Confessional

As I left my office building today, I approached the door at the same time as two women coming from the other direction. Just as I began to move ahead to pass through the door first, my eyes met those of one of the women. Her black eyes were like lasers. They cut to the quick of the decision I had subconsciously made, as if by instinct, and brought this shocking fact into consciousness: as a white professional, I felt entitled to go ahead of two latina janitors.

If she had looked at her feet, deferentially, I never would have noticed. The transaction would have subtly reinforced my behavior, without me ever naming it. Racism. That's what it is.

Just two weeks ago my book club discussed The Grace of Silence, by Michelle Norris, a family memoir which addresses some of the more subtle and trickier aspects of racism. Interesting, but it didn't provide much enlightenment because clearly, I was already there. I recognize how I benefit from white privilege. I understand about Aunt Jemima. And I certainly don't harbor any racist attitudes. So I smugly thought. Now I'm wondering if I ought to thank Ms. Norris for tuning me to the shameful discovery that I made today.

Racism: may my confession be one more nail in your coffin.