Silence Hurts
Days after the Buffalo massacre, my phone flashed the following quote from CNN: ‘“White supremacy is a poison. It’s a poison… running through our body politic,” Biden said, adding that silence is ‘complicity.’”
Often in the face of flagrant racism, I am silent. Oh, I can write a column about people getting along. I’ve participated in decades of marches on Martin Luther King Day. My voting record reflects my desire to minimize the effects of racism. In raising children, I tried to ensure my progeny would not pass judgement on the basis of race—one of the primary reasons I turned down a job teaching at an all-white university. I wanted the job, but when the hiring professor explained the demographics of the town, I balked. Instead, we moved our school-aged children to a community in the Southwest where whites were in the minority. Our kids learned skin color has nothing to do with character.
But when it comes to talking one-on-one with a neighbor or acquaintance who was raised to feel superior due to his or her whiteness, more often than not, I fall silent. Like when a neighbor referred to a Black man as “that ol’ boy,” and I just carried on as if I weren’t wounded by his words. Like when my joy at finding the USA could finally elect an African American president was interrupted by an acquaintance’s comment, “I can’t believe we elected a n*gg*r for president.” Or even when a friend told me it’s a known fact that Blacks are better swimmers than whites because they’re more buoyant.
In the moment I rationalize that I must live or work with these people and its best to let sleeping dogs lie. Except sometimes those dogs wake up cranky. And violence ensues. My silence is part of the problem.
Once, I did speak up. A contractor who was doing some work on my property presumed I was unhappy about having an African American president during Obama’s tenure, and told me horrendous tales he’d read on the internet about Obama’s grotesque unfitness. I told this man, politely, that I thought Obama was one of the finest gentlemen ever elected. Intelligent. Genuine. Good for the country. And that he—the contractor—and I might have to agree to disagree. He was okay with that—for the remainder of the job. I never saw him again.
But that’s okay. Perhaps I made a tiny crack in the scenario in his head that let him presume I loathe dark skin because I am white and I live in Carroll County.
I know some gun-toting bigots who, I fear, would like me a whole lot less if they knew I’d attended civil rights rallies. Or even if they knew how I vote. So, I conscientiously don’t post signs or bumper stickers. Maybe that’s okay. Sometimes a sign without a conversation can be seen as antagonistic. I am offended by Confederate battle flags flying in front yards. It makes me wary of the people in the home. But maybe if we talked about it, I’d understand something I can’t see about why they planted the flagpole in the first place.
And maybe, likewise, if I’d speak my mind about race, when the topic arises, I just might sway the opinion of someone who has regard for me. No lecturing. No proselytizing. Just a humble expression of my own experience.
I think the president is correct: Silence is complicity. I will try harder to speak my piece—respectfully.