A Straight, White, Male…

When I was working on a graduate degree in Sociology, I joked with my cohort of fellow students, all members of marginalized groups, that I was probably the only straight, white, male to ever pursue an advanced degree in a field where “inequality” is a central theme. My participation in that program shone a sometimes-harsh light on my consistent membership in the most empowered groups, at every step of my very fortunate life.

I didn’t choose to be straight, or white, or male, but like a fish that is unaware that it lives in water, I grew up oblivious to many of the subtle advantages that membership in these groups had afforded me. I was always grateful for my good health, my loving relationships, and my opportunities for education, but I was blissfully unaware of the systematic advantages that sometimes favored me more than they favored members of other groups.

I first realized these circumstances during a summer when I was offered an internship at a fairly progressive company, along with about forty other students from around the country. We were all boarded in a modern apartment complex and each paired with a roommate. Mine was a polite and soft-spoken Political Science major from Northwestern University. He was also a 6’2”, Division I football player, and he was black.

Along with a group of the other interns, he and I would often go out after work for dinner or drinks. I was flabbergasted on many occasions to observe that, in public, a great many ignorant but otherwise well-meaning people, instinctively viewed him as a threat. One time, while waiting in the lobby of a Chicago high rise in our sharpest business suits, he asked me if white women nervously clutched their purses when I entered an elevator. For dramatic effect, he had posed this question just as our elevator arrived. As we stepped in, his impact on the other passengers was unmistakably clear; two middle-aged women noted his presence, drew their purses close, and stepped subtly away. I shook my head in silent wonder as I contemplated how a lifetime of subconscious "unwelcome" signs could affect a person's attitudes and opportunities. 

On many occasions that summer, when confronted with more overt racism, my roommate and his black friends would laugh incredulously at my obvious surprise. It was the first time that I realized the palpable and enduring reality of racism in the US. They couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it before.

In the time since, I’ve thought often about what I learned that summer. It was one of the reasons that I chose to further study Sociology. But, other than making an effort to sensitize my children to subtle forms of racism, I’ve really done nothing to help. I am a white guy, silently enjoying my station, going about my daily existence, perpetually comfortable with the status quo.  In the words of the movement, I am “part of the problem”.

I don’t know the solution, but behavioral science experts agree that the first step in resolving complex problems is to “recognize” the presence of the problem. Maybe the recent unrest triggered by the murder of George Floyd will move us collectively closer to the recognition that portions of our law enforcement and justice systems harbor some long lingering biases. 

But to be clear, George Floyd is not the story. He is just the current cover of an unfinished book that opened during the era of slavery and has added a page each day since. The book depicts an epic tragedy that, hopefully, will one day climax and resolve. My question is: are we moving closer to that day, or are too many of us like fish in water, oblivious to the only environment that our empowered majority groups have ever known?