So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo Read Free Book Online

this.
    “
…
and this coworkerof mine, he’s black, says, ‘What do you know about being black?’”
    This is the part of the conversation where I’m inhaling sharply. I really don’t want to know what happens next because I cannot imagine any way that it is good.
    “Like, he was challenging me, you know? Probably thinking, ‘this white bitch.’”
    At this point I’m regretting the invention of the telephone.
    “And I was so mad, I waslike, this man doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know what I went through, he doesn’t know that I have two black kids.”
    I’m at this point holding the phone a good six inches away from my ear in the hopes that it will make this conversationless painful. Please tell me she didn’t actually say these things to this man.
    “But then I realized…”
    Oh no.
    “
…
that he’s probably gone through so much racismin his life, he doesn’t know who the good white people are.”
    What is she saying? WHAT IS SHE SAYING? HAS SHE NOT READ ANY OF MY WORK? Please let the earth open up and swallow me so I can get out of this conversation.
    “And if I were black, I’d probably be really angry all the time, too.”
    Aaannnd we’ve now officially entered the worst conversation in the world. I’m talking with my white mom aboutrace. Why can’t we be talking about, I don’t know—her sex life, or
my
sex life, or my period, or why I’m an atheist—
anything
but this.
    “So now I’m not angry at him anymore. I’m just going to go to him tomorrow and explain that I have two black kids and I understand where he’s coming from.”
    And here is where I shouted “NOOOOOO!” like in those movie scenes where your buddy is about to open a cardoor that will so obviously set off a bomb that will kill him.
    As uncomfortable as this conversation was, it needed to happen. The initial discussion led to a very long talk about race and identity and the differences between being a white mother who has loved and lived with black people, and
being
an actual black person who experiences the full force of a white supremacist society firsthand.She asked if she at least got black credit for doing my hair for all of those years. I said no. She asked why I didn’t identify as “part white” when mymother, her, was white. I explained that while I had definitely inherited light-skin privilege due to my mixed heritage I did not feel that whiteness was something that any person with brown skin and kinky hair could inherit, because race doesn’tcare what your parents look like—just look at all the light-skinned slaves sold away from their black mothers by their white fathers. We talked about how to discuss race without placing undue burden on people of color to educate you. We talked about when to not discuss race (say, in the middle of the workday when your black coworker is just trying to get through a day surrounded by white people).We ended the conversation exhausted and emotional, but with a greater understanding of each other.
    After this conversation, the way in which my mom interacted with me changed in ways that I was not expecting. She still calls me to talk about work drama, but also this funny movie she saw, and also perhaps her dream of us all building a cabin in the woods together one day. I still roll my eyeslike the thirty-something teenager that I am throughout most of our conversations. But my mom has become more fearless in her support of my work, now that she better understands the role she can play. My blackness is no longer a barrier between us, a symbol of my world that she does not have access to and therefore must avoid fully acknowledging. My mom has shifted her focus on race from proving toblack people that she is “down” to pressuring fellow white people to do better.
    My mom is now an outspoken advocate for racial equality in her union. And now that the awkwardness has passed, and now that my mom and I have a better understanding ofeach other, I can talk with her more