It’s only been a week.
A week since I heard about Ahmaud Arbery’s murder. When I first heard the news and heard there was a video from a shooting that happened months ago--I kept it at arm's length. “I don’t have time to think about that right now” I thought to myself. As a white man, I’ve learned it's a privilege I can exercise whenever I want. I can “stay out of it”. Put my head down, not be affected. Of course I often don’t recognize it’s happening in the moment. Privilege is a muscle, and it kicks into gear automatically without a thought, like a reflex.
When I finally decided to lean in and face what happened several days later (on my terms, and when I decided I had the time and emotional capacity of course) and actually listened to the pain yet another shooting of an unarmed black man has caused to my friends of color, I haven’t been able to think about anything else.
My wheels are spinning in overdrive. What do I do? What do I say? How do I show people that I care about this? I’m always so eager to talk. Talk about what happened. Talk about the injustice. Talk about how other people should respond. Ask what this incident says about our country, our cities and our systems. Talk about how “we” should do more and be different than this. Talking is easy, and I’ve found it's typically pretty cheap. But in all my talking, I never ask one question. One question that lies, I think, at the root of the problem.
What does Ahmaud Arbery’s murder say about me?
What does it say about the racism and implicit biases I’ve learned since childhood? What does it say about my privilege as a white man? What does it say about the opportunities and power I have access to that people of color don’t? What does it say about my bank account, and the generational wealth I’ve inherited as a part of the same systems that have denied black and brown communities the same opportunities for centuries? What does it say about the benefit of the doubt I receive in every situation when I kiss my kids goodbye and walk outside my front door into my neighborhood?
Ahmaud is dead, but he’s still speaking. Am I willing to stop talking long enough to listen to what he has to say to me? Am I willing to move from grief and listening to purposeful action?
Am I willing to make it personal?
As a white person, I can decide whether to keep this at a distance or to lean in and get close. I can decide whether I let this into my world. I can decide whether to stay silent or to speak. I can decide whether to play it safe or take a risk. I get to make the choice of whether or not I make this personal to me. A choice that people of color are never afforded.
Breaking our white silence about Ahmaud is necessary, but it's not the finish line. It's only the beginning of a long and messy road towards healing and justice in our communities, but it's one we have to walk together if things are ever going to change.
But that change doesn’t start with you. It starts with me. (Repeat to self)
- Rob
Rob Shields - Executive Director, ReCity
