On being brown

I don't know where I stand. Not black, not white. This is what brown looks like: I have been followed around as I tried on clothing. Harassed by cab drivers, multiple times. Told my backpack wasn't allowed in the grocery store. Told to go home.

Today, in a virtual room with some of the white people I feel safest with, one person asked: Where do they get the message that they aren't welcome? The question was addressed to another immigrant, who mentioned that some other immigrants she knows feel unwelcome/ uncomfortable with the emotions in the air right now. My immigrant friend in the room can pass as white. I spoke up, only because these are the people I know they are. They are far more than just allies.

As is my child's white nanny, who told me earlier this week how sad she felt that all white people were being labeled racist. I stumbled over words to explain how it felt to be on a 6-hour boat ride with a man wearing a certain red hat and a giant, shiny hunting knife on his belt.

I don't remember what I said to the group today. Except that the world changed in November 2016. My grocery store, the one in liberal California, was a place I questioned. I don't exactly paint all white people the bad guys. But I will not let down my guard until they prove they're good.  Those stickers in store windows that proclaim everyone is welcome? They make me feel a tiny bit safer. Perhaps they're like anti-red hats. It took a massive amount of courage to say these things. I am still shaking and teary from it.

And now remember: I am not black. I have only seen a fraction of the injustices a black person in this country has, and faced them only as an adult. I am privileged, with my money and "model immigrant" status at banks and jobs and elsewhere. And remember: I, a not-black person, said this to five white people who I know beyond all doubt are allies.

Dear white ally, if you are still reading, know this: This is a sliver of what your black friends are feeling. Stand with them, but ask them how you make them feel. Ask what you--yes, you, dear white person at the protest--can do differently every day. Be prepared to hear they have nothing to say to you. To hear your friend was putting on a performance to fit in. To hear you're the bad guy until proven otherwise. If you find it difficult to sit with those things, think hard before you stand up to protest. Because when you stand a white shield protecting a black body, you need to know that your shield was forged in the same privilege that wields the guns and hate.

I don't know where I stand. I can protect myself, if not from casual racism, at least from the more egregious social injustices of being denied loans or employment or safe housing.

I don't need a shield. My skin makes a poor one. Would I have spoken up in that room today if I were black? Perhaps being brown and privileged is this. Having a voice in a safe space. If not a shield, perhaps what I can offer is a little light.