My Not-So-Wonderful White World

By Lindsay E. Vaughn, Psy.D., HSP, CST Licensed Clinical Psychologist, Founder and Director of Hazel House Holistic Healing

When I was four, we got a new puppy. She was the cutest, sweetest little black lab you’ve ever seen. She was my best friend, and she was perfect, except for one thing. Her name was Nigg. Yes, you read that right. We had a black dog and my stepdad thought it would be cute to name her Nigg. I cringe as I write that, feeling the painful combination of anger, fear, and shame that are probably quite appropriate in this moment. It’s awful, it’s vulnerable to share, and it’s the truth. Fast forward about ten years. I was spending some time with my biological dad and we decided to go to the corner store for something one night. He goes in, gets whatever he came for, then comes out, gets into the car, and drives away. But instead of going home, he drives to the elementary school across the street and parks the car, killing the headlights. Of course, I ask him what he’s doing, so he explains. “Two black guys walked in there as I was leaving. I’m going to make sure they don’t rob the place,” he says. They didn’t. I feel certain that the two memories described above are not the only examples of racism that I was exposed to growing up, but they are the most memorable. I do know that my maternal grandmother relied heavily on “the help.” When my mom and I watched the movie by the same name together, she commented on how similar it was to her experience of growing up, white and wealthy, in Hendersonville, TN in the 1950s and 60s. Just like the movie character, my mom was practically raised by the black nanny, Alice, who also cooked and cleaned, of course. Later, throughout the 1980s, I remember that Betty Sue was always there at my grandmother’s house when I visited, tidying up and doing whatever needed to be done inside, while James worked dutifully outside. Later, after my grandmother had died, Betty Sue’s sister, Mary Lou was the housekeeper for my home. James, who maintained my grandmother’s farm, was a kind older man with very dark skin. It was obvious to me that he was different from me and my family, even at four or five. Still, I liked him, and he liked me. I always smiled when I saw James and enjoyed saying hello to him. I don’t remember his death, specifically, but I think it was pretty early in my life. Then, before I was even in middle school, a neighbor, who was my parents’ age, starting telling me that James died by hanging, on my grandmother’s farm. As an adult, I don’t believe that’s true, and I don’t believe he did either. He just thought it was funny to freak me out. Obviously, there’s nothing funny about it.

We didn’t have any friends of color. I went to schools that did not include many black people. The private school I attended from Kindergarten through third grade didn’t have a single black person, if I recall correctly. We did have one Jewish student, however, and I remember that it was a big deal. Even the public school that I transferred to in fourth grade had very few black people. One of them I befriended, and I remember that she felt like a full-grown adult to me in fifth grade, because she was wise beyond her years. While my memory is fuzzy, I think I assumed that she was wise and weathered because of her family life. But truth be told, she had probably acquired much of her wisdom and resilience from having survived in a white suburban area where people with black and brown skin were discriminated against, judged, feared, and sometimes hated. I have a vague memory of wanting to invite Tamika over to my house, but I never did ask my parents. After all, no black person had ever been to our house, save for Mary Lou. I feel certain that if you asked any of my three parents, they would explicitly tell you that they are not racist. And I actually think they would believe it. Racism, to many people, is narrowly associated with extreme and cruel actions. My parents were never overtly cruel. In fact, they were quite kind to most people, including black people. Also, they trusted Mary Lou enough to leave their youngest daughter in her care while they went on vacation. How in the world could they be racist? I tell these stories not to crucify my parents. I happen to believe that they fully intend to be good people who do no harm in the world. Rather, I tell these stories to explain the context into which I was born, my parents were born, and many of you reading this were likely born, especially in the South. I, like many white people, grew up thinking that black people were more likely to steal, rob, and enact violence, and that I better keep my eyes open when they’re around. Those were the messages I got, not always covertly, and regrettably, I didn’t have very many black people around me to challenge those stereotypes. I also remember thinking as I was growing up, “If black people want to be accepted and integrated into mainstream (read: white) society, why do they act so different?”

White World, (continued from page 8)

I felt like they were going out of their way to be different, to set themselves apart, with music, dress, and speech, for example, and then they complained about being treated differently. I found that to be confusing, and frustrating, and I was pretty unconcerned with finding ways to bridge the gap. My child-mind obviously didn’t understand the difference between wanting assimilation and wanting equality. I’m ashamed now to think that this was my mentality, but how could it have been different at such a young age, with very little exposure to a different way of thinking about things? But I for sure was NOT racist. No, I was a nice person, and I considered Tamika a dear friend, after all. After living in suburban Tennessee for my whole life, I moved to a relatively diverse South Florida town at the start of eighth grade, where I stayed for three years. We lived in a relatively wealthy area, and still quite suburban, picturesque even, but it was certainly different from what I was used to. I found many Jewish and Latinx friends, and friends whose family had originated all over the country, and in other countries, too. During the first few months of school there, as I introduced myself as being from Tennessee, I was routinely asked if we had running water, if we used outhouses, and if we wore shoes. As if eight grade isn’t hard enough socially. Even with this newfound diversity, there were very few black people around, and while I don’t specifically remember it, I suspect that racism was prevalent. You’d think that oppressed groups of people -religious minorities, immigrants, women and girls, etc. -you’d think that they would understand what it feels like to be oppressed, and that they (we) would all fight for equality. But somehow, it doesn’t work that way. The paucity of black people meant that, again, I didn’t have much of an opportunity to challenge my own stereotypes and biases, nor to benefit from the inclusion of black culture and black people in the tangible world around me. At the start of 11th grade, I moved from Florida back to Tennessee, where I attended a small, Christian, private school. Upon graduation, we had one black boy and one black girl in our class of 95 teenagers. Can you imagine being the only one? I wish so badly that I had realized then what they must have experienced being the only person around who looked like them. I don’t recall any black teachers on staff either. How lonely it must have been for my classmates of color. I moved from one white world to another, and another, and another. My college years, also spent in a Tennessee suburb, consisted of more straight, white, Christian experiences. I know that there were people of color around campus, but I don’t recall very many interactions with my black peers. As I previously mentioned, I was acutely aware of the self-segregation, but I was ignorant to the context within which it occurred. My privilege had me completely unaware of the lack of psychological safety experienced by my black peers in a southern, suburban school. I do remember one professor, an older white man, who taught me sociology and consequently challenged everything I ever thought I knew about people, about prejudice, about justice, about bias, and about how one-sided my prior learning had been. I couldn’t tell you now, twenty something years later, anything specific that he said, except one thing. He told us that people often use the phrase “birds of a feather flock together” to support their bias against interracial coupling. However, he said, the reason they do is because birds of a different feather are birds of a different species. He was using science to challenge a common idiom and the racist ideas underlying it. It may have been my first experience like that, and maybe that’s why I remember it. And maybe, though I can’t say with any certainty, that one statement changed the course for me. My future experiences would build upon that one moment. By the time I got to grad school, I was married, 23 years old, still somewhat attached to the values of my childhood, and still fairly uneducated in matters of social justice, in spite of having a four-year degree in psychology and sociology. I was in for quite the challenging first semester. Back in south Florida, I was surrounded by a more diverse community again, and while I did not have any black people in my cohort, or as professors, as far as I can remember, I was still surrounded by a more diverse crowd, and one that was much less bound by southern mores. I don’t remember which came first, but I was to have my racist and my homophobic beliefs challenged, right off the bat. My Diversity class professor, Dr. Lewis (in fact, his name was John Lewis, but he wasn’t the same man who was a civil rights activist since the days of MLK). This Dr. Lewis was a bit of an odd man –white, short, loud, a yankee by Tennessee standards -but very likable, nonetheless. I remember that he gave us an assignment, pretty early on, which asked us to examine our own history, the messages we received about people who were different from us, internalized racism, etc.

He instructed us to title the paper, “Who Am I?” Without having to go back and read it, I remember that I wrote about not being racist in any way, having had black friends and black housekeepers, whom we all adored. I also talked about my experience as a woman, and the fact that I never felt oppressed, held back, discriminated against, disadvantaged, etc., because I was a woman. Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt, as they say. My professor didn’t reprimand me or give me a bad grade for my lack of insight. Instead, he assigned a grade that was fitting for the effort and the quality of writing, and then probably proceeded to teach what he determined I needed to know, along with the rest of my classmates who probably had varying degrees of awareness. I’m sure I wasn’t the only racist, sexist, homophobic person with little self-awareness in the class. Surely. I remember one other specific thing from that class. One day, during a lecture, Dr. John Lewis said, “A lot of people say that black people act like we OWE them something.” I was on board at this point, because that seemed to ring true for me. He continued, with passion, “IT’S BECAUSE WE DO!! WE DO OWE THEM SOMETHING!! IT’S CALLED REPARATION.” He had my attention. As he continued, he offered something that led me to understand things from a different perspective. I don’t remember the details of what he taught that day, or in the weeks to follow, but I know that it changed me. Maybe the fact that I was still young and impressionable made a difference. And I was there to learn, after all. I felt honored to be a part of this cohort of people, all forging ahead toward our own doctorates. I’m sure I was more open to new information than I might have been otherwise. Still, Dr. Lewis was pretty persuasive, and what he taught… Just. Made. Sense. I’ve been fortunate since that time, twenty years ago, to have a lot of exposure to black and brown people, as well as members of many other minority groups. My stereotypes and biases have been challenged not only by reading books, but also by making friends. Through my professional and personal experiences over the years, I have learned to open my eyes and my heart to the pain of others in our community, to hear their voices, and to try be helpful in some way. Certainly, I’m not perfect; I have a lot to learn. Even in writing this article, I fear that I’ve exposed something dreadful about myself to all of my respected colleagues, as I’m aware that this is such a sensitive topic and that it’s easy to blunder. I’ve had to remind myself repeatedly that I am not responsible for my upbringing or for the actions of my relatives, and that you, the reader, will know that, too. I also have had to reassure myself that my intent will be known, and that I can bear to receive feedback, and learn from it, should any come my way. These are the pep talks we must give ourselves so that we don’t just do the easy thing by resting on our privilege and letting our awareness of systemic racism fade into the background. We must keep the conversations going, no matter how scary, and no matter what we have to lose.

In spite of my fear and embarrassment, I chose to write this article because my childhood experiences are not uncommon, and there are a lot of people walking around who share the perspectives of my younger self. My college and graduate school experiences were less common, though, and I feel grateful for those. I have spent a lot of time in recent years wondering whether some of the racist people around me would see things differently, too, had they learned some of the same things I did. I’ve also spent a good deal of time pondering how I might share information with them, now, that would penetrate the long-entrenched ideas about what it means to be black in this country, as I understand it, as well as what it means to be white. I want to share the things I’ve learned about modeling, trauma, epigenetics, and confirmation bias, and how each of those relate to systemic racism. I want to believe that racism is born out of ignorance as often as it is out of hate, and that people’s hearts and minds can open to new ideas when they are challenged, just as I was twenty years ago by Dr. John Lewis. Of course, I know that some people do not want to be changed, and they are not as open to new information as I was in my early 20s, when I was pursuing a doctorate in psychology. And if I assume that everyone is open to being challenged and changed, I will surely be disappointed. But if I assume that everyone is not, or that it’s fruitless to have conversations about race with people who disagree with me, we all stand to lose a lot more. Because then, I would miss out on potential opportunities to make the world a little safer, one person at a time. So, I’ll just keep having these uncomfortable, imperfect, sometimes messy conversations. I’ll keep fighting for what is right, and I’ll do my damnedest to present things in a way that is palatable to those who don’t yet get it. After all, our attempts at persuasion do no good if they are rejected at the door. I hope you will keep having these conversations, too, since you never know how one statement might change the trajectory of someone’s life, and the ripple effect that might cause. Take it from me.