Andy Malone 
Mr. B was one of my all-time great teachers. He taught seventh grade U.S. history. His class was a parade of fun, fascinating projects. That fall, for example, we followed the election for New York state governor. We studied the candidates’ platforms and then had to debate the issues, role playing as the candidates ourselves. Along the way, we learned about real things, like taxes, which adults were always discussing but never actually explaining. In the spring, we re-argued landmark Supreme Court cases. I really wanted to be one of the nine justices, but instead, I ended up as a lawyer in Wisconsin v. Yoder. I represented Wisconsin. If you’re unfamiliar with the case, this means I had to convince my fellow classmates that school should be mandatory for all kids under the age of sixteen, no matter what. I tried my best, but compulsory education is a hard sell to a panel of seventh graders.
Mr. B did lecture, sometimes, but he was never boring. He spoke about history with energy and passion as he walked from the chalkboard to the window to his desk and back. We scribbled harried notes as fast as we could, desperate to keep up.
Mr. B loved history, and he loved teaching us. I adored him.
So in eighth grade, when Mr. B invited me to participate in National History Day, the school club he was taking over, I immediately accepted, even though I knew nothing about National History Day. I showed up to the first meeting and was relieved to find Amanda, Ashley, and Anushka, three friends of mine from Drama Club, already sitting together. They waved me over, and we listened to Mr. B’s typically energetic description of the club.
“It’s a national competition,” he stressed, underlining the word national on the chalkboard. “That’s very exciting. Every year there is a theme. And kids like you across the country present history projects that explore the theme. There are different project categories: paper, board, video, play…”
The girls and I smiled at each other. Play!
“You present your projects at three levels: county, state, and nationals. At county and state, only the top two projects, gold and silver, advance.”
Competitive history projects? I could get into this.
“So, it’s very fun and exciting. But it’s also a lot of work! This is serious research. Your final bibliography will have a hundred, sometimes even two hundred sources. We’re gonna work you like real historians!”
Great. Bibliographies didn’t scare me. In fact, I loved to format them. I found that process to be very soothing.
Mr. B revealed this year’s theme: Turning Points in History. It was a really good theme, he assured us. One of the program’s best. There were a lot of fascinating turning points in history to explore.
Mr. B wrapped his pitch. The girls and I consulted; we were all in. We walked over to the sign-up sheet, where I committed us as a group. “I’m so thrilled!” said Mr. B, clapping his hands together. “You all are going to love this. And I know that you’ll do amazing work.”
We smiled and thanked him, then drifted into the hallway, talking about historical turning points among other things, like our homework and our impending auditions for Fiddler on the Roof. We had no idea what we were in for.
***
I have only a dim memory of how we decided our National History Day topic, which is too bad, because the decision changed my life. I remember standing in a circle, the four of us and Mr. B, discussing project ideas. I remember that he was terribly excited, speaking at a clip, like always. By the huddle’s end, somehow, our topic had become the 1961 Freedom Rides. We did not know anything about the 1961 Freedom Rides, but we trusted Mr. B’s enthusiasm and judgment. Plus, Mr. B was Black, and if he was going to tell us white kids to study a Civil Rights event… well, we weren’t going to say no.
We had not learned much about the Civil Rights Movement in school. U.S. History was a two-year course, and at the start of Eighth Grade, we were just broaching something called the Gilded Age. What we knew about Civil Rights came maybe from stand-alone Black History Month assemblies, maybe from picture-book biographies of Dr. King, maybe from TV. We certainly didn’t understand the significance of our not knowing, because where we grew up, when we grew up, white children were sheltered, from the present and from the past, for the sake of our futures (supposedly).
I was not, however, intimidated by how little I knew. I was a savvy researcher. I had been a nerd for years, so I could work card catalogs, Dewey Decimals, and yes, even the microfiche. (These terms likely mean nothing to you, which is probably for the best, though I do feel a degree of nerd-nostalgia. I would try to describe them to you, but I fear I would both befuddle you and bore you to tears. If you have a few minutes, grab some popcorn and enjoy this gripping video from the University of Arizona: How to Use Microfilm and Microfiche. It’s an important part of the way the world worked, before Google).
Over the next few weeks, the girls and I began to piece together the story of the 1961 Freedom Ride. We started with secondary sources. We read broader histories of the Civil Rights Movement, some written for kids, some not. We found a few books just about the Rides, but not many. We had to special order them through interlibrary networks. When we noticed that most of our sources were coming from a place called The Schomburg Center in Harlem, Anushka’s parents took us there one Saturday. We prioritized the books that we could not check out and read them till closing, scribbling notes on legal pads and index cards.
If you don’t know much about the Civil Rights Movement, it’s imperative history that you need to learn. In fact, I’d encourage you to put down my essays and to go study up, pronto. Here are some good texts to start with: <See Appendix>
The 1961 Freedom Rides, we learned, were an important part of the Civil Rights Movement. They were organized protests against segregation in the U.S. South. Specifically, the Freedom Rides called attention to the fact that many U.S. states were not enforcing two Supreme Court Cases: Morgan vs. Virginia (1946) and Boynton vs. Virginia (1960), both of which had ruled that it was unconstitutional for buses traveling between states to be segregated. While focusing on the specific issue of segregated interstate travel, the Freedom Rides were also designed to protest U.S. segregation and racism overall.
The inaugural Freedom Ride began on May 4, 1961, when thirteen Freedom Riders set out from Washington D.C. and headed south. Seven were Black and six were white. Among them were James Farmer and John Lewis, two young, Black Civil Rights leaders who are among the most important heroes in U.S. history. Learn more about them at <See appendix>. The Riders’ goal was to challenge the enforcement of Morgan and Boynton by driving their deliberately integrated bus into segregated Southern states.
The Riders drove through Virginia and North Carolina with relative calm, but things took a terrifying turn in Alabama. There, in a small town called Anniston, on Mother’s Day, a white mob set the Riders’ Greyhound bus on fire. Then, they beat the Riders as they tried to escape. More beating followed in Birmingham, where mobs nearly stopped the Rides for good. Such violence is awful to think about, but it’s important that we do. It’s a real part of our history and, tragically, continues to be a real part of our country today. Think about the parallels between these racist attacks and the ongoing police violence against innocent Black men and women that we continue to see on the news.
Despite the violence in Alabama, the Rides did not stop. Another young Black leader, Diane Nash, who led a Civil Rights student activist group called the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), rallied for reinforcements. More protestors joined the Riders, and they eventually continued to Montgomery. There, the Riders faced more mobs and more violence. There was even an attack on a First Baptist Church, where people had gathered in support of the Riders. Still, the Riders persisted. On May 28, they finally arrived at Jackson, Mississippi, where they were arrested. Additional Rides continued throughout the summer.
For me, researching the Freedom Rides was a revelation. Segregation disgusted me, violence horrified me, resistance moved me. Interracial resistance, especially. That nearly half the Riders were white: this changed me. I began to think about my life and my future in entirely different terms. I began to consider what else might matter, outside of college, and money, and fame. This might sound dramatic, or cheesy, but it’s true. Before I knew about the Freedom Rides, I thought of myself as a good person, as a nice guy, as someone who strove to be generous and selfless on a daily basis. But after learning about the Rides, I was inspired to think big. I realized that I had been self-centered, if not selfish. I had only imagined my future in terms of what I might accomplish and acquire. Researching the Freedom Rides awoke in me the idea that a person could dedicate his life to combating injustice; just like the Riders, black and white, had done back in 1961. As I now hoped to do in the future.
My research continued. I turned from secondary to primary sources. I spent hours on the microfiche, culling as many articles from 1961 as I could. Ashley’s parents discovered that they were connected to one of the Riders. His name was Val. He was a white man who now lived in a cluttered apartment on the Upper East Side. We had tea with him there one afternoon. He seemed normal, even though he had actually been on those busses. He spoke plainly of his decisions and actions, though to us, he was an instant hero. “I was young,” he said. “And it was the right thing to do. So I did it.” He paused. “A lot of us did.”
***
Many books and articles and interviews later – Mr. B was right, there were hundreds of them – our project began to take shape. We each selected a Rider to portray: two Black, two white. Amanda would be James Farmer; Anushka chose Diane Nash. Ashley was Janie Forsyth, a young girl who brought water to the Riders after the Anniston attack. I was Walter Bergman, an older Rider who was attacked in Anniston, had a stroke two weeks later, and remained in a wheelchair the rest of his life.
We wrote monologues. Amanda/James went first, describing the historical context for the Rides and narrating us to Alabama. Ashley/Janie took over, describing what she saw through her living room window: the Black and white riders, the mob, the flames. She discussed why she had decided to bring the Riders water; how she was moved by the Riders’ suffering and knew that they needed – and deserved – her help. Anushka/Diane went next, explaining why it was imperative that the Rides continue after Birmingham, then outlining how she and SNCC rallied support and resources. I went last. I described my attack. I underscored what it meant for my fellow Riders to reach Jackson. Finally, I asserted that the Freedom Rides had been worth it, and that I had no regrets, even though I was hospitalized and might never walk again.
We wrote the play with confidence. We thought we understood the history because we had studied it thoroughly.
The monologues became a script, then a show. Amanda and Anushka wore all black; Ashley and I were in white. We stood with our backs to the audience, facing our set: a giant, four-panel wall, with a collage of black-and-white photographs of the Rides, flanked by protest signs. Anushka and I had built the set over our spring break. We stayed with our backs to the audience until it was time for our monologues, at which point, we turned and took a single step forward to speak. For each monologue, there were certain phrases that we all said together for emphasis. When I finished my monologue, all three girls turned around and joined me. We clasped hands and sang We Shall Overcome, an important Civil Rights protest song.
At the time, all of these decisions sat well with us. We did not wonder about Amanda or Anushka playing Black leaders, nor dressing in all black to indicate their characters’ race. We did not overthink the selection of our white characters, saviors and sufferers. We did not blink, us four white suburban children, when we joined hands to sing We Shall Overcome. We sang it loud.
***
The play also sat well with our audiences. It sat really well. Our first show, for our parents, took place in Anushka’s living room. They were stunned. They marveled at the depth of research and applauded our deft acting. Amanda’s mom and Anushka’s mom, who were criers, cried.
Later that week, we performed again. It was our turn to workshop our project at National History Day club. Our audience included the other club members, Mr. B, and a few of his teacher friends. We assembled our set, delivered our monologues, and sang. The air hung heavy after we finished. Mr. B broke the silence with a standing ovation; the others followed suit. To the teachers, we had been unbelievable, brilliant. To our classmates, we had set the bar too high. But they were happy for us.
Later that month, we cruised through the county competition. An easy gold.
For States, we got to go to Cooperstown, a town in upstate New York, home to the Baseball Hall of Fame. I could care less about baseball, but it was an exciting trip anyway. We got to miss two days of school. Plus, the girls and I were best friends now, having bonded through all that research and writing and rehearsal.
We breezed through the early rounds. The judges showered us with warm smiles and glowing comments. We were unsurprised to learn that we had advanced to Sunday’s final.
I remember that Sunday performance in Cooperstown as our very best. All four of us landed our monologues. We were flawless delivering the unison phrases. And when we sang, more than half the crowd was in tears.
We stood afterward, smiling at the applause, waiting for the judges’ questions. We felt confident. To date, the Q+A sessions had been filled mostly with those glowing complements. Otherwise, we got soft-ball questions, like: How did you choose your characters? What was it like to interview real Riders?
This Q+A session was mostly that, except for one question from the judge who sat parallel to Amanda. He was professorial and Black. He asked:
“Have you reflected at all about what it means that you undertook a Civil Rights topic, and especially that two of you are portraying Black Civil Rights leaders, as four white students? Do you see any problems, there?”
The question hung in the air. We had performed our play dozens of times, but this was the first time anyone had asked us about being white. It was uncomfortable. We looked at one another. Then, the girls looked at me. I was known to think on my feet. It was my job to answer him. I considered his question for a few seconds, then responded honestly, as best I could.
“No, I don’t see any problems. We, um, we did a lot of research. A lot.”
“I see that,” he said, smiling as he thumbed our thick bibliography. The crowd chuckled.
I kept going. “And I think that, for us, well, we believe that Civil Rights History is everyone’s history. Black, white, any color. So I think, for us, James Farmer and Diane Nash were really important leaders, and we felt they had to be in this performance, and that we should not not portray them, just because we are white kids.”
The crowd nodded; the judge sat still.
“As for the topic, I think it was important we chose a Civil Rights turning point. It’s really important history. For white kids, too.”
I paused, then added one more thing on my heart.
“Honestly, this project has changed my life. Studying the Freedom Rides, I feel like… like I hope to fight for justice, somehow, the way the Riders did, when I grow up. So that’s why, for me, I think it’s not a problem that we chose the Freedom Rides. Not at all. It’s been a really good, really powerful thing.”
The judge nodded, the girls smiled, and later that day, we won gold.
***
I don’t know when you’re reading this, but I’m writing it in 2020, two decades after that judge asked me about being white. Of the many lessons I’ve learned since, I consider the lessons that I’ve learned (and continue to learn) about race, and especially about my whiteness, to be among the most important. This book would be incomplete without us spending some time here, though the time we spend won’t be even close to enough.
When I think back to that moment in Cooperstown, and the way I responded to the judge’s question, I cringe. I cringe even though I was young, and even though I was being very sincere. I cringe because now I see now that there were problems – lots of problems – with four white suburban children writing and performing a play about the Freedom Rides. Back then, I could not see those problems; because when it came to race, I could not see myself.
I knew I was white, but not really. I knew I was white in the way that I knew I was left-handed or wore glasses. I did not give my whiteness any real thought. I didn’t have to. Most of the people around me we were white; most of the people I saw movies and TV and in books, ranging from real politicians to fictional characters, were white. And when something is everywhere, you don’t really see it or think about it. It seems normal, not worth discussing. That’s how it was with me and my whiteness.
So when I started to read about the Freedom Rides, at age 13, in 1999, I was in no way thinking about the fact that I was white. I came to see the history as a fight for justice, in which Black people and some of their “good” white supporters battled against “evil” white, racist, segregationist Southerners. Those evil white people seemed old and distant. They were individual white villains, and they had nothing to do with me.
Except, they did. That is one of the things I have learned, and that I continue to learn, about race. My whiteness does have to do with their whiteness. In fact: it is their whiteness. It’s hard to acknowledge that, I wish it were not true. But what I’ve learned is that all white people benefit from white supremacy in our country. We benefit from its history, its legacy, and its currency. We think we are nothing like white segregationists in the U.S. South in 1961. We think we are not racist like they were and that we never could be. But if we distance ourselves from them, if we assume that our whiteness is nothing like theirs, we stop ourselves from thinking and learning about very important things. We stop examining the ways in which our own beliefs and actions might also be racist. We don’t look for the ways that we might also be advancing white power and privilege, even if we don’t intend to.
I’ve learned that, if you are white, it’s important for you to ask these uncomfortable questions, to go to these hard places. It’s important that you not assume your whiteness is an exception; that yours is some kind of “good” whiteness that is not touched by things like racism and power and privilege. What I’ve learned, and what I keep learning, is that no whiteness is pure.
For a long time, I did believe that; that I was made of “good” whiteness. It wasn’t exactly a thought that I had, or a belief that I could express in words. It was more like a feeling. An assumption. My National History Day project had a lot to do with that. After eighth grade, I remained interested not only in Civil Rights history, but in Black history and non-white histories more broadly. I carried that interest to college, to Harvard, where I filled my American studies major with classes about abolitionism and Reconstruction and contemporary Black literature. Compared to the white people around me, I spent a lot more time thinking and reading about race in the United States.
What’s more, I spent a lot more time doing things to combat racism (or things that I thought were combatting racism). I thought that I was the kind of white person who not only talked the talk, but also walked the walk. For example, I learned in my college classes that one of our country’s many racial injustices is educational inequity – the reality that not every child in the United States attends equally great schools. White and wealthy students have much more choice and access when it comes to schools, programs, and opportunities.
I read about that, and it bothered me, so I decided to act. I decided to start teaching. When I was in college, I taught in after-school theater programs in Boston and summer camps in Providence. After graduating college, I taught elementary school in rural Mississippi. In all of these jobs, I taught students of color who lived in poor neighborhoods. I thought that by teaching black and brown students, I was doing my part to advance racial justice. I thought I was certainly doing more for that cause than most of the white people I knew from Long Island and Harvard.
When I started teaching, a lot of people asked me why. Why was I going to teach in Mississippi, when I could be in law school or medical school or making tons of money in fields like finance or consulting? I would answer: “Because of the 1961 Freedom Rides.” I would explain how this project shaped the hopes I had for my life. How the project had stoked my permanent desire to be a social justice warrior. I was being honest. And while we’re being honest, I’ll confess that my decision to teach – to teach poor black and brown kids – made me feel really good about myself. Because compared to a lot of these other white people I knew, when it came to racial justice, I knew more, and I cared more, and I was doing more. I was willing to dedicate my whole life, my whole career, to this work. I slept well at night.
As a white person, it can be easy to stop at that place, to say, look, I’m doing something! Especially if you’re not thinking about being a white person.
But I’ve learned to not stop there. I’ve learned to dig deeper. Join me, for a bit. Let’s interrogate my whiteness, as it pertains to that moment in my life, when I decided to teach in Mississippi.
Interrogation. That’s kind of how I think about this process now. I put my whiteness up on the witness stand, and I look at it, and I pace back and forth in front of it, and I start to ask it questions. I don’t always know exactly what I’m going to ask next, or where my questions are going. But I try to keep going, as long as I can.
Q: You decided to teach in Mississippi after college?
A: Yes.
Q: Why?
A: To help the schools and the students there.
Q: Why?
A: Because of educational inequity. It’s not right that some kids get to go to great schools and other kids don’t.
Q: I see. But why do you care about this in the first place?
A: Because I believe that equal opportunity is really important.
Q: Why?
A: Because without it, we can’t have justice in this country.
Q: And where’d you learn to care about justice?
A: In eighth grade, from my National History Day project on the 1961 Freedom Rides.
Q: I see. But let me ask you this. Why should you be the one to, as you say, “help schools and students” in Mississippi?
A: What?
Q: Why you?
A: Because… I um, well…
Q: Because you’re smart?
A: Well, sure, but um…
Q: Because you’re well-educated? Because you went to Haaaarvard?
A: I mean, I’m not thinking about it that way.
Q: How are you thinking about it, then?
A: I, um…
Q: Have you ever been to rural Mississippi?
A: No.
Q: Do you know anyone in rural Mississippi?
A: No.
Q: Have you ever been black in rural Mississippi?
A: No.
Q: Have you ever been black at all?
A: No, of course not.
Q: Okay, so I ask again: Why should you be the one “to help schools and students” in Mississippi?
A: Hold on a second! I see where you’re going with this. No, I’m not black, and no, I’m not from Mississippi. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help, or that I have nothing to offer. It’s just as bad if I throw my hands up and do nothing.
Q: I’m not “going” anywhere with this. I’m just asking questions.
A: I don’t like these questions.
Q: Too bad. Here’s another. How do you know that you have something to offer?
A: I, um… I don’t know.
Q: So you’re making an assumption?
A: An assumption?
Q: Yes. You assume that if you move to Mississippi, and teach black children, you will advance the cause of racial justice. If I’m following your logic.
A: I…I guess?
Q: And why would that be true?
A: Because… I don’t know, because…
Q: Say it.
A: Say what?
Q: You know.
A: I don’t know.
Q: You do know. You don’t want to know, but you do.
A: You say it.
Q: No. You say it. You do the work. What’s your real assumption?
A: The real assumption is…
Q: Go on.
A: My real assumption is that if I go there to teach, I will do good work, because I know more, or because I know better.
Q: Better than whom?
A: Better than… the students.
Q: Just the students?
A: No… better than the teachers, too. Than the people already there.
Q: What kind of people?
A: I don’t know, I haven’t met them.
Q: But you’re choosing to go there, why?
A: Because they’re … black.
Q: Ah ha. And you think you know better because?
A: Because I’m… I’m… I’m…
Q: Say it.
A: Because I’m white. I think I know better because I’m white.
Q: No further questions.
A: But wait!
Q: No further questions.
A: Are you saying I shouldn’t go to Mississippi? Are you saying I shouldn’t help? Are you saying I’m racist for trying?
Q: I’m not saying anything. I’m just asking questions.
***
That’s what I’m learning how to do. I’m learning to put my whiteness up on the witness stand. To interrogate it. To keep asking questions, no matter how much I want to stop, no matter how confusing or uncomfortable or ugly the things that come out might be.
After an interrogation session, like the one above, I realize new things about myself. I think, for example, that parts of my decision to teach in Mississippi were definitely racist. Through self-examination, I find that part of my decision had to rest on a belief that I did “know better” than black people in Mississippi. My decision doesn’t make sense otherwise. I fully believed that me, a young white guy, showing up to a black community in rural Mississippi, would be a good thing. Even a just thing. That’s kind of a weird and problematic belief, don’t you think?
And yet, I don’t think all of my work in Mississippi was racist. Looking back, parts of my decision did match up with my original intention; did move in the direction of justice. I worked exhaustively, day and night, to give my fourth graders the best possible lessons I could muster. I tried to make every hour of their school day fun and engaging and productive. I wasn’t awesome that first year of teaching, but I was pretty good (humble brag). My students learned a lot. We built a special classroom community and shared lots of good times together. My students and I learned a lot from one another. I remain in touch with many of them. And so, though it was problematic for me, this young white guy, to assume that my mere presence in a rural black school and community would be a good thing, there were genuinely good aspects of it, too.
So while it was problematic that I went to Mississippi, it might also have been problematic for me not to go to Mississippi. It’s problematic both ways, I think: to assume that I had something to offer, and to assume that I had nothing to offer, given that I was young and white from New York. It’s all very complicated (as you can see!). What I definitely do wish, though, is that I had gone to Mississippi with a greater awareness of my whiteness, and with, by extension, a greater awareness that my motives were at least somewhat laden in racist and supremacist ideas. Rather than to assume that my students and families needed or wanted my “help,” I might have started by asking whether that was true, and if so, how exactly I could be helpful. Instead, I sort of showed up and just started teaching my heart out. I assumed that my understanding of a great classroom is exactly what my students wanted and needed. I assumed that the white boy knew best.
***
For a long time, I remembered National History Day as a pure triumph. As a fantastic, gold-medal, life-changing experience.
But now, when I look back at National History Day, I don’t see a simple triumph. I see a lot more. I see how little I knew and understood about race, even after a whole year of studying the Civil Rights Movement. Even with all that work, with all that research, I never learned how to see, let alone to examine, my own whiteness. I didn’t understand how my whiteness might shape, and limit, my understanding of the Civil Rights Movement. I didn’t understand why it might be problematic for my white friends to perform as James Farmer and John Lewis. Or why it might be problematic for us all to join hands and to belt We Shall Overcome.
I think about these problems, now, and I wonder how I might have learned to examine my whiteness back then. How might those lessons have changed my project? More importantly, how might those lessons have changed me?
Still, I don’t regret National History Day. Not at all. What I said to the judge in Cooperstown, that spring of eighth grade, was absolutely true. National History Day changed my life. I never lost my reverence for the Riders, nor the sense that I should, as they did, dedicate my time on this Earth to the pursuit of justice. That is a commitment of which I remain proud.
But the important thing that I’ve learned, that I am still learning, is that part of the pursuit of justice is putting my own whiteness on trial. I see, now, that I can’t really be a Freedom Rider unless I know how to do that. Asking questions of my whiteness is not easy. Such questions lead me to realize things about myself that are hard to realize. I see the ways in which my own whiteness is part of the whiteness I came to despise back in eighth grade. It is not separate; it is not pure. As a teacher, as a person, I am not immune from racist thought and action. Even if, for twenty years, it has been my deepest desire to be a Freedom Rider.
Still, it’s through these questions – questions that examine what it means for me to be white in this country – that I make real progress. Especially when the questions are tough and demand answers. Those moments I put the pressure on; those moments when my whiteness can’t take it anymore and tries to jump off the stand; those moments when I force him to sit down, to stay, to think, to answer; those are the moments I grow the most. Those are the moments when I take the biggest, most honest strides in the direction that I want to go. Those are the moments when I become a better Freedom Rider.
***
This coda is for my white readers, of any age. Perhaps you have already started to learn how to interrogate your whiteness. Perhaps you have never thought about your whiteness before. Wherever you are in that journey, I urge you to start or to keep at it.
Some people say you should live without regret, but I think that is a pretty convenient way to live. I say, instead, that you should listen to your regrets, and that you should learn from them. That’s what regret is for.
I do regret the years that I spent caring about racial justice without thinking about my own whiteness. Because there is a lot to think about. A lot of growth to be had. And I would have been a better person, a better educator, a better Freedom Rider, for many years, had I started an examination of my whiteness sooner.
If you’re wondering where to start, my advice is to read. Read books and articles that boldly and unapologetically discuss whiteness and racism and privilege. They will not be comfortable reads, but the discomfort is a valuable thing. It’s not possible to grow – not really – if you’re comfortable. Especially if you’re white and comfortable, which is a terribly dangerous combination.
I am grateful for every book and essay I’ve read that put my whiteness up on that witness stand; that made it visible, asked it questions, and demanded answers. That made it squirm and shout and think. That helped it, ultimately, to evolve.
Though I’m no expert – I can’t express enough, how much I’m still on a learning journey when it comes to my whiteness – I’ve included some recommended texts <See Appendix>.
So, go ahead. Put that whiteness on the stand and give it hell. It’s a tough ride worth taking.
