White Supremacy and the Not-So-Subtle Art of White Kudos

I saw something this morning on my Facebook timeline, a post with a list of things that have happened since the current protests began - Officer arrests, appeals from city and state officials for legislative change, things of that ilk. It was posted with the caption, “Keep protesting! Keep donating! It’s working!” I’ve been seeing a lot of lists like this lately, from white folx and non-Black persons of culture.

It annoys the hell out of me.

I have always been saddened by the fact that somewhere deep inside of the concepts of whiteness and the structures of white supremacy white people, and even some persons of culture who have acquired levels of white privilege, have an ingrained urge to give themselves kudos for being, in their eyes, “good” people. Like, that list wasn’t posted for Black people, was it? It couldn’t have been. Because that would be a slap in the face of a race that has been fighting for the right to matter for their whole existence on a continent of unceded land. So definitely not a message for Black folx. Wouldn’t want to devalue the hard laborious work of Black people for over a century just to pat yourself and your fellow white people on the back for a few days of action now, would we?

White people, who are the original arbiters and creators of the classifications of race, are patting themselves on the back and cheering one another on for taking a few days off from 300+ years of oppression on unceded land and compiling a list so they can be like, “We did it!” when they feel like this has “calmed down.”

Most white folx will go back to their lives. Most already have. So have some persons of culture. But Black folx will continue to fight, with Indigenous folx beside us, both parties carrying the trauma this land has inflicted upon us for generations. Most white folx will have moved on to the next thing, back to life in progress. And they’ll look back on this time in United States history with a sense of accomplishment. Some will even use this time to make other white folx feel bad for not participating.

And they’ll have a list to refer to so they can show just how “good” they are and were.

You can miss me during your victory laps.

Mailbox

So I go to my mailbox today to grab the mail. There’s a police car sitting in the business plaza parking lot across from my house. I need to walk to the mailbox a literal block away from my house to mail a check but I’m so scared to do so now, with the police presence in my neighborhood. I watch him as he sits in his car, doing nothing. He’s likely not cognizant of how intimidating he is right now. There’s a strong likelihood he wouldn’t care even if you informed him of it.

So I sit. And I wait. And my anxiety rises.

He’s been there a little over 30 minutes and I don’t understand why.

I open one of the packages I grabbed from my mailbox. It’s an action figure I’ve been wanting to add to my collection for some time now. These things usually bring me great joy. Today that joy is brief.

I want to cry. My eyes are welling up. I want to yell, scream, thrash something. And yet I sit here, scared for my life when all I want to do is drop a check in the mailbox.

I allow myself a minute to cry. It all comes flooding out: the generational trauma, the current trauma, all of it. I like to allow myself a good hearty cry every few months. Lately, it’s been every few weeks. I gather myself; I feel like I’ve got to be strong, even for myself. I view the crying as strength, the vulnerability as fuel. Black bodies need to grieve and mourn and express just as much as white bodies do, contrary to somewhat popular belief.

I inhale. I exhale. I look out my window. The police car is gone. It’s “safe” now?

“Safe.”

I guess I should go mail this check.

Wish me luck.