The Hardest Part? First, I Had to Listen to Him.

Given my introverted nature and aversion to crowds and conflict, I’ve been stumped for a way to help dismantle White supremacy. While waiting for a brilliant idea to burn through the atmosphere and crash into my head, I’ve been baking. A recipe for “perfect black and white cookies” had popped up in my email. 

“Black and whites” are not actually cookies. They are round four-inch yellow cakes, the flat side glazed half and half with vanilla and chocolate. Very old country. Until the 1980’s, they were available in Jewish bakeries everywhere there were Jewish bakeries. Alas, those, along with black and whites, are mostly gone now. 

The first batch I made, the cake was delectable, and the chocolate icing too. The vanilla? Meh. Several batches later, none of my ideas to get rid of that confectioners’ sugar taste and dry texture had yielded a rich, smooth vanilla that matched the rich, smooth chocolate.

“Keep working on it till you get it right,” my husband Kevin said with his mouth full. He’s so supportive.

There’s a joke about two shrinks walking toward each other on opposite sides of the street. “Good afternoon,” one calls out to the other, who thinks, “I wonder what he meant by that?” 

I’m a shrink myself, so it was only a matter of batches before I pulled back from my relentless pursuit of vanilla perfection to wonder what all of this cookie baking meant. Was I trying to tell myself something? Of course I was.

I’m White. We are all products of our culture and our culture is racist. Therefore, I’m racist. There doesn’t have to be any malice or anything active about it. It’s the default position for everyone who grew up in this country, even People of Color.

To me, acknowledging this is the obvious starting place. If we change our internal programming, we then have the option (not present before) to change the external laws and structures that keep racism in place. Yet most of the white people I know insist they’re not racist.

The problem is, if you can’t see your privilege, you can’t see you’re racist and without being aware of it, you oppress others. 

I could taste the perfect vanilla icing in my imagination, but clearly, adjusting the recipe to achieve it in reality wasn’t going to be easy.

Cut to a picnic in our back yard (seated in separate lawn chairs six feet apart in a nice breeze) with our decades-long friends Roger and Sylvia, and another friend, Hector.

“I just don’t understand these protests,” Hector said, waving his hands. Hector is a decent guy, though he freely describes himself as “kinda oblivious” socially. He’s a rule follower and enjoyed being a thorn in the side of our small town’s government when he sat on the zoning board. His wife Belle was proud of him. He’d stopped many a corrupt project with his mastery of by-laws and zoning ordinances. I didn’t doubt his sincerity.

“Maybe you don’t understand them because you’re a Privileged White Man,” I said. “In fact, you’re all PWM’s,” glancing at Kevin and at Roger. They both smiled. But Hector didn’t. “I’m not racist,” he insisted.

“We’re all racist,” I said. “It’s as American as apple pie.”  

He shook his head, “Not me.”

“The O.J. Simpson trial happened when we were residents,” Kevin said. “To a person, the unit staff was split by race on whether or not he killed his wife and that other guy. The Whites thought he’d done it; the Blacks thought the cops had set him up. I didn’t understand that then, but I do now. All these citizen cell phone videos of police violence have unmasked a systemic problem.”

“Those cops are outliers,” Hector said. “They’re not the norm.”

“Yes, they are,” I said.

Sylvia spoke up. “My father was a WWII veteran. The GI bill got him a low interest home mortgage and subsidized tuition for his accounting degree. Black veterans were denied the GI bill.”

“But that’s been addressed by affirmative action,” Hector said. 

“No, it hasn’t,” I said. 

“Can you, as a man, imagine not being able to walk alone down the sidewalk in your own neighborhood because you’re afraid a cop will stop you, harass you, and maybe even kill you?” Sylvia asked Hector. 

“Surely things are better now than, say, in the 50’s,” Hector replied. 

“No, they aren’t,” I said. 

“I just don’t understand why these things keep happening,” he repeated. 

“It’s built into the system, is why,” I said, exasperated.  What’ll it take to break through your concrete skull? A jackhammer? “Business, law enforcement and government are all controlled by powerful white men who build their wealth at the expense of Black and Brown people. Not to mention women. Of all races.”

I looked at Hector’s impassive white face and a rising tide of impatience and irritation swept through me, along with the impulse to reject him for a fool. 

Come on. Get a grip, I said to myself. If Hector thinks racists are bad people, then admitting he’s racist makes him a bad person. That’s why he’s pushing back. I’m a shrink. Finding a way in is my superpower. Wait for an opening. I stopped arguing and started listening. Then he gave me one. 

“What does it matter what I do, or say?” Hector said. “Pushing back against racists won’t change them.”

I smiled. 

“It doesn’t matter whether you change them or not, Hector. What matters is that you speak up. Silence is consent. Staying silent says you’re okay with whatever is happening. You know Elie Wiesel?” He shook his head no.

“He was a concentration camp survivor. He said, ‘We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.’ ”

“Belle dragged me to DC to join the Black Lives Matter memorial for George Floyd at the White House fence,” he said. “It was moving and I’m glad she did. But our being there hasn’t changed a thing.”

“You don’t know that. Think of yourself as one cell in the organ of that group, which is part of the body of the community, and our country. You might not see a change from your action, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t one. You contributed simply by being there.” 

His eyes lit up — he gets it! — and with that I shut up.

THIS is what I can do, I thought. Just have this conversation, one person at a time, with anyone who’s willing.

Rising from my seat, I went inside to the kitchen and returned with a plate of black and whites and offered it around.

“Yum.” 

“Thank you!” 

“What a treat.” 

Maybe I should bake more often. 

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