Unburying Ourselves: Beyond White Silence

White people, we must break our silence when friends, family members, colleagues, and neighbors share their stories, their feelings, their hopes and dreams. We must break our silence and intervene when we witness harm. But how do we unbury ourselves from fear?

Lesley Guilmart, is a Coach, Facilitator, and Educator on an active journey to becoming anti-racist. Read below to learn more about what led her down this path.

Five years ago, when I was a school administrator, a teacher held me accountable for committing a microaggression in a meeting. I hadn’t realized I’d done anything wrong. I felt devastated, defensive, and confused. On my drive home, reeling with emotion and cognitive dissonance, I felt a migraine coming on. All evening I wrestled with my conscience, desperate to dismiss the teacher as over-sensitive, but the migraine and the pit in my stomach wouldn’t let me. 

As the headache subsided, I resolved to apologize to teachers one-on-one. They were all so kind. I realize they may have felt like they had to be – I was a supervisor. Nevertheless, I am grateful for their kindness and wisdom. I learned layers of lessons from that experience, learning I continue to unearth years later. Recently, a new lesson arose through a conversation with a friend during 2020’s relentless news of police murders of Black people and the resulting uprisings. My friend, a Black woman, was participating in conversations between Black and white folks in her community. These conversations should have been healing but instead felt hurtful because of the white participants’ silence. How could they say nothing when their Black neighbors shared stories of trauma? Was it apathy? Voyeurism? Why even show up?

I know I did good work along the way, but a white savior complex prevented deeper understanding at certain pivotal moments. Acting with good intentions, I at times missed the mark and even caused harm.

I offered to share some of my experience as a white woman trying to do better, in hopes that it might yield insights. “Yes please!” said my friend. “Help me understand.” This is what I said:

With progressive parents, diverse friends, and a voracious appetite for learning, one might assume that I entered adulthood poised for compassion and solidarity. After college, I taught and later led in Title I schools. I worked hard for my students and colleagues and was passionate about the transformative potential of education. I know I did good work along the way, but a white savior complex prevented deeper understanding at certain pivotal moments. Acting with good intentions, I at times missed the mark and even caused harm. Some students tried to hold me accountable or avoid me, but too often I misinterpreted this as disrespect or apathy. I missed opportunities for solidarity. I sometimes chose silence for fear of causing offense, getting called out, or having to self-reflect. The insidious nature of racism, and my part in it, were rarely visible to me. When they were, my perspective was academic or, at best, passively empathetic. 

By 2015, twelve years into my career in education, the Black Lives Matter movement had come to prominence, and thankfully I chose to believe and listen to my fellow citizens. With children of my own now, I could imagine the searing grief of a mother who’s lost her child. With the dismay, guilt, and hope that Black Lives Matter stirred in me, something shook loose. When my colleague held up a mirror for me after that staff meeting, I dared to look. What I saw was a person who meant well but had work to do if she hoped to be part of the solution. That realization was painful. 

I wondered aloud to my friend, the one asking about white silence: If it’s taken me almost 40 years to get to this point, what’s the timeline for folks who are just now accepting that racism still exists?

When we witness Black people’s pain, why do many of us choose not to speak? I won’t belabor what others have already brought to light, but as a reminder: Most white people are raised to believe that our nation’s racial trauma is behind us, that racism was solved by past generations. We’re taught that to be racist is to be evil. Racism’s nuance often escapes us. So, if we say something harmful and are held accountable, or when the topic of race comes up, we may believe our belonging is at risk. For humans, belonging is synonymous with survival; banishment, with death. Many white people freeze in these situations because it’s a survival instinct, one too few of us question. 

My friend and I agreed there’s never an excuse for white silence. At the same time, perhaps the white people in these discussions aren’t apathetic or voyeuristic. Maybe they’re buried in their fear of accountability. For most of my life, white saviorism and silence shielded me from that pain, but they also subsumed my awareness. I couldn’t see my mistakes. 

Meaningful change is impossible if white folks, who hold most of the power and wealth in our society, don’t demand it.

My friend, in listening to my story and sharing her own reflections, helped me realize that I survived being held to account and accepting responsibility. As a result, I grew. I now know that accountability won’t end me. In fact, it’s a gift. I am no longer silent when someone trusts me with a story of trauma, or feedback, or a call to action. I realize that I will never “arrive” in my journey toward antiracism; rather, if I act in alignment with my values, if I listen to those who would teach me, I can be helpful.

I’ve been thinking about how to discuss the weight of silence and fear, so white people can begin digging ourselves out. The why is already obvious to me: Meaningful change is impossible if white folks, who hold most of the power and wealth in our society, don’t demand it. Also, our Black and Brown friends’ hearts are heavy; they are tired. They deserve better from us. White people, we must break our silence when friends, family members, colleagues, and neighbors share their stories, their feelings, their hopes and dreams. We must break our silence and intervene when we witness harm. But how do we unbury ourselves from fear? 

Here’s one way to start: Notice which feelings arise when we witness the truth about racism. Do we feel anger, grief, guilt, shame, love? All of those? No feeling is wrong.

Here’s one way to start: Notice which feelings arise when we witness the truth about racism. Do we feel anger, grief, guilt, shame, love? All of those? No feeling is wrong. Rather, it’s an invitation to pay attention so we can respond. Knowing that, let’s remind ourselves that silence can be hurtful, especially when it’s our go-to response. We must override that instinct. 

Perhaps all that makes perfect sense, but you still don’t know what to say. Why not try this? 

Thank you for sharing that with me. I’m not sure what to say right now except that I feel ___. But I want you to know that I hear you, and I’m so glad you told me. 

Then wait. Let there be silence – compassionate silence, silence that holds space. It is an invitation for connection, full of possibility. 

I’m not saying it’s enough, but it’s a start.

Curious to learn more about the role emotional literacy can play in collective healing? Lesley recommends the book Permission to Feel by Marc Brackett.

To connect with Lesley, visit her website cypressrising.com