It has been a difficult week as this nation comes to grip with the murder of George Floyd and the events that have unfolded since then. Many of my clients have used their therapy sessions to process their feelings about George’s death and the unrest that has followed. “What can I do?” is mixed in with powerlessness and hopelessness and I have to admit I’ve had moments of both of those emotions myself. And anxiety has been front and center as people fear the violence may spill over to their lives somehow. I understand fear too.

So what do I do with these uncomfortable emotions? I write. But I do not want to write about racism from a white perspective. It would be racist for me to think I can speak for a whole race of people. All I can do is speak to my experience, my truth.

My truth? I am colorblind. Not in the traditional sense of “I don’t notice another person’s color.” I am colorblind because I am largely unaware of what my skin color means in my life. I do not see a police officer and think, “Wow, it’s good I am white and don’t have to fear unfair treatment by law enforcement.” I do not notice my whiteness when I see my physician and my healthcare concerns are addressed professionally. I don’t wander stores without surreptitious surveillance and think how fortunate I am not to cope with that because I’m white. I just go about my life. White. Because white is what I have always been. It is in dark moments, like the murder of George Floyd that my privilege as a white person even enters my peripheral view.

My truth? The whole topic of white privilege makes we squirm inside. It makes me face that I have had opportunities that others have been denied. It’s like winning a race as a child because someone gave me a head start. The joy of the win is tarnished. I squirm because my sense of fairness and justice makes me face that people who share a similar lineage have dehumanized an entire race of people for generations. And underneath the squirming is grief. I grieve for the anguish that people suffer. I remember a black client sharing his experiences of being repeatedly harassed by law enforcement. His pain was heavy and filled every corner of the room. A normally self-assured person, he appeared to be beleaguered by the sheer weight of it. And I could not carry the pain for him, so I fought back my own tears and simply bore witness to his sorrow.

So what do I do with these uncomfortable emotions? I do what I encourage others to do all the time. I acknowledge them. I sit with them. I wait for the feelings to lift as they usually do. But while I am sitting with these emotions, I also want to speak truth to them. I do not want to be silent for fear that others will say my blog has taken a political turn. This is not about politics for me. This is about humanness. And relationship. And as I speak truth to my thoughts and feelings, I want to ask the question, “what can I do?” But I do not want it to be an exclamation of hopelessness. I want the question to be asked with intention. I want the question to be asked with curiosity about what role I can play in addressing racism in our country. How can my voice contribute to the conversation? How can I make a difference? And then, I must act. For compassion is more than a felt experience. It is a verb, an action verb.

In the midst of the turmoil this week, I posted a Mother Teresa quote on my refrigerator. It says, “There are many kind people in the world. If you can’t find one, then be one.” I do not carry the answers for such a complex issue as racism. So, I will handle this crisis the way I do most things in my life. I will bravely speak my truth and be as kind as I can be. And I invite you, my dear readers, to do the same. Be well.

For ideas about what you can do, go online to How White People Can Be Better Allies to the Black Community by Jackie Saffert.