I have been reticent to write because I have felt that this moment is not mine.
Rather, this moment is about the daily, lived experience of injustice that black Americans endure. I must make space for the depth and rawness of their pain and rightful outrage.
And so I bristle at the thought my own distress over the state of things and my complicity in them might interrupt or — worse — co-opt a narrative that belongs to my black neighbors. Theirs are the voices that must be attended to, the names that must be said.
But in another sense, this moment is mine and is precisely about me — in the sense that I am complicit in the systems and norms from which their pain stems, and in the sense that this moment must radicalize me to action if there is hope for change.
My ill-formed, paltry thoughts on this subject are not why you come to me and my blog. You come in search of distraction, beautiful clothing, the occasional musing on motherhood and marriage, and book reviews–in so many words: a light touch. There are infinitely better, more informed, more reputable sources on race in America. And I am horrified at the prospect that the deep, real trauma and suffering of others might appear sidelined by my inadvertently bending this conversation into an intellectual exercise over white privilege.
So I will proceed with tremendous caution in my writing because words do matter.
But in the self-reflection borne belatedly of this week’s news, I have also determined that there are ways I can do better with the means at my disposal to live out anti-racism and stand up with black Americans–ways that go beyond listening, reading, signing petitions, and donating, like featuring BIPOC-owned businesses in my shopping round-ups, including more diversity in the imagery used on this blog, and selecting book club picks from a more inclusive canon of authors, to name a few–
and I will start there.