In the summer of 2016 a close white friend and I are sitting at a picnic table with a handful of others. She asks me to talk about what I’m writing about in Real American. She listens to a few of my stories then begins to cry and says how hard this is for her to hear. She puts her head down on the picnic table and begins sobbing. I shift from telling about Black pain to putting my hands softly on her shoulder to comfort her in her white pain thinking this is a thing and people write about it and I love her and know her intentions are so solid and she connects with humans so well, which just showed me even more that this is a thing. A real thing.
But time is short and I’d prefer to offer my compassion to the antagonists in the grand narrative of America who manage to get out there every day and hold their heads up. Daring to be a person. Daring to make a go of life. Daring to be an American.
Dear white people,
When you’re sad about racism please have the decency not to cry for your selves.