Kevin didn’t understand what he’d done wrong, but he knew he’d fukked up; he wanted to know how and why. I told him that his assumption—that we were safe from shootings because we were in an all-white restaurant, that a predominantly labck restaurant would be likely to have a shooting—was shytty, ignorant, and racist. When he pushed back, I pointed out that he and his friends were the ones carrying weapons. What the fukk did they need them for at dinner? Were they expecting a package? But, of course, it’s always okay for white people to be armed. If they have a knife, it’s probably just for opening boxes. If they have a gun, it’s probably for protection—despite all the shootings to the contrary. Kevin stammered and back-pedalled, but the damage was done. I’m not sure how far we were into our relationship, but that was the first moment I wondered if this was a huge mistake.
To this day, I look back and question how and why I stayed. I can see now that, this early in my relationship with Kevin and my own personal development, I was still in a lot of denial about what racism is and how it manifests. Ironically, choosing to stay with Kevin after I realized he wasn’t immune to racism, and later choosing to marry him, helped me sort that out. Being exposed to so many white people, including some who were now my family, helped me recognize racist buzzwords like “conservative,” “social conservative,” “Republican,” “traditionalist,” and “older generation.” These code words make racism more palatable and less offensive to those that engage in it. It also makes it easier to lie to ourselves about it.
Being with Kevin also helped me realize how much anti-blackness I’d internalized. Growing up Black in America, you learn to ignore a lot of racist shyt, especially if you are moving in white spaces. I was taught that white spaces were aspirational, that access to these spaces meant success. That’s a white supremacist ideology, but we live in a white supremacist society, so it’s also true: all-white spaces are where a lot of power brokering happens. This often means that the more power you achieve, the more you face casual social racism. You sit in meetings where people openly say that Black people are lesser—but not you, they add. You’re different! That is, you’re different until you do something of which they don’t approve. Then you’re “just like the rest of them” or “you don’t know your place.” And to teach you your place, they revoke some of your privileges, like a naughty child, until you understand that you are there by their sufferance. To survive in that environment you learn to stay quiet.
I learned this in school, at work, in certain social groups . . . in order to keep your spot, or move “up the chain,” you learn to let casual racism slide. Your ability to stay silent in the face of racist bullshyt becomes the norm. So you do it, because you think that’s your only feasible option and the price you pay to succeed in white America. The side effect is that this type of talk, this dislike and hatred of Black people, becomes not just the white noise but also the internal harmony of your life. It goes from being something you actively ignore to something you actively hum, and eventually sing. You stop noticing it, and then you stop fighting it, because it no longer sounds wrong to you. It sounds normal.
Dating Kevin jarred the melody. Hearing him parrot anti-Black shyt I said helped me hear the discordance in my life. I was suddenly super-aware of my audience, and it forced me to listen to what I was saying—and then to change what I was saying, not from a “fit in at any cost” ideology but from an internal assessment. I started listening to and correcting myself more. Then I started sharing my realizations and pushing back on the bullshyt. It’s been a shake-up for all of my relationships; I’ve had more than one non-Black friend express apprehension at talking with me, because I don’t divorce personal experiences from the larger, external factors that shaped them. And I don’t tolerate racism in my relationships anymore . . . which was scary for me and Kevin.
We hit a point where he had to change or we were going to separate. That point was the Trayvon Martin trial and verdict. From the moment Trayvon’s murder became visible, I dismissed the idea that his murderer’s actions were justifiable in any way. Imagine my surprise when Kevin said that the evidence supported the murderer’s account. It was in that moment, when I saw that the man I’d married believed that a 17-year-old teenager visiting his dad presented a threat to an over 30-year-old man who randomly patrolled his neighborhood with a gun, that I started to fear our relationship was beyond hope.
I talked to my white therapist about it and she commended me for being willing to work through these tough issues. I didn’t feel support. Instead, I felt betrayed by the two white people I’d allowed into my intimate confidence. When I was a child, my father had told me never to trust white people, and now I felt that his warning had been validated. If my white husband couldn’t acknowledge the humanity of a Black teenage boy who’d been stalked and murdered, if he could believe it was just for this child to be profiled and found dangerous based on nothing but a visit to the store, I KNEW that this person wasn’t someone with whom I could spend my life. And I started preparing my exit strategy—exactly one year after our wedding.
I’d realized that, although being with Kevin had helped me to recognize the racist attitudes I’d unconsciously swallowed, he hadn’t been able to do the same. He wasn’t willing to face his own racism, and this meant I didn’t trust my husband with my Blackness. I am not naïve; I do not expect another person to ever understand and accept the whole of me. I think that is highly unrealistic and self-centered. But my Blackness defines how the world engages with me, and it is something that he had to understand and embrace for us to be together. And in order for him to do that, he had to own his racism. He had to acknowledge he was racist, harbored racist thoughts, and said and did racist things. He had to confront this part of himself that he’d denied all his life . . . that he had the privilege of ignoring until he decided he wanted to share his life with me.
The thing that amazes me about him is that he did it, and continues to do it. As I write this, it’s been almost three years since I realized that I couldn’t live with my husband’s racism, and we are still together. It wasn’t easy for either of us, but when he realized that I could not trust him, that his inability to admit his racism made him a liar, he knew he had to change. My promise is to give him the space to educate himself and make mistakes, and the time to grow from it.
I also made a fundamental change in how I interacted with him and with the world: I stopped treating my Blackness as a burden. I stopped feeling bad about being Black. I stopped feeling like I had to prove I was different, “one of the good ones.” I hadn’t even realized I was doing it, and it’s still something I struggle with. When I’m in a situation where I feel silenced, or singled out, I don’t blame myself anymore. There is nothing wrong with me, my Blackness, and recognizing my skills and accomplishments. I am worthy. I share my experiences and amplify the narratives of others without shame. I invoke the privilege of my intelligence, education, and support network to learn more and write more about the impact of racism in various parts of my identity. I work to center myself in my narratives, instead of the men or the white people who surround me. I have reached a place where I feel safer without all the games I’ve been forced to play in this society. I’m still not 100% safe, but I’m not sure if that will ever be the case.
This also changed how I interacted with Kevin. Instead of focusing on how my Blackness affected us, we started focusing on how his whiteness affected us. He continues to confront his racism and doing the work to change his thinking and his reactions. He is rewriting himself and learning that his perspective is fukked up and he needs to continually straighten that shyt out. It is his job to shoulder the burden of his ancestors and their history of genocide, rape, theft, and destruction of other cultures as they falsely promoted their illusion of dominance. It’s his job to check the racism of his family and friends. This is his role he took by being with me. It’s not an easy battle for us. He knows when I talk about oppression he doesn’t have a seat at the table. He knows that my understanding of racism overrides his.
In exchange, I work to keep our communication about racism as safe as it can be for him—without doing harm to myself. Among other things, this means my anger is accepted without my having to explain or justify it. He knows he is not an authority and that his ally work is in white spaces, not Black ones. He is continually unlearning white supremacy and how to de-center himself in these conversations. It’s no longer focused on his hurt feelings or fears that I hate all white people. Instead, it’s about knowing that all white people in this country are racist until they take on the continuous task of unlearning what everyone and everything has taught them about race in America.
It’s not an easy battle, but it’s the one I’ve chosen. I’m just happy that I’m with someone willing to fight the battle with me.
Author:
Talynn Kel (@TaLynnKel) on Twitter
She's still with him 
