Can I Sit at Your Table?

I have spent my entire life trying to fit in. I was born in a country that was not my mother’s land. I moved to another foreign country (the United States) when I was five years old. I began the process of assimilation in a kindergarten classroom. At the time, I didn’t know enough English to ask for a seat at the table. I still felt the sting of rejection - even when I didn’t have the words to describe what I was feeling. Over the years, the tables, settings, and individuals have changed. One thing remained consistent - I was always asking “can I sit at your table?”

I’m finally realizing that I’ve been trying to fit in spaces that weren’t built for me (or other BIPOC). All this time, I thought it was my fault. I kept telling myself, “if you tried harder” or “if you did more” or “if you just prove yourself,” you’ll fit in. I kept trying to make myself smaller and smaller to fit in, and it still didn’t work - it still doesn’t work. The more I reflect, the more I realize the importance and burden of representation. I didn’t have anyone else that looked like me, no clear path to follow, to learn how to belong. I’m tired of trying.

Representation burnout refers to the exhaustion and isolation that comes from being the only person of a particular identity in an environment.

When I talk about representation burnout, it will be specific to my own experience - in context to my work, or rather, the system I operate in because of my job. I cannot give the false pretense that my experience can speak for anyone else’s. Black, Indigenous, people of color are not a monolith - not all experiences are the same, even if some are shared.

For those that know me, you’ll know that I am deeply connected to my work. My passion and my values drove me to work in a specific field - towards a specific mission. I love my work, but I hate my job. I’ll say more. My values and my commitment to social justice fuel my passion for my work. My work demands a lot of me, but I don’t want to be in a field that would require less - my work is personal and I love it. My job, on the other hand, requires me to interact in a white dominant system. In said system, I represent a demographic that is often overlooked, while managing responsibilities with people who are older than me, have worked at the organization longer than me, and are mostly whiter than me.

I’ve sat at various tables throughout the course of my career. In most cases, I have been the youngest at the table. Sometimes, I have been the only woman at the table. More often than not, I have been the only person of color at the table. Sometimes, all of the above happen, and that’s what I like to call “an oppressive trifecta.” The worst part is, one thing remained consistent at every table - I spent all or most of my energy trying to prove (to myself and others) that I belonged there.

In order to prove that I belong, I’ve been sacrificing and compromising a lot of myself - always trying to prove my value, my worth. I put in extra hours, so people knew I was dedicated. I said yes to every project, so people knew I was committed. I learned to walk, talk and dress like they did. I let others take credit for my ideas or my work, so they knew I was a team player. I learned to laugh off microaggressions or rely on humor to hide my discomfort. I learned to cry on my way home, so no one could see how I felt at work. I learned that I couldn’t be my whole self and professional at the same time. There wasn’t anyone else to tell me any different. I learned to internalize my oppression.

With each day and each action, I chipped away at my self. Instead of being rewarded with a secure place at the table, I was met with more demands, more responsibilities, and less support. In some cases, I was offered a seat at the table, only to be paralyzed by fear that I would lose it.

I didn’t have anyone else to share the burden of representation. Despite what it seems, not all BIPOC experiences are the same. A person of color in leadership may not experience the same things I have, or they may be experiencing their own unique set of challenges. This is why diversity is not enough. Diversity without inclusion means that you’re bringing more people of color in oppressive and unsafe environments. The work does not start or end with diversity. Representation and inclusion are not synonymous.

I didn’t see anyone who looked like me, thriving in the system I was a part of. I didn’t have anyone who truly understood - anyone to fight the oppression with me. So, I took it on myself. After all, I didn’t have much to lose - I’d given all I had and still didn’t belong. I tried to advocate for myself and others. I called out biased behavior. I shared my experiences. I asked for respect. I tried to be patient - only to be ignored or dismissed. In all that trying, I was burning out. My work product wasn’t affected, so I don’t think anyone noticed or cared.

The more problems I brought to light, the more I felt like I was the problem. In fighting to be seen and heard, I was seen as “difficult to work with.” In all my years, the only thing I’ve dismantled is the desire to sit at a table that doesn’t want me. I’m exhausted. I’m burnt out. But, I’m still trying, I still go to bat - not just for me, but for every person that comes after me.

None of this is a criticism of my employer or the people I work with. I think I would have a similar experience in any white-dominated field. My representation burnout is the result of my interactions in a white dominant system, not the individual parts. We don’t live in a post-racial society, and don’t have anything to compare it to. There’s no perfect example of an inclusive and equitable system to model after - that doesn’t mean we get to stop trying.

I still love my work - I still love to work. The experiences I mentioned get in the way of the work I love so much. I wish I had an answer or solution to representation burnout (if you have one, let a girl know). I just have a coping mechanism and a constant fear that I’ll have to give up my work because I don’t fit in the space that wasn’t built with me (or people like me) in mind.

I Don’t Want to be Your Friend

Months have passed since this country’s racial reckoning. I have watched as my friends and I posted black tiles, promising to listen. I have watched as some of my friends did not post at all. I promised myself that I would be relentless in my pursuit of racial equity and justice. I promised to challenge white dominance in my personal relationships. Racial justice is all I can think about. It’s all I can read about. It’s all I want to talk about, and it’s starting to affect my personal relationships, specifically, my friendships.

I have been noticing the various systems in which I exist or operate in. After some reflection, I realized that most of my friends are white. To be clear, there is nothing wrong with being white. There is nothing wrong with having white friends. There is also nothing wrong with my white friends. White dominance is the issue, not any one individual in my life.

I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge the white dominant culture in which we are socialized. I grew up in a Texas suburb, where I went to school where white people were in the majority. For college, I went to a private Baptist university where white people were in the majority. I went into a nonprofit career, working with staff where white people were/are in the majority. One could argue that I’m comfortable with white people, because I have extensive experience operating in their spaces.

So, why did the realization that most of my friends are white, surprise me?

It wasn’t as much my friends, as it was the realization that I don’t have a lot of safe spaces. Let me explain. Depending on the friend (and their level of “woke-ness”), I realized that I change to fit into their dynamic. I roughly equate the experience to code-switching, except I’m alternating between versions of myself and not just language. The point is, I never feel safe enough to be my complete self. In detail, here are some trends I’ve noticed when going to white friends to discuss racial equity issues:

• Sympathy without Empathy: BIPOC are witness to many inequities or injustices, and after repeated experiences, it’s enough to make us consider if race is/was a factor in those inequities or injustices. When I try to share my experiences with white friends, I’m met with apologies rather than understanding of how these things could happen. There’s been countless times when a (white) friend has said something’s “too bad” without understanding the emotional toll the experience had on me. To have someone feel sorry for you without being able to feel what you feel, creates another emotional toll for the person who was feeling the emotion in the first place.

• White Saviorism: Have you ever gone to a friend about an experience, and they have told you how you should handle it or tried to jump to the rescue without having all of the context? I have had white friends try to save me from a racially charged situation or tell me that I handled something incorrectly. I’ve even had a friend tell me that they could act as a “gut check” for how I handle issues around race and gender, as if they know more or better than I do and could protect me from making a misstep. You can be an ally without centering yourself or co-opting the BIPOC experience to demonstrate expertise over an issue.

• Comparison: Sometimes, I’ll confide in a friend and they’ll try to equate their dissimilar experience to mine. I can talk about a microaggression or the burden of representation (in regards to race and identity), and have my experience compared to being the only liberal at the table on Thanksgiving. I don’t want to dismiss that experience, but it’s hard to center race in conversation when others are so quick to compare their nonracial experiences. For example, if it’s Black Women’s Equal Pay Day, don’t try to compare that experience with “well, I’m a woman and I’m underpaid too, so I get it.” No. White women are not equal to white men by any means, but they also don’t experience the same discrimination and injustice that Black women do. You are not the same. (Fellow POC, we are not the same either.)

• Questioning or Dismissal: Nothing is worse than confiding in a friend and having them question or challenge your experience. “Are you sure they meant…” “Maybe you misread the situation…” “You might be making this more than it is…” These questions put BIPOC in a position to defend their perspective or experience, which requires the emotional labor of reliving the experience to explain why or how something is affecting them. They have to justify their emotions for a white person to understand (so they can have some sympathy, without even getting close to empathy). Or maybe they feel dismissed and give up trying to explain, entirely.

None of these things contribute to a safe space to be oneself. In my own experience, I feel like I have to do double the work to talk to my white friends about my non-white experience. Even then, they may not be able to get to where I am and understand where I’m coming from. Sometimes, I feel like I have to be less of myself to operate in white spaces, even my white friendships. I always have to have my guard up, and protect myself from the emotional toll it takes to do the work to maintain friendships with white people that won’t pull their weight. BIPOC shouldn’t have to do emotional labor to continue friendships with white people.

I can see how this may seem like a harsh and damning position to take, but I’m tired. I know white people can’t help their whiteness - that’s not the point. It’s how you recognize your whiteness and the privileges that come with that whiteness, that makes all the difference.

Here’s what I would ask of my white friends:

• When a friend (regardless of race) comes to you to talk about something, ask “do you want to vent while I listen or do you want me to listen and offer my perspective/advice?” The key is to listen first.

• When offering sympathy related to racial experiences, racialize your own voice: “as a white person, I understand that I will never experience what you’re going through, and I’m sorry…”

• Always ask: “what do you need right now?” “Can I do anything to help?” Don’t jump to a conclusion about what someone needs. Don’t jump to the rescue if they don’t want or need to be rescued.

• Take constructive feedback and do the work yourself. If a friend says that something you’ve done is hurtful (especially when race is at the center of that experience), don’t try to justify your behavior. Acknowledge the consequences of your actions (regardless of intentions) and make the commitment to change - and don’t rely on your BIPOC friends to help you change.

• Respect space. Maybe your Black friends don’t want to talk to you right now. Maybe there are somethings that your friends don’t want to share or discuss - respect that they have their reasons and spend the extra time away trying to figure out how to be a better friend and ally to your friends.

I’m really lucky for the friends I have, but I will acknowledge that some friendships aren’t forever. No one should ever feel like they are friends with someone so said friend can learn more about themselves. Your diverse and complex friends are not here to make you better, nor are they a “white man’s burden” to bear.

I guess I’m saying all of this, because I need to know that it’s okay if I don’t want to be your friend.

I’d rather just be myself, and I’m okay with being by myself in order to do that.

John Lewis

Photo by Derek Smith for Magnolia Pictures

Of all the places to get my news, I found out about John Lewis’ passing on Twitter. My morning routine starts with some kind of scrolling and accelerated synthesis of news and information. I grew up with information at my fingertips, and I’ve spent the better part of my life consuming information as quickly as possible, so I can move on to the next thing and the next thing and the next thing after that. When I read about John Lewis’ death, I couldn’t move on to the next thing.

I carried this information with me for the rest of the day, unaware as to the emotions that came with this package deal. Everyone in my personal life can tell you that I’m no good at processing my emotions. I tend to push them aside and ignore them until it get’s to be too much. It got to be too much. I can tell you this, I was sad. I was sad that we lost such an important figure of the civil rights movement. I was sad that he died in a year when we had already lost so much. I was sad, because I didn’t know enough about him or the legacy he left behind. I was sad, because I didn’t think I had the right to be sad about this loss. I spent the rest of my weekend trying to justify the sadness away. Spoiler - it didn’t work.

I think my sadness was underlined with a little bit of guilt. My resolve for fighting for social justice was wearing thin, and here was a man who (literally) devoted his life to racial justice, and only one of us now lives to tell the tale. I could never compare myself to him or anyone like him - and that’s based on the little bits of information I do know.

Every story about John Lewis describes him as a legend, a giant, a model that was out of reach. But, the more I learned, the more I realized that his legacy wasn’t in grand demonstrations of action, but in the small and individual acts of justice. He was exactly like us, like me. He didn’t have extraordinary powers that made him such a powerful civil rights activist, he was one person that dared to dream of a better world and acted to achieve it. His actions were not outrageous or complicated, but ordinary acts of civil service.

The legend of John Lewis, is that he left a tangible legacy for us to follow. He was a testament to an unwavering commitment to justice, a commitment that lasted a lifetime. President Obama’s statement on the passing of John Lewis moved me to tears and reignited my commitment when I was beginning to waver. During a period of time when the civil rights movement continues to grow, and injustice is still rampant, John Lewis is a reminder that one person can make an impact. I hope he finds peace and rest, knowing that this country is changing each day due to his efforts.

Thank you, John Lewis, for imagining a better world, and for your relentless pursuit of justice - from Selma through the steps of Congress.

Do not get lost in a sea of despair. Be hopeful, be optimistic. Our struggle is not the struggle of a day, a week, a month, or a year, it is the struggle of a lifetime. Never, ever be afraid to make some noise and get in good trouble, necessary trouble.

After all, this is the struggle of a lifetime, and I have the privilege and opportunity to get into good trouble too (especially on November 3).

Waking Up to Systemic Racism

I’ve often heard 2020 described as “unprecedented.” The “novel” coronavirus. The “record-breaking” rates of unemployment. A “surge” of the civil rights movement. People are waking up to a number of problems. But the truth is, most of these problems have always existed. They don’t exist in a vacuum, but a system built on oppression and inequity.

In light of the brutal murders of George Floyd, Brionna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and so many others - I know many of us are realizing the harsh realities of systemic racism for Black people in this country. The fact that Black Lives Matter is viewed as a political issue (rather than a moral one), is a clear example of how Black people are dehumanized. I’m not an expert on this subject, and I know I never will be. I will never know what it’s like to be Black in this country, and I am approaching this topic with humility. I’m learning and unlearning every day. I’m going to attempt to be candid about my education in racial equity, my unlearning of anti-blackness, and my personal experiences in a white dominant society.

This work is personal, and requires personal dedication and commitment. This has been said over and over again, but it’s not enough to not be racist. It’s not enough to be anti-racist when convenient, or to participate in random acts of ally-ship. Anti-racism requires sacrifice, and constant due diligence. What does it mean to make sacrifices for anti-racism? For this answer, we’ll need to unpack systemic racism.

What is a system? A system is made up of interrelated parts, and a system is not simply the sum of it’s parts, but the product of their interaction. Here’s a moment for self reflection: what systems are we a part of? What kind of systems exist inside of us? If we don’t see ourselves as part of the system, we are not going to be able to shift it. It’s important to note that systems take a lot of work to build, but once built they are often impervious (but not immune) to change. Systems are comfortable, whether we realize it or not. We all operate in a white dominant culture, and we are all part of systems that reinforce white dominance in some way or another. In some ways, our systems are familiar, which is what makes them comfortable. Discomfort occurs in disruption.

To be anti-racist, we need to sacrifice our comfort. This culture won’t be disrupted by one diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) training or the posting of a black tile on social media (I know, I posted one too). Anti-racism requires persistence, not performance.

This is where I struggle. I want to be relentless in my pursuit of racial equity and justice. I can’t think of anything else. The more I learn, the more angry I get. The more angry I get, the more tired I am. I frequently hit points of exhaustion, and become convinced that I’ll never be able to disrupt the system and make an impact. The final stages of my spiral end in guilt and shame. I feel guilty for not being able to do more, and then I feel shame for making it about myself. This is larger than me and my feelings. And yet, my feelings and I determine my actions. Was this system built to burn out people trying to dismantle it? It feels that way. I’m thinking out loud here. Where are all of the other people who are struggling and making mistakes? How are you learning from those mistakes?

Here’s what I know - I need to focus. I’m choosing to center race in all of my actions, because Black Lives Matter. Black lives have to matter, and I plan to start by disrupting the cultural and institutional values that tell us that they don’t matter enough.

Here are some actions I’m taking in my day-to-day:

1. Learning, and learning constantly: I’m choosing to read books by Black authors - because only Black people can be experts on the Black experience in this country. I’m currently reading “The Skin that We Speak” and “Hood Feminism.”

2. Supporting the Black Lives Matter Movement: I’m advocating for defunding the police, signing every petition, sending letters, and making donations to organizations led by Black, Indigenous, Latino, and other underrepresented racial identities in this country. Consider making a donation to the Equal Justice Initiative.

3. Challenging White Dominant Culture in the workplace: I’ve been speaking up more than ever, and sharing resources to identify white dominant culture, and challenge it. This resource is one of the best.

4. Challenging White Dominant behavior in my personal relationships: I’m having a lot of hard conversations, and listening when I’m given feedback and offering feedback when I see examples of white dominance show up in my relationships.

I know that we’re all at different parts of our anti-racist journey, and this is what’s working for me right now. There isn’t a right way to disrupt systemic racism - there isn’t a perfect way either. The only way to really fail, is by not trying at all.