Fessing Up to My Silence

I’m responsible for my actions.

I’m responsible for my words.

I’m responsible for my silence.

My silence hurts everyone, including me. When I don’t speak or at the very least raise my hand to agree or disagree my behavior doesn’t show moral responsibility.

What it does is maintain the status-quo of hurt for those served and shackled by a system that is broken. 

It is broken. Ignoring it will not make it go away. 

Last week I overheard a conversation as I walked down the hill toward the lake. I’ve been temporarily living in northern Michigan with my mother since the pandemic hit.

I heard a brief conversation between a gray haired, heavy-set, white man who stopped to talk to two, young, white men sitting on a roof, taking a break from their roofing job. 

“Blah, blah,”—weather talk between the three.

Then the man on the street yelled as he tilted his head back to make his point.

“What do you think of my hat?” He proudly turned it in his hand so they could read the message.

After an awkward silence one of the roof-men said, “It works.”  The other was silent.

“Yeah,” the man holding the hat said, “It works here, but I think it would be pretty dangerous if I wore it in Detroit!” At this remark I stopped. (in silence)

He laughed at his words. I heard no laughter coming from the young men, just more silence.

My gut feeling? His hat depicted racist words. I don’t know that for sure I was on the other side of the street. He wasn’t wearing the hat he was showing them, he had another red, white and blue hat on his head. The hat he was carrying was like a flag for his clan. He wanted approval.

I felt like my body was transported across the street to rip the hat out of his hand and throw it on the ground. My silence reverberated in my skull. 

“It’s dangerous here, too!” My silent scream sounded into nothingness. I continued on my walk. I posed no threat to his racism. (or what I perceived as his racism)

Being raised in northern Michigan I’ve witnessed racism before. Outright racist jokes. Cars flying the Confederate flag while cruising through town… It spreads fear. Fear of the city, fear of people of color, fear of “Downstate”. Fear of anyone not fitting into the little hole in the lid we shove the straw into, to define “Us”. The small, predominately white town sharing in the community drink.

I’m weary of “Us” against “Them” being a thing. All this fitting or not fitting.  I won’t pretend I know how weary it must be to be squeezed out generation after generation because of the color of your skin. 

The drink is shared only for those who fit. They are the ones who can suck through that straw. Anyone else has already been forced off the lid to fall. Who wouldn't be angry because of this discrimination? 

I’m ashamed of not crossing the street to see if my story was true. I missed my opportunity to confront the hat-toting man. I’m angry at myself. It’s my street too. I have a right to question racism to protect all the invisible men, women and children one white man affects with his racism. I have a responsibility. It doesn’t matter if what scenero I thought happened did or did not happen.

I taught my first graders how to deal with bullies. I have been reviewing those lessons for myself, lately. I want to be the guy that stands by the victim and puts my arm around them in solidarity. I want to show responsible behavior so I can take power from the racist bullies, from a racist system.

I’ve replayed my silence in my head over and over. Will I cross the street or will I ignore my gut feeling? 

Right now I’m fed up with myself. I will and can do this, one bully at a time. Starting with putting words on this page.

I want to cross the street to be true to myself and my responsibility as a fellow human. But, I have to be honest enough to confront the racist inside me. The one I’ve internalized for more than sixty years. 

Raised white, privileged and unquestioning helps me smoothly fit in the hole. I don’t think I have the right to think I understand what I’ve gained by an entitled life or understand what others have lost because they are not white. 

Admit it, Maggie. You have never been discriminated against because you are white. Your race allows you extra privileges other races don’t share-every day.

I’m responsible for my actions.

I’m responsible for my words.

I’m responsible for my silence.

I’m responsible for my ignorance.