Dear Random White Women, Part 2

But Nica, you have more White friends than me. And I am White!

This is one of the many responses to my blog “Dear Random White Women, No Thank You.” And she was right. I have many, many friends that are White women. My first friend, of almost thirty-three years, is definitely White. I was born in Orange County, a very White location of Southern California. I went to college at UCLA, a predominately White institution. I talk to White women, willingly, daily. And send my son to school to be taught by a White woman.

But I trust her. If I didn’t, he wouldn’t be there.

I don’t live in an isolated Black bubble burst by the mere presence of anyone less melanated. I don’t lack in association, proximity, or involvement with White women. But I still don’t trust the ones I do not know. Contrary to what you may believe, that wasn’t a comfortable revelation. Initially, that was not an easy concept to understand. But when I began to accept this as a fact, it explained the visceral reaction that I would have to seemingly harmless compliments and praises.

The purpose of that specific blog, in addition to venting, was to bring awareness to something many Black mothers may struggle with but don’t know how to articulate. We are used to, and can laugh at, the stereotypical trope of the White woman in the elevator clasping her handbag a little tighter when the unknown Black man enters. We accept, even if begrudgingly, that a White person locking their doors as we pass is normal, practically expected, behavior. We celebrate the cabs in New York struggling to compete with Lyft because we have heard about, or experienced, the cold shoulder of hailing while Black.

We are accustomed to Black skin being doubted and feared. We are used to being considered the villain, the boogeyman, or the perceived threat. I have literally been preparing myself, and my larger than average son, since birth for the world that will not understand he is mild mannered more than they need to fit his appearance into a spectrum of danger. Talking to ourselves, and our children, about how White people will see them is a mandatory conversation for most Black parents.

What we aren’t used to being is the victim. What we don’t talk about enough is the emotional toll and ramifications that come from living and surviving Blackness. So much so, that although the same doubt that runs through those White women who cross to the other side of the street runs through me, instead of turning into a fear, for me, it turns into annoyance. The way America is set up, White women vote, in the majority, for people and policies that directly diminish the quality of life for people who look like me. The specific locations that I frequent, are inundated with the upper echelon of wealth. Those are not typically the women you find delving into their privilege to take assessment of their prejudices.

So no, not every unknown White woman gives me pause, but many do. And as much as I would like to make that more palatable, ultimately if that makes you uncomfortable, welcome to the club. We can stay uncomfortable together. Because just like she clenches when I pass, I clench when she compliments my daughter. That kneejerk reaction comes from a deep understanding of the weight difference between being born Black versus being born White in America. Since I, and most Black women, cannot go through life afraid, my annoyance fortunately does not result in a 911 phone call or attempt to flee, just a blog post that ruffles a few feathers.

Me saying White women impeding my space with praises of my daughter that I doubt will withstand the test of time is explaining a nuisance. But it is also a perfect place to start understanding the complications that come with Black motherhood. As much as I want to relieve my White friends from feeling that discomfort, me being their “Black friend” will not omit them from potentially offending another Black woman, and they need to understand that. I know them. She does not. And that mother’s impression of them may very well be based on the destructive and devastating history of White women inflicting unspeakable pain on Black bodies. Her impression may very well be tainted with the stories of false claims, covert racism, and continued support for Donald Trump. Her impression may be drenched in memories that they are not personally responsible for, but, play on loop in their minds like the news reports of that infamous “Black male from 20-40”.

So White women clutch their belongings, and I clutch my child. We are both victims and villains in different storylines.

I hope that clears things up.