It starts like this: in a conversation, in an email, in a private Facebook message or tagged in a Facebook thread, a white friend or acquaintance lays out a scenario for me, seeking a supposedly neutral party’s opinion. The person explains what they innocently said, who responded, how his or her intent was misinterpreted and then waits for me to tell it how I see it. I’m good at explaining things in a way that’s not too aggressive, they say; I’m thoughtful; I don’t jump to conclusions or take things the wrong way; I’m “articulate.”
What these friends always want is my public absolution, as a black person on behalf of all black people: they want to be told they aren’t really racist. It’s a power they must think is only accorded people like me – the power of approval, the ability to somehow forgive them for sins past and present.
Most white people don’t have any black friends. For many of those who do, there’s a hidden requirement. This is where I come in. I’m the Safe Black Guy – a regular black guy who’s perceived, because of my position or proximity to them, as less threatening than other black guys. I often find myself the sole black friend of many white people, the stand-in for the entirety of my race, my white friends’ go-to expert witness in the ongoing trial to be perceived as (at least) not racist, their alibi in the court of public opinion.
What I think they want me to say is: “If people of color could just see that most white people don’t intend to be racist, the world could be a much better place.” I can’t say that; I don’t believe it. Understanding someone’s conscious intentions is important, but the best intentions aren’t a free pass to be insensitive, ignorant or offensive. Racist intent isn’t a requirement for racism.
I should be less an alibi than a character witness, providing testimony about the good a person does in the community or how great a friend that person is. But I can’t testify with any certainty to what’s in another person’s soul; maybe my friends are actually guilty of the great sin of racism, and maybe the situation they’re describing is the proof.
White people seem to have a very interesting relationship with the word “racist”: the mere insinuation of racism sends them into fits of emotions, excuses, searching for alibis to prove otherwise. It causes fights, ends friendships and even sometimes makes them cry, both real and fiber-optic tears. The emotional and seeming psychological responses make me think the word “racist” is like a racial slur to them. I’m certain that most white people think that it’s the worst thing in the world to be called.
Despite this aversion to being termed a racist, it seems to me that many white people are still reluctant to have the kinds of conversations and reckonings that would perhaps give our society a chance – however remote – of starting to address the ongoing racism and inequalities plaguing us. White people are more scared of being perceived as racist than in doing the work to ensure that they actually aren’t.
Any desire to “have the talk” is almost immediately succeeded by some deflection, an effort to derail the conversation or change the discussion and shift attention. #BlackLivesMatter, for instance, is almost immediately denounced by critics who insist #AllLivesMatter without much consideration of the latter proving the necessity of the former.
Rather than addressing our own actions, attitudes and behaviors, we deflect in order to shirk the responsibility that comes with admitting we’ve spoken, thought or acted wrongly at some point – making it all but certain we won’t ever really get to the really important conversations we should be having.
Our society claims that there is a need to address racism while disavowing that almost anyone is a racist. But conversations about race will never be effective if white people keep looking to me (or someone like me) to be the equivalent of an expert witness to testify that they as individuals and we as a collective or institution were not, are not and potentially have never been racist, intentionally or otherwise.
It’s also unhelpful when a culture of silence is masked beneath a cloak of feel-good group conversations – luncheons and such that essentially amount to the powers-that-be inviting all the concerned parties who complain loudly enough to sit at a table and voice their respective concerns (this happened recently at Clemson University, where I’m a graduate student, after I expressed concern about its ongoing culture of casual racism). The powers-that-be, in return, reply with some version of “we’ll work on these things”; but they believe the conversations are sufficient, as though all our problems are settleable by discussions rather than changes.
We can’t really believe that racism is still a problem in America but none of us practice or perpetuate it. I’m tired of not having an actual discussion about racism because it keeps getting derailed by everyone proclaiming that they aren’t racists. I’m also tired of being the Safe Black Guy who apparently knows better than to think any of my white friends could ever really be racist. And I’m tired of them expecting me to tell other people that on their behalf.
We’re not beyond salvation: just as someone can commit a criminal act without having criminal intent, a person can commit a racist act without intending it to be racist. At least in theory, we live in a society that gives us opportunities to become more than simply a collection our past actions, and we hope to be judged based not only on our wrongdoing, but also on our attempts to do better after knowing better.
A person who at one point is called a criminal (because they were a criminal, regardless of intent) does not have to remain tethered to that title. Education and rehabilitation provide opportunities for a life to be described by more than one descriptor. And a person does not have to be relegated to the “racist” category for a lifetime based on errors in judgment made in the absence of knowledge.
But just like you can’t be paroled in the criminal system without admitting your culpability in the crime, and a priest can’t offer you forgiveness unless you repent, the Safe Black Guy can’t offer you a pass on something racist unless you first can see that you were wrong and then own up to it. And even then, absolution is not his to give. I’m happy to tell people you’re not a terrible person – if you’re not a terrible person. I’m just no longer willing to be anybody’s alibi, protecting their feelings when they offend other people.