My Mistakes Discussing Race and Justice

A couple of years ago, I went to Chicago with my sister for a concert. This was one of the rare times where I knew and enjoyed all of the artists who would be playing, but I loved, admired, and respected one of these artists in particular. I listened to his albums over and over. I listened to his podcast. He talked and rapped about issues of race and justice, topics I cared about and studied. I learned new things from his content and his artistry, and would have loved to have a conversation with him about any number of subjects.

The concert came, and it was incredible. It felt like one of the greatest worship-filled group experiences I’ve ever had. And there was the artist, right there on stage, in the same place as me. Amazing.

After the show, my sister and I hung around on the floor briefly, and then I decided to head up to the merch table one last time just to make sure I didn’t want anything else. I went up, and who should be standing there in the middle of a conversation with a couple fans but this artist. I couldn’t believe it. I briefly weighed my options, and in a move somewhat outside my character I decided to wait for the conversation to end and start up one of my own. I attempted to work out what to say and what topic to discuss, discarding ideas and editing my introduction in my head in what might be my only opportunity to have a conversation with this man. I wanted to gather some sort of advice about approaching discussions about race and justice in a place where those discussions didn’t often occur. I wanted to convey how much I loved his work. But, upon reflection, I also had an underlying desire to communicate how much I knew and was on the “good guy” side of these issues, and how I understood a lot of stuff based on all of my studies.

Guess how well it went.

The first line out of my mouth was one I had decided against: “I want to talk to you about my context.” My brain reacted immediately - “what? That’s not how I wanted to start.” I then proceeded through a rough 5 minute-or-so conversation, breaking every “rule” about talking about race with a person of color: relying on a person I didn’t know to explain something to me so I could have answers to my own personal situation at an unnecessary time in an unnecessary venue.

I’ve re-analyzed this conversation hundreds of times in the years since it occurred, trying to figure out how it could have gone differently. We could have just talked about music. I could have brought up that I listened to his podcast. I could have removed my desire to present myself as a “good guy” on the topic. I could have decided that I didn’t need to ask a black man I didn’t know to talk about race with very (very) little preamble. But I didn’t do those things. I had that conversation, and I’ve probably felt worse about it every time I’ve thought about it over the last three years. I’ve felt shame at the situation I put this man in, and I’ve felt shame at how I presented myself. I’ve questioned everything I thought I knew about race and justice, what possible good I could do if this is how my conversations would go, and to what end I pursued two degrees on the subject. But, for a long time, I may have been most concerned about what this man thought of me, how he would remember the interaction, and how he would interact with me if our paths crossed in the future.

I went into that conversation thinking I knew so much, but left it feeling so small. I couldn’t listen to his podcast anymore. I couldn’t listen to his music. My study of various related topics had already slowed, and it slowed even further after this. Despite the deep concern I had for these issues, I couldn’t bring myself to find a way to continue to engage if this was how my interactions would go. Failure felt inevitable.

I’ve thought about writing this for a long time, but never knew how to approach it. Everything felt like it was about me. I didn’t know if writing would feel like trying to defend myself or alleviate my shame, neither of which seemed right. I also didn’t want to expose this interaction to people who saw me in a certain light, to convey the pain and embarrassment I felt. Moving on felt impossible, felt wrong. How could I have learned so much and done so much inner work and still be so much a part of the problem?

This entire interaction came back to mind last week as I started reading So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo. Specifically, it came back to mind while reading chapter 3, “What if I Talk About Race Wrong?” I didn’t need her to tell me I was going to screw up - I’d already learned that. I’m not even sure I needed the list of “do’s and don’ts” (my words) she provided with regards to discussions about race. I’ve seen similar ideas in the past. But perhaps what I needed was an opening to honestly reflect on this part of myself at this moment in my life. Unfortunately, I think it’s taken this much time to realize that my fear of making another mistake, causing pain to another person, has kept me from any sort of discussion. It kept me from continuing to study. It caused me to continue contributing to a system of oppression through my silence.

The conclusion of posts like these are often the place where an author lays out how they overcame an issue, or where they outline an action plan to address the issue. That approach feels disingenuous here. Despite all I have studied, all the things I have contributed to, and as much as I want to help, there is still so much to learn. Perhaps the first thing to learn after years of reflection and the process of writing this post is that these issues aren’t about me. I will make mistakes, I will never have all the answers, and I will never be comfortable with that. I don’t want to cause anyone pain, but I think failing to act because I’m uncomfortable ultimately leads to larger issues.

I have no idea if I’ll ever see that artist again. I’ve thought about trying to contact him; maybe I should, but I don’t know that I will. I realize, though, I have a choice whether to engage with these issues and these systems or not, and a choice to learn from my mistakes. Stating some sort of commitment here to “do better” in the future feels hollow, even if it is sincere, because simply stating a commitment doesn’t mean it will actually happen. It’s beyond time I begin to actively engage, and I will continue to share what I learn.