I was out running errands with my young son while his older sisters were at school. We bumped into someone who remarked on how much my son has grown since their last encounter. I proudly said he’s a big boy, and she responded with, “He’s a cute little thug.”
Later, as my daughters rode their bikes in our driveway, I was checking work emails while their baby brother napped. Suddenly, a loud truck drove by, and I saw a young man lean out the window, shouting a racial slur at my daughters.
Each time I recount these experiences, I get the same gasps and sympathetic responses. How awful! How tragic! People express shock at the blatant racism but often don’t recognize their own complicity. Many who claim to be non-racist also say, “We’re all one race—the human race.” They mention how slavery was horrible, give kudos to figures like Martin Luther King Jr. and Rosa Parks, and pat themselves on the back for voting for President Obama.
But here’s the crux of it: You can label yourself as “woke” or a white ally, but if you dismiss Black women when they share their truths, you’re part of the issue. It’s one thing to say you’re non-racist; it’s another to actively be anti-racist. Ibram X. Kendi, in his book How to Be Antiracist, emphasizes that being anti-racist means supporting policies that promote racial equity, rather than merely acknowledging the existence of racial equality.
Many white women have told me they “don’t have a racist bone in their body” and love my kids. But when I share experiences of racism—like when white individuals attempt to touch my daughters’ beaded hairstyles—I often encounter denial. They might say, “I had curly hair too, I understand how your girls feel.” This reflects a tendency to insert their own experiences in conversations that are fundamentally about race and privilege.
When a Black woman speaks up about her experiences, she is frequently met with resistance, labeled as angry or overly sensitive. The notion of “playing the race card” is thrown around, as if this were some sort of game. Sa’iyda Turner, a Black woman, shared with a platform that she has faced white women’s fragility repeatedly. “I’ve been lectured on civility and told that calling out white feminism is off-putting,” she said, recalling being dismissed as ‘childish’ for expressing her frustrations.
So, we’re comfortable with Black women when they serve as our “one Black friend”—as long as they don’t touch on race-related topics. But when they voice their experiences with racism, microaggressions, or toxic feminism, they get shut down. If white women want to transition from being race-tolerators to genuine anti-racists, we must truly listen to what Black women are experiencing. We need to resist the urge to talk over them or dictate how they should respond to racism.
We must confront our own fragility and not interpret every challenge as a personal attack. When we center ourselves in discussions about Black pain, we perpetuate the cycle of whiteness dominating the narrative. This isn’t about us. If we reject Black women’s anger over racism, we’re as harmful as the overtly racist individuals who might wear confederate flags.
Racism isn’t just about those who openly express hate. It can manifest in individuals who share inspirational MLK quotes yet remain silent when another Black life is lost to police violence. It can be family members who allow racist comments to slide during holidays, justifying it with, “They were raised differently.” Tolerating racism is itself a form of racism.
When a Black woman explains why phrases like #AllLivesMatter are harmful, our response should be, “I’d like to understand more.” We shouldn’t deflect with comments about “real issues” or move on to lighter topics. Instead, we should channel our frustration into action—attending #BlackLivesMatter rallies or making informed decisions at the voting booth.
We need to stop applauding the performative allyship of grown white women and start actively supporting Black women. We must listen, especially when it makes us uncomfortable. Our commitment to anti-racism requires us to engage in the work, be it through attending board meetings or protests, and offering our time and resources to these causes.
You might think, “Why bother?” or feel apprehensive about engaging in conversations about race. But we have a responsibility to commit to anti-racism. As a white mother of four Black children, I face my own challenges and have made my share of mistakes. I strive to listen, learn, and engage in the necessary work of anti-racism. Books like Austin Channing Brown’s I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness are tools for my continual growth and understanding.
So, let’s not give up. Instead, let’s show up. Show up by listening and by allowing Black women to take the floor without interruption.
If you’ve read this far, it’s a sign you’re willing to hear a white voice discussing racism. But will you extend that same willingness to those who experience it directly? Will you validate the truths of those living in Black bodies every day? If their experiences make you uncomfortable—and they should—consider the weight of living those realities constantly.
It’s time to stop talking, stop defending, and start listening.
For more insights on this topic, check out this excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination, and feel free to learn more about anti-racism efforts and how to navigate these discussions.
Summary
This piece discusses the importance of actively listening to Black women when they share their experiences with racism. It critiques the tendency of some white individuals to dismiss or resist these narratives while emphasizing the need for genuine anti-racism, which involves supporting Black voices and standing against systemic racism. It calls for white allies to engage in uncomfortable conversations, attend rallies, and truly commit to the fight against racism.