Confronting White Privilege

One white teacher's journey as she explores what it means to become engaged in the life-long struggle against racism.

By Dale Weiss

Understanding white privilege has been a personal quest for almost three decades.

Like others who have come to question what it means to be white in this society, I have gone through various stages in my understanding, and cannot even begin to guess what stages await me. I have been defensive when confronted with the very concept of white privilege. I have experienced unproductive guilt at being white. I have pondered what it means for a white person to struggle against racism. Most of all, I have come to realize that, as a white person, I am on a never-ending journey.

Three particular incidents stand out as turning points. The first was almost 25 years ago. I was living in the Pacific Northwest, and was a relatively new activist who had become involved through the Women's Movement. I was young, idealistic, and enthusiastic.

While attending a conference on women's prison reform, I participated in the session, "Who's Running the Women's Movement?" I assumed, naively, that the only logical answer was "women." But several women of color at the session said they felt the Women's Movement was neither inclusive to women of color nor did it address their concerns.

I did not understand what they were getting at. I was defensive and confused.

From my perspective, the Women's Movement clearly addressed issues of concern to women of color. Yes, the women I worked with were all white, but we were honest individuals who sincerely cared about ending racism. It puzzled me that our intentions could be questioned.

I reacted defensively. It seemed to me that if women of color didn't feel included in the Women's Movement, that was their problem.

Yet I was haunted by the accusations. I couldn't forget them.

Wanting to make sense of the comments by the women of color, I became involved with the National Anti-Racist Organizing Committee, a national multi-ethnic organization committed to addressing racism through education and community action. I slowly learned to examine racism not solely as the result of individual actions or intentions, but rather as a systemic institutional problem involving issues of power. It suddenly became clear that, for the most part, white people were in positions of power, which often included making decisions on behalf of people of color.

I regretted my arrogance towards the women of color at the prison conference. I began asking questions. Did I understand the plight of the imprisoned women of color on whose behalf I was working? What did it mean to be part of a Women's Movement when the women in leadership were all middle-class whites? Can white people really know what is best for people of color?

Answering these questions became an internal battle. The answers made me increasingly aware of white privilege. The more I learned, the more I became overwhelmed with guilt at being white. What had always seemed so "normal" was now something I wanted to reject.

For the next several years I worked on justice issues confronting African- Americans, Native Americans, Nicaraguans, and Salvadorans. More than anything, I wanted to be a person of color. I mistakenly thought this would protect me from taking advantage of what it means to be white. I had no idea what it might mean to be both white and an anti-racist ally of people of color.

Throughout the next several years, I continued to work with a variety of groups that addressed racism. Feelings of guilt for being white lessened and a deeper understanding of racism began to grow. In the mid-1980s, my "newfound understanding" was again greatly challenged, providing yet another major turning point.

I was working as a substitute teacher at a childcare center in Seattle that I found both refreshing and inspirational. The center was created and run collectively by a racially diverse group of women and men. Pedagogically, it fostered multicultural, anti-racist, non-sexist education and the children at the center included African-American, Latino, white, and biracial children from a variety of family structures. In employment, the center's bylaws included a commitment that the staff mirror the diverse racial and gender make-up of the children.

After substituting for several months, I applied for a staff opening. I had substituted daily at the center and both staff and parents appreciated my work. But in order to maintain racial balance among the staff, an African-American woman was hired.

Intellectually, I understood the decision. But emotionally, this was something new for me. I had never before been denied employment because of my race. After all, the world I had lived in was "made for white people."

I was forced to look at - and live - life through the lens of race. Thinking it through, it became clear that I had not experienced some form of "reverse discrimination" but rather that the center was only trying to match the diversity of students with the same diversity of staff; this was neither preferential treatment to people of color nor discrimination against whites. I knew it was right that I had not been hired. At another time, matching the diversity might mean that an African-American would not be hired. (In fact, a few months later another position opened up, this time for a white female, and I was hired.)

This was the first time I realized that "walking my talk" meant more than saying the correct words or standing against racism only when it was convenient to do so. I began to realize that being an anti-racist activist meant integrating what I believed with how I acted, regardless of how that might personally affect me.

Through the center I began to understand how I, as a white woman, could work with other white people and people of color on the issue of racism. Slowly, I realized there was nothing inherently wrong about being white. Rather, the issue was whether I chose to gain advantage from the color of my skin, or to work to eliminate racist practices that perpetuate such advantage in the first place. The center helped me realize that fighting racism was not primarily the job of people of color acting on behalf of "their cause." Rather, it was also the responsibility of white people to speak out against racism and work towards its eradication.

My work with preschool-age children sparked my interest in getting a teaching license, which led to my third turning- point experience.

My first teaching assignment was in a small town north of Seattle whose population was 98 percent white. My classroom consisted of 23 first-graders, all white except for one African-American girl. As part of my teaching, I was committed to infusing my curriculum with a sense of justice and with an anti-bias perspective.

My students seemed to have an innate sense of fairness and were eager to address such issues as how to make the world a better place. But most other staff members did not share my com- mitment to anti-bias teaching, especially on matters of race.

My social justice views particularly clashed with a sixth-grade teacher. The tension between us was painful to me because a friendship had developed between us while we walked the picket lines together for two weeks at the beginning of the year when teachers were out on strike. I remember how grateful I was when he brought me several sacks of food, saying, "I know it must be hard to start the school year off without a paycheck."

I mistook his kindness for pedagogical solidarity. Needless to say, I was surprised, and hurt, when he called me a "nigger lover" at a staff meeting because I had said I thought it was important that Black History be celebrated not only one day per year, but throughout the school year.

I asked him what he meant by his comment. "Exactly what I said," he replied. Another teacher piped in, "I think what he is trying to say is that we don't have very many of those children at our school so it's not really necessary to change things around to meet their needs. When I, for example, pull out my 'January/February box,' there are pictures of Martin Luther King, interspersed with the pink Cupids and red hearts. We don't need to put up pictures of Martin Luther King Jr. all year any more than we need to put up pictures of pink cupids and red hearts all hear."

I was enraged. How could Valentine's Day be equated with honoring Black history? I felt feelings of helplessness at the "mess" I seemed to have created, along with anger and pain. While part of me wanted to retreat to safety (where that was, I didn't know), something within me shouted out, "That's the point. You, as a white person, could retreat. People of color never can."

It was an incredibly transformational moment for me. I realized I would always be perceived as a white person, and that people in the majority culture would always make certain assumptions about my beliefs based on my skin color. I realized, more than ever, that to hide my beliefs about racism would be exercising privilege as a white person. To be open about my beliefs was to be an anti-racist ally.

Despite the lack of support from staff, the majority of whom had taught in the school for more than 20 years, I continued with plans to introduce a study of Black history to my students. It was difficult to find materials, so I decided to make a video on the topic with my students, entitled, "Black History as Seen Through the Eyes of First Graders." The video was a compilation of original writings, artwork, and music by my first-graders as they grappled with understanding racism through both historic and current-day events.

When the video was done, we held a "gala opening" for their parents, who were quite proud of their children's work. The following day, however, an anonymous note appeared in my school mailbox, apparently from a teacher: "Do you also care about whether your students understand white history?"

I once again realized I had underestimated how threatening it can be to raise issues of race. Though I was extremely fortunate to have both administrative and parental support, the day-to-day conflicts with other staff members continued. In hindsight, I realized that along with working with parents and administration, I should have paid more attention to building support among my colleagues. It was a painful, hardlearned lesson.

While I have left Seattle and now work in the Milwaukee Public Schools, I find that my journey to better understand racism and white privilege is far from over. Increasingly, I find myself dealing with issues of race and racial privilege not only as a white person, but also as a Jew who experiences various forms of anti-Semitism. What does it mean to be a person who experiences both privilege and discrimination? It is a question I have not yet answered.

And as an educator, I realize that my journey towards understanding racism will never be complete. One of the issues I am currently dealing with is how to move beyond multicultural education, as it is commonly understood, and take up issues not only of diversity but racism, power, and privilege. Some days, this is easier than others.

I know that these issues will not be resolved in my lifetime. The real hope lies in grappling with such problems - and in creating future generations that do not feel threatened by issues of social justice but embrace the challenge of creating a better world.

Dale Weiss is currently a Dual-Language Grant Coordinator at La Escuela Fratney, Milwaukee Public Schools. She can be reached at Mashoya@aol.com.

Summer 2002