What Can I Say
Do Better. That’s not a retort to direct toward Black individuals. That’s a directive for us white and non-Black people of color — both. Yes, those of us who are non-Black POC experience some level of discrimination, marginalization, microaggressions, and silencing, but not in the systemic way as Black people. Start there. (So many already understand this; if you don’t, the literature and work is out there to learn.)
And to be clear on the perspective from which I write, that would be as a queer non-Black woman of color, a single parent, daughter of an immigrant, family member to Muslim and Buddhist sister, brother, aunts, uncles, cousins, and on. So those are my so-called checkboxes in a cisgender, white-centered world.
Back to my place in this American conversation.
I deeply feel the responsibility to use my voice and call out directly racist and microaggressive remarks directed at Black individuals. And I waver between not giving it energy and not shirking my responsibility. I’m the first to say I don’t always get that right, and/or I don’t always use the right “method.” A vague post or tweet is not it — even if it is more widely applicable. And I should be direct instead. I understand where I’ve gone wrong there.
I get that I should just be direct. I also am challenged by confrontation. That’s my personal responsibility to take.
So I’ll just be clear in a particular instance that has spurred this examination.
A disrespectful tweet about a Black woman candidate, responding to her campaign’s recent supporter letter, telling her to “do better.” The audacity. I had to call it out with a response that frankly does apply to many situations (thinking also of specific workplace and public school situations I’ve witnessed): Imagine a white man telling a Black woman to do better.
And what I should have done was direct it to the person in question — whether directly in public to his tweet, or offline in a direct message, or both. And that’s on me. I own that reactive decision to fire off a simple tweet without calling out the catalyst directly.
And then there is my proximity to one who has to keep neutral and unaffected because of her position in a campaign. I waver on what I can and cannot say that could affect her personally and professionally. I want to speak frankly, but cannot always do so. I can’t say what it feels like for her to be silenced and tempered as a Black woman, but those who wield their privilege need to recognize how they also silence those of us standing next to the Black women and men we love as we try to find our way through not to negatively affect their livelihood.
But I’m going to say it now.
To the Democratic Chair who feels he can continue to spread petty toxicity about a race in which two Black women deeply loved by their supporters, stirring up drama, dismissively retorting against their statements — or at least one of the candidate’s statements, attempting to pit two Black women and their supporters against each other: Stop it. And you as a white man should never tell a Black woman to “do better.”
You’re not helping anyone. You need to celebrate this historic gubernatorial race. You need to build your party. You need to elevate and amplify Black voices among voters in the community in which you serve. You need to work to register voters, enfranchise voters — protecting and fighting for their vote, and ensure voter turnout. You need to contribute toward the positive.
And like I am accepting correction — which I will do again, and again, and again, and dig into humility, because we cannot go forward unless we (you as a white person and me as a non-Black WOC) dig into that — you need to accept correction too. Your fragility isn’t helping you, but more importantly it’s not helping the party, and most importantly, it’s not helping Black citizens, who matter most in this conversation.
Please reflect. Please . . . do better. I will too.
