White Women, I Am You and You Are Me
It is Women’s History Month and I am incredibly proud to be a woman. Women run this world. And, while I am proud of the ways I am choosing to heal, love, contribute and show up in truth, I recognize I have a responsibility to name and work towards making right historical and present-day wrongs — especially the harm we cis white women, in particular, have caused Black Indigenous People of Color (BIPOC), especially Black Indigenous Women of Color (BIWOC).
I would be remiss to ever speak for Black Indigenous Women of Color (BIWOC) though especially during Women’s History Month I want to be clear that BIWOC are the heartbeat of all that is good in this world. BIWOC deserve better and yet they need, desire and/or expect little from us (who could blame them from our track record of harm). BIWOC owe us absolutely nothing. In many ways, white women, we are no better than the men we claim oppress us.
Ouch, I know. Take a breath. Breathe it in. Feel the hurt of the truth in order to heal and be different. White women, I am you and you are me.
After naturally birthing two humans into this world I became more fully aware of my own power and strength. After laboring with my first-born son and knowing that if I could endure the pain equivalent of every bone breaking in my body for 14 hours, without even a Tylenol, I had unfathomable power in my loving spirit. My breath and the cadence of contractions ensuring me I must embrace the discomfort, the pain for a greater outcome — my beautiful child in my arms.
I recognize other women have powerful legacies outside of being a mother and/or may not choose motherhood for their lives. My truth is that, for me, my children are my greatest pride and legacy. I am a strong white, cisgender woman, married to a strong Black man raising beautiful, precious and brilliant multiracial children whom the world will label Black. And, I toil as a white woman fully owning my privileges of living in a white skinned body while raising Black boys. I am not sharing anything BIPOC have not shared for centuries.
I feel the motherly hurt and anger when my eldest son feels and expresses being exoticized for his hair as only a preschooler. Him begging for a fade so close to his head that ensures his course hair and curls are eradicated from visual existence no longer tempting others (children and adults alike) to touch him. My son experiencing anti-blackness in an environment where adults are doing their best to be supportive and inclusive for all children; though, white supremacy culture is too much to undo through conversations or children’s books. There’s no protecting my children from white supremacy culture; there’s only creating a foundation of empowerment, pride and love for who they are in hopes it is enough to sustain their soul in surviving the world outside of our home.
Further, I fear my tempered toddler will be stereotyped as defiant or violent if we do not begin to channel his aggressiveness to a calm(er) demeanor. I contemplate as his white mother if I am socializing him to whiteness for survival purposes while also being maddened that I feel the pressure to protect his future self from unwarranted harm when he is only two. Why can’t my soulful son just be a kid with passion and a feisty soul? Why can’t all Black Indigenous Children of Color show up in the world as children who are precious gifts to this earth? The answer: white supremacy.
