. It means making small, consistent changes that become habits. It's about making moment-by-moment choices to live out my values, resisting what pulls me away from them, and making amends when I mess up.

That day, my friend didn't expect me to have a solution. She wasn't trying to drop hints about my behavior—if she had something to say about me, she would’ve said it directly. She gave me an opportunity to show up in a way that matches who she knows I’m trying to be. Even though exhausted from dealing with white people white-ing hard, and although her lived experience might tell her not to, she trusted me. That's a gift I won't take lightly.