Welcome to my kitchen table. I’ve got a pot of coffee brewing, and assorted mugs for you to choose from. I also have a key lime pie but this is your warning that it is tart.
We need to talk about the white art of misdirection. We are literally killing BIPOC with our designed magic tricks. The misdirection? While we saw a Black person in half, we get the audience to feel bad for our exhaustion from grinding a saw back and forth.
Let’s talk about the misdirection act we pull when we waltz into spaces designed to make anti-racism a part of our every day lives.
Every space is assumed to be open to white people, and BIPOC should be inclined to make it as comfortable as possible so we stay. After all, we white people are here to help! Why should we be scolded for our amazing intentions? Oh, it is terrifying to step into a space where we *might* be on equal expectation footing with a Black woman. We need some time and patience please. If not, oh you want me to leave?! Fine I’ll just leave. *Waits for response with eyes peeking open from dramatic flair*
Misdirection. Like a magic trick, the conversation has jumped track from talking about the demands white supremacy makes. We are now firmly scrambling to appease the horrific lack of relational walking.
Out of our white mouths, we claim a desire to help. We want to listen. We insist we ARE listening. We are screaming our intentions so loudly, we spit on those we’ve thrust our heavy, white bodies upon. Here, we are offering our professed New Years Resolution.
Meanwhile, we have a toothy, rusty saw in our hand. Don’t pay attention to the fact that we won’t commit to accountability. Don’t notice the way the spotlight has swiveled to our performance. Skip past the spatters of blood of those we are claiming to support. Misdirect.
The main performance of white supremacy. Drown out the cries of pain as BIPOC die with our stage voice booming about our individuality and struggles.
Community, anti racism isn’t a transactional space. There is no call the manager to get the special discount. Opt in, or opt out. Do the work, or leave. Come dressed to pave some fucking walkways or take your cheap ass heels somewhere else.
Drop the act.
I have a suspicion. We flail about dramatically at even the most basic requests for our labor precisely because we know what we have demanded from Black people since day one….their lives. We know that if we start down this path, the risk isn’t just calluses on our hands but our actual lives, our comfort, our mental disassociation.
So, we misdirect.
We fall into hysterics at the slight suggestion of “sacrifice,” which is actually quite simply a request for parity.
Get off the stage. Take off the costume. Walk out of the theatre.
The work is outside.
You can’t reap what you don’t sow.
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