On February 23, 2020, Ahmaud Arbery, a 25-year-old, unarmed black man, was fatally killed while jogging in his neighborhood. Breonna Taylor, a 26-year-old black woman, was fatally shot in her home by plainclothes Louisville police officers on March 13, 2020, after being suddenly awakened by their invasion into her home. (The three officers have yet to be charged.) And then on May 25, 2020, George Floyd, a 46-year-old black man, was killed in Minneapolis during an arrest for allegedly using a counterfeit bill. Suddenly the world professed, “Enough is enough.” And I can’t help but wonder what took so long.
On June 1, 2020, I witnessed an outpouring of solidarity from companies, big brands, small organizations, and nearly every person I follow on social media – taking a stand against our nation’s crippling history of institutionalized racism and social injustice against people of color. It appeared as though a consciousness shifted, with an ushering of ears wide-open to the voices of Black people, voices who, for centuries, have been urging the world to hear and address our disparate voices and stories in America. I never could have imagined that the breakthrough would require the world witnessing a black man die at the knee of a white officer kneeling on his neck for eight minutes and forty-six seconds.
In the year 2020, I have to ask, “How do we go forward when our nation is tethered to the prejudices that have been fought for over 400 years?” From the abolitionist movement that ended the Atlantic slave trade to the Civil Rights movement that ended racial discrimination and granted Black people equal rights according to law, the struggle for racial equality has been a battle long fought.
Why will now be different?
How will equality be achieved when levels of endurance for the fight are not equal?
These are the questions I ask as we enter this moment in history when the collective is finally recognizing that for all lives to matter, it is an absolute MINIMUM to independently acknowledge that Black lives matter. Without giving voice to the latter, any claims to the fight for equality are counter-intuitive. Where do we go from here?
ALLYSHIP
I’ve heard many calls for allyship in the weeks that followed George Floyd’s tragic death. I’ve even personally made this call – a request for allyship from my white friends and colleagues who live a day-to-day experience vastly different from my lived experience of navigating racial biases, which begin the moment I enter a room. My entire life has been a conditioning training in learning when and how to mitigate the perceived threat of my presence and adapting in any given scenario where I am the only black person in the space. This experience of adjusting, assimilating, and continually reassessing the rules of the game in corporate America, has been my conditioning training. And I will tell you that I have built up an endurance in this game to survive the inequitable playing field. My mother led by example in this race, as did her mother, as did my great-grandmother. The capacity for this type of endurance has become ingrained in my DNA.
I’ll never forget the initial times I witnessed racism towards my mother and me in my hometown Fort Collins. The first time was when I was in Kindergarten and four or five classmates said I couldn’t play with them on the playground because I’m black. My mother confronted the parents saying this was a message clearly taught at home; and soon after my mom transferred me to a different elementary school. The second most memorable time was in 1983 when I was eight years old. My mom and I had limited means and zero luxuries. In particular, we didn’t have a phone, so when my Mom wanted to make calls to my grandmother in New Jersey, we would walk to the public payphone located roughly 200 yards from our apartment. It was during one of our walks along Riverside Ave and E. Pitkin St. when we heard a car speed by when a white man with long hair, holding his head out the passenger side of the car, yelled something indecipherable to me.
What was apparent was that he was angry by the sight of us. I looked up at my mom and asked, “Mommy, what did he say?” In response, she simply smirked as she held her head up high and said to me, “Nothing, baby.” But what I soon figured out was that man yelled out the “N” word at us as he held up both hands, erecting his middle fingers towards the two of us. To this day, I will never forget the jarring energy cast towards my mom and me that day. To this day. I will never forget. What stands out most of all was watching my mom hold her head up high as we carried out our journey. My mom and I would experience many other racist incidents on the job and in school, respectively. Through every event, I modeled the strength of my mother. Standing tall and rising above those moments. This resilience is such a part of my DNA that all I know to do is to forever hold my head up high, just as my mother did.
Then to witness, in May 2020, the reports of a total disregard for (at least) three Black lives within three weeks – only to learn that Ahmaud’s and Breonna’s deaths occurred months before their stories circulated across mainstream media channels – was a gut-wrenching blow that left me questioning my propensity to endure. I am exhausted, deflated, and disappointed in the reality that this race for survival would seemingly never end in my lifetime. It would seem that the only possibility for changing systemic racism would be in the hands of those who live a life of unbiased privilege.
A call for the allyship is a message to those who don’t encounter overt and covert forms of racism – White people in positions of influence and power who can begin to shift the imbalances that Black people and people of color disproportionately experience. It is a call to no longer sit quietly when witnessing acts of discrimination. It’s the act of checking in on your black friends and colleagues simply to make sure they’re ok, but not asking for their advice on how to be a better ally.
The thing about allyship is it is an opportunity for White people to make the personal effort in seeking to understand the history and lived experience of Black people by proactively seeking out enlightening data and resources representing our voice. Resources which have been available for decades upon decades and continue to be updated in light of the endless accounts of the social injustices experienced by Black people.
LISTENING
The deafening news of the death of George Floyd felt like a collision with yet another brick wall that would inhibit equality. In the days that followed, and as the public outcry was building in response, I felt I had limited strength to process my emotions. I’m grateful for the outpouring of love and concern I received from my white friends. Yet, as the texts and voicemails came in, I was incapable of engaging in a live conversation. I responded to every thoughtful text expressing my inability to comment or speak. I was grieving and in shock, but conveyed that I loved them and appreciated their compassionate support. Each and every response to my deflated reply gave me a small dose of strength, as every single friend said to me they simply wanted me to know that I am loved and that they are here to listen. At that moment, it occurred to me that after countless years of sensing that the mainstream didn’t hold a sincere interest in my voice and the voices of all Black people, I recognized that suddenly, a space for Black voices was being created.
Once I gathered my emotions and organized my thoughts, I took to Instagram and spoke my truth. My exhaustion was evident, and my words were a call for allyship and listening. My voice chose to express the need for widespread support of legal teams raising money to fight acts of racial crimes against Black people. I elected to share my disgust with the state of blatant racism appearing to run rampant in our country. And I used my voice to remind Black people of our history to endure yet another roadblock in our race for survival and equality. This was my way of acknowledging the heartbreaking nature of the moment while leaving a reassuring message that we would persevere.
In terms of numbers, and all things being relative to my modest follower base, the response to my message was an outpouring of listening – where nearly 300 followers chose to listen and nearly 30 offering comments in support and gratitude. In that moment of vulnerability, I felt another small dose of strength in honoring my voice and the meaningful act of being heard.
Days later, #BlackoutTuesday took place, giving space for Black voices to be more prominently heard and seen on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, a conscious effort to be present in listening and learning about the experiences of a marginalized race who would take to social media and have their voices heard.
The experience of mourning and delaying my conversations with my white friends and white colleagues revealed to me the importance of communication in this collective effort to seek to understand race and our country’s racial divide. While I revealed my initial need for space to my friends as I processed the emotional impact from the death of Ahmaud, Breonna, and George, my community received my request for space with total grace and empathy. What I soon realized is that they not only let me know they were here for me, ready to be an ally in the fight, but they also demonstrated a willingness to stand by me in support, to take action within the realms of their ability, and to simply listen when I was ready to be heard. This would be a reciprocal journey of sharing, identifying ownership of racial biases, and being a mutual source of strength through the uphill battle in the name of equity and justice.
I often refer to long journeys as a marathon, not a sprint. I might also reference attempts at course correcting bureaucracy as somewhat similar to aspiring to shift the direction of an ocean liner. This fight against racism and social injustice is an entirely different analogy. It is an undertaking that continues to be an immeasurable journey.
Here’s what I want to believe will be different. The past four months of quarantine found the world in isolation, as we lost ourselves in virtual calls and our social media pages. We became a captive audience to the reality of disparities faced by Black people and people of color. The communities hit the hardest in the service industries, suddenly regarded as “essential” workers, yet most at risk of COVID-19. And what no one could escape was the news coverage of just how disproportionate the pandemic’s effect proved to be on Black people and people of color. What could not be avoided most especially was the viral nature in which the deaths of Ahmaud, Breonna, and George were revealed. No one could escape the shock of such a blatant disregard for human life. The world was suddenly awakened to the fact that Black lives matter; and that it was time to fight for the lives of Black people. Not as victims – as humans.
As I continue to question the road ahead, my hope is this. My hope is that each and every professed ally will armor up with the knowledge of the history of how racism was bred. It is my hope that allies will no longer accept the covert acts of racism that they witness in their companies, on board of directors, in public spaces, etc. Most especially, my hope is that the allies will work towards building an unwavering resilience in this battle – empowering and supporting the youth who have demonstrated an unrelenting endurance to fight to make equality a reality in their lifetime. While racial equality may not occur in my lifetime, my DNA remains committed to the race to move us in that direction.
Tasha L. Jones
NOTE: Opinions expressed are solely my own and do not express the views or opinions of my employer.
