“I can’t breathe.”
Amidst a crowd of 5,000 strangers in the biting cold of downtown Manhattan last Thursday night, I experienced a moment where it felt like the air was being sucked from my lungs. Instinctively, I placed my hand over my heart to calm its erratic rhythm, but the tears flowed freely. Just moments before we began to march, I managed to regain my composure, joining others in our collective sorrow and anger.
“We can’t breathe.”
This phrase has become a powerful rallying cry, reverberating through bridges and highways, in stores and train stations, shaking us from our complacency and confronting us with harsh, long-standing realities. It’s easy for many to dismiss the existence of systemic racism, especially after electing a person of color to the presidency a few years back. White individuals have often found it convenient to assume we live in a post-racial society, overlooking the fact that our neighborhoods and schools remain largely segregated.
Upon arriving at Foley Square that evening, I locked eyes with a woman holding a sign that read, “Telling me that I’m obsessed with talking about racism in America is like telling me I’m obsessed with swimming when I’m drowning.” I captured her image, feeling the depth of her message. “That’s profound,” I told her, sharing in the sentiment she expressed. It’s tragic, however, that over 250 years after the Declaration of Independence, over 150 years post-Civil War, and 50 years since the Civil Rights Act, the threat to black lives is still so prevalent.
In just a day, my feelings shifted from deep anger to a glimmer of hope. When the verdict regarding Eric Garner was announced on Wednesday afternoon, I had just returned home from yoga, preparing to work. Alone in my living room, I erupted with expletives directed at the television. My social media feeds exploded with outrage; it was a moment of shared disbelief, with voices from across the political spectrum decrying the non-indictment.
The prevailing sentiment among my peers seemed to indicate that we had reached a pivotal moment—one that could not be ignored after a week marked by grave injustices, starting with the events in Ferguson just before Thanksgiving. As Rev. Samuel Carter poignantly observed, it felt like we had been “cracked wide open around race.” This awakening was long overdue.
I have participated in numerous protests, starting with a march on Washington for abortion rights in 1992, followed by rallies for environmental causes and the Occupy Wall Street movement. Yet, this emerging movement feels distinct from anything I have previously encountered. It is organized and effective, yet raw and emotional—we are all exposed, marching through the cold, our voices hoarse from shouting, compelled by an urgent need for change.
Protests have erupted across cities, connected through social media—New York, Boston, Chicago, Philadelphia, Cleveland, Oakland, Portland, San Francisco, Seattle, and Los Angeles. Demonstrators have staged die-ins and confronted police, blocking major thoroughfares. Upon my return from marching, I learned that some protesters had lain on Broadway for 11 minutes in silence, commemorating the number of times Eric Garner uttered “I can’t breathe” before losing consciousness.
#BlackLivesMatter has emerged as a poignant mantra since Ferguson. As author Emma Brooks tweeted with heartbreaking clarity: “Until the tragic death of Trayvon Martin in 2012, I hadn’t fully grasped the reality.” Despite my awareness of various social issues, I had never truly contemplated the fear a black parent must feel when their child steps outside for the simplest of activities: playing with friends, going to the store, visiting relatives. The knowledge that once the front door closes, their child is entering a world where they are seen as a target is unimaginable.
After Trayvon’s death, I became acutely aware of “The Talk”—the crucial conversation black parents have with their sons, filled with instructions on how to navigate interactions with law enforcement. If parents are forced to send their children into a dangerous world, they must provide necessary guidance and preparation. This talk is the only protection black families have in an environment where their children are constantly at risk.
This realization forced me to confront my own white privilege in ways I had never considered before. I thought I was an ally; I had attended rallies, like the one after Amadou Diallo was shot by police in 1999. However, it wasn’t until I was emotionally shaken by the understanding that innocent little boys are perceived as threats that I truly acknowledged my privilege. If I had a biological son nearing 12 years old, his biggest concern would likely be preparing for his bar mitzvah, a luxury that children of black parents simply do not have.
The continuous sorrow expressed by my black friends in light of recent deaths speaks volumes. After hearing about yet another unarmed black man’s death in Arizona, a friend remarked that it felt like “open season” on men of color. This sentiment is hard to dismiss, especially with the barrage of such stories flooding my feed. The night Ferguson erupted in protest, news of 12-year-old Tamir Rice’s death at the hands of police in Cleveland broke.
Moving Towards Empathy
What does it mean to be a white ally when we can never fully understand the experience of navigating the world in black or brown skin? I realized that merely attending protests wasn’t enough; I needed to actively listen and acknowledge my privilege. This listening is crucial, even when I think I understand the issues.
White individuals often occupy a lot of space in conversations, accustomed to being seen first. On the day of the Garner verdict, a well-meaning hashtag, #CrimingWhileWhite, began trending, attempting to humorously highlight white privilege but inadvertently overshadowing the pain and grief of people of color.
My commitment to being an ally is an ongoing journey. I didn’t just watch 12 Years a Slave during the holidays; I engaged my family in conversations about how we continue to grapple with the legacy of slavery. Last summer, I read Ta-Nehisi Coates’ influential essay “The Case for Reparations” in The Atlantic and made it a point to discuss it with my white friends. While some may push back or respond with confusion, it is imperative that we strive for a world where black lives are treated with the same dignity and respect as our own.
In summary, the journey of being a white ally in the fight against systemic racism is complex and ongoing. It requires introspection, a willingness to listen, and an active effort to challenge our own privileges. We must engage in conversations about race and support the movement for equality, recognizing that our voices matter in this critical dialogue.