Unlearning by Undoing

Before moving to North Carolina, Mindy and I made several exploratory visits to be certain this was where we wanted to settle down. We had discovered that we are both homebodies, so multiple moves were definitely off the table. We wanted this move to count.

During one of these visits, we stayed in Raleigh. I stopped at a grocery store to pick up a few items. I barely noticed the predominantly Black staff and shoppers—it felt familiar from my years in New York City. But my interaction with the cashier unsettled me. Despite my friendliness, she never once looked at me. She spoke to the floor when I asked, "How are you today?" When I thanked her as I left, it was as if I didn’t exist—not a word. Heading toward the exit, I looked around and I sensed that everyone in the store was angry. The tension wasn't the typical big-city irritability I knew from New York. This was different.

Back in New York, I shared this experience with a few Black friends. “Yeah, it's different in the South,” they said rather casually. As a white Southerner I understood that, but I hadn’t expected to see such a stark black/white divide like I did that day. Before living in New York, I had no comparison to draw from. Now it was clear as day. I had hoped the grocery store was an isolated incident, but unfortunately, it was the first of many encounters in the years to follow. 

About a year and a half in a transition apartment in Chapel Hill, we decided it was time to buy. To our surprise, we found the perfect little home in an adjoining township called Carrboro, a woodsy neighborhood that happened to be affiliated with a tennis club. Neither one of us played—yet. Two more years and settled in, we decided to give tennis a try. We were instantly hooked and it soon became a central part of our lives. I found that I enjoyed rubbing elbows in a mostly white privileged atmosphere, though I wasn't fully aware of what that might mean on a deeper level. I can’t quite pinpoint it, but the more time I spent in this community, I noticed  remnants of racist ideas beginning to resurface in my thinking. It troubled me.

Though I remained intentional about how I interacted with Black people, I noticed growing feelings of resentment when I felt lumped in with all the "other" white people who were clearly racist. (After all, I was so well informed…) When a Black person snubbed me for no apparent reason, I felt indignant. Some white folks might call such snubbing 'reverse racism'—an absurd, insulting, unschooled justification that I knew better than to entertain.

With lingering biases staring me in the face, my self-awareness grew. I worried that I was losing ground. It felt like someone from the deep south was knocking on my back door, eager to fuss about ‘them-there-people.’ While our town has a sizable Latino population, it's still predominantly divided between Black and white. I felt unfairly dissed when I perceived that a Black person might be making assumptions about me—an effectively hilarious statement given these are the same assumptions that Black folks have encountered most of their lives! It’s quite compelling to recognize that when the shoe is on the other (white) foot, we feel indignant. To speak frankly: whether we are aware of it or not, many of us white folks are wired to believe there is something inherently wrong with a Black person unless they prove themselves to us otherwise. But God forbid that we get treated with the same measure. 

I still cringe when I think about the day I met Jason and Rose. They were neighbors who lived up the street in another cul-de-sac. Jason was a big burly white guy (or so I thought). I'd seen him around the neighborhood a few times. He drove a massive truck that perfectly fit his beefy appearance. I noticed he was always overly courteous whenever I walked past him with my dogs. I assumed he was ex-military. 

One Sunday afternoon I'd been watching sports and had more than a few beers in me. Covid restrictions had unfortunately encouraged that kind of overindulgence in my house. I needed to walk my dogs but was also aware of my less-than-ideal condition. I wanted to avoid seeing anyone so I decided to take the dogs one at a time up a wooded hill behind a row of houses—a narrow utility access strip owned by the town. As I passed behind Jason's house, he came out onto his deck and called out, "Hey, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't walk back here by my property." I acknowledged him and waved half-heartedly. "This easement isn't his property, doesn't he know that?" I thought to myself. I dismissed his request and lightly chuckled. I returned home for my second dog and went right back up the same hill. I thought I'd just explain the property boundaries if he said anything more. He didn't come out at first. I was almost out of sight and headed back home when he spotted me. He rushed to the edge of his deck railing, waving his arms and shouting, "See, that's the problem with all you white people, you think you can do whatever you want!" To that, I froze. "What did you say?" I shouted back. After he repeated himself, he came down from the deck to stand at the side of his house. I was polite and tried to explain to him that the section of the property where I was walking my dogs belonged to the town. He replied saying that he took his "military trained" dogs back there and said he couldn't guarantee what would happen if I came back there again.

I stepped onto his property and that further inflamed him. I walked a bit further and then stopped, standing about 15 feet away. The effects of the earlier beers were wearing off quickly. A woman came out of his house and casually stood by, looking at her phone. I learned a little later that she was his half sister, Rose. He told me who she was and that he was half Black. I didn't realize that she was recording us until Jason and I were further into our confrontation. 

He was forcefully harping about me and my white privilege while complaining about people who felt like they had the right to walk behind his property. I tried to listen and remain calm, but his assumption about me being a typical white person was raising my blood pressure. I tried to explain.

“Wait, listen, you don’t know who you’re talking to. I’m not like other white people. I go out of my way to talk to…” 

“Oh my god,” he interrupted before I finished my sentence. “I’ve never heard anything more racist!” He turned to Rose and said, “Are you getting all this?” 

“Mmhmm,” she hummed. 

I was horrified. He wasn’t listening to me. He didn’t want to listen to me. He didn’t know that I had a stack of anti-racist books on my coffee table at home. He didn’t know that I had just finished reading a devastating book by Ibram X. Kendi, Stamped From The Beginning. He didn’t know that I had come to a point in my life where I was desperate to meet someone white who was doing anti-racist work. He didn’t know that I had supposedly disposed of all my deeply ingrained racist ideas because I got schooled in New York. In my mind, I was now a fully experienced anti-racist. My stack of books would tell him so if he’d stop yelling and listen. 

I realized my pleading was pointless. And then, despite all my reading and self-education, an old familiar thought emerged: he must be one of those Black guys who goes looking for a racist around every corner. And there it was—my white conditioning— finding its way to the surface despite my stack of books.  The next scene was shocking as it burst forth from a place in myself I didn’t know was there. In a preposterous display, I dropped to my knees and began bowing. I moaned deeply, and shouted loudly and mournfully over and over again, “I’m sorry - I’m sorry - I’m sorry! We were wrong, what we did to you was wrong!”

He shouted back at me, “Get Up! Get Up!” I just kept repeating those words and bowing. While still bowing I shouted “I will not get up until you listen.” Finally, exasperated, he said firmly, “If you don’t get up I’m calling the police.” 

I stopped and looked up at him, straight in the eye. “Yes. Please. Please do call the police.” I stood up and moved closer to him and Rose. Both of them warned me to stay back. “Call them and we’ll get this straightened out right now,” I said without hesitation. His expression faltered, Rose was still recording. Still holding his gaze, I waited, hoping it would sink in that police encounters rarely go in favor of “the Black guy.”

His demeanor shifted. I began pouring my heart out. I told him I’d been raised to be a racist. I told him my story about starting a riot in the 5th grade. I told him how alone I felt as a white person who wanted to make a difference. I lamented that I didn’t know where to start or what to do. I watched his expression soften. When he responded, the first thing he said was that I should start by calling out racism wherever I see it. I wish I could remember the rest of that immediate exchange but I was overwhelmed by my heartrending emotions and probably still feeling the effects of the beer. I do remember thinking to myself, “oh my god, I’m finally having the conversation I’ve been wanting to have!” I felt excited and hopeful. 

Our conversation shifted back to the issue of property lines. Neither one of us wanted to budge but we were both so much more reasonable and civil. I even disclosed that I’d been drinking and didn’t want to be seen in public and that was the real reason I was back there in the first place. I still thought he was being too pushy about something he didn’t have the authority to make demands about, but I wanted a connection with Jason, and Rose, more than I wanted to be right. I agreed not to take my dogs back there. I imagine he still might have thought I was being too big and white for my britches. 

We talked casually for a few more minutes. He shared that he had lived with his aunt in this very house when he was a kid and that she had left it to him. We chatted about our HOA. I learned he was the current HOA treasurer—I said that my spouse was the former HOA president. I hoped my face didn’t betray the ‘neener neener’ I’d one-upped him with. We were communicating and that’s what mattered to me the most.

By the end of the conversation, he was kind. He apologized for being so forceful. We shook hands and warmly smiled. I headed back home feeling like something significant had just happened.

In the days that followed I felt euphoric. Both Jason and I had experienced what I believed was a transformative breakthrough. I was so excited to imagine what this could mean for the future, for our neighborhood. Maybe we’d do anti-racist work together, develop a friendship, and perhaps even tell our fateful Sunday afternoon story. I couldn’t wait to see him again. I remembered he was on the HOA board and was sure I could dig up his email. This is the exact message I sent to him the next day: 

Monday Oct 25, 2021

[Beginning of Email] 

Good Morning! 

I was going to wander up the street a little later today in hopes of seeing you guys again and saying a neighborly hello. I had a thought that Mindy and I might have your email address from some HOA communications, and sure enough, we did! Our joint email is  - - -@gmail.com in case you wanted to dig up some old emails. Feel free to email to either address.  

About yesterday: I came away with a heavy heart, knowing that we still have so much work to do in this country. What I hate the most is the white double-talk.  I know I don't need to explain that to you, sadly. I'm so pleased to know you and Rose now, and hope we can have a good and kind relationship. I think it's so cool that you lived here when you were a kid and now you're back.  :-)

Hope you and Rose have a spectacular week, see you soon.

[End of email]

I wish I could tell you that I became great friends with Jason and Rose. I wish I could share that we were actively building bridges across the racial divide. Sadly, that was not the case. The recounting of this next part of the story brings a lump to my throat. 

About four days after the Sunday incident (and no response to the email), I saw Jason with a woman who I assumed was either his girlfriend or his wife, standing in their driveway. I swung my car in, excited to say hello. The woman glared at me and Jason stood back a little. I rolled down my window, smiling and hoping to make friendly conversation. Any hint of expression melted from his face as it hardened. “What do you want?” he asked, his tone flat and firm. Attempting to conceal what felt like a punch in the gut, I mustered a wistful reply, “Oh, I saw you and thought I’d swing by to say hello, you know…?” I shrugged, thinking he'd catch my unspoken cue, …you know, now that we’re friends. 

It seemed like he wanted to lower his guard, but instead, he looked over at his companion and then back at me and coolly shrugged, “Well, we’re getting ready to leave so…” His gaze was empty. That was the last time we ever spoke. 

I don’t know why but with every subsequent encounter I had with Jason, I was met with incredible iciness. It even got to the point where he’d cross the street just to avoid any contact with me. 

I could not for the life of me figure out why he was acting this way. I was so confused by his blatant rejection. My confusion soon turned into anger and then near-rage. My earlier fears of returning to my old white ways ignited. I found myself retreating to the insulated place of comfort where white people exist without confronting racial realities. “Why should I even fucking bother? I don’t need this shit.” Those were my thoughts, and I meant it. 

Weeks went by, then months, then a full year. Still nothing. Not a word. In my frustration I might have even appreciated a “fuck-off” remark from him. At least that would have been some kind of acknowledgment. But each time we crossed paths, and I smiled or said hello, he would quickly look the other way or fixate on his phone. 

“What the hell?” I finally said to myself after numerous encounters like this. My irritation had grown to the point that I began muttering “wimp” at him under my breath. Unable to get a rise out of someone who presented himself as confrontational, I resorted to even more ridiculous, childish behavior. I began making clucking, chicken sounds when he passed. I decided he’d either threaten to kick my ass or at least confront me. Never a word. Good for him.

A few years passed when one day I saw Jason at my gym. He’d moved away from the neighborhood and I hadn’t seen him for a while. I tried to ignore him as best I could. At one point I watched him while he stared at his phone. For all I know, he was recording me. I was no longer pissed. I knew I had to let it go. By then I had also gained some insight into my reactions—what experts term "white fragility." I had felt incredibly hurt, rejected and misunderstood. Because I’m committed to dismantling racism, I had to look squarely at my rawness and honestly ask myself, how could I possibly reconcile my pain against the countless instances of rejection, hurt, and marginalization that our Black citizens have experienced for generations?