In 2012, I was a recent graduate, full of idealism, zeal and enthusiasm to change the world. I had been involved in feminist activism for a few years, and I believed that together, as women, we could change the world. I was ambitious, too. For me, feminism was never about a palatable, gender-only analysis. It was about changing the global narrative – achieving equality – for everyone. That included ending racism. So naturally, in my feminist activist circles, I talked to the other women about this.
When I spoke about stop and search, I was told it was a side issue. When, at feminist gatherings, white women took to podiums to declare that Muslim women needed saving, I would congregate with the handful of women who weren’t white, and we would gripe about the cluelessness of it all. Sometimes we tried to intervene.
But we soon found that they didn’t want to hear it. The movement leaders were white, and felt that discussing racism was a distraction from feminism. This conclusion wasn’t an option for me, being black. I felt split: this was a cause I believed in passionately, but I felt they weren’t concerned with women like me.
When I pointed out feminism’s whitewashed lens, I was told that it was me who was the troublemaker, rather than the problem I was highlighting. People who I once considered allies soon became hostile. It was a life-defining shift for my sense of self. As far as I was concerned, the movement couldn’t claim to work on behalf of all women when it was in this kind of state. But it didn’t surprise me. In talking about race to white people through the years, I had often encountered disbelief, or angry defensiveness. They’ve never had to think about what it means, in terms of power, to be white, so when they’re reminded of this, they interpret it as an affront.
So, I decided to do something I never thought I’d do: I stopped. After a rather
fruitless and gruelling time reasoning with people, I wrote a blog post named ‘Why I’m No Longer Talking To White People About Race’. My reasoning was valid. Years of attempts had me no closer to opening up anyone’s perspective. In fact, talking about race seemed to make my situation worse. After one radio appearance, I was even smeared by former Member of Parliament Louise Mensch, who called me a bully, and accused me of ‘trying to silence’ women.
I was tired of being scared of saying how I was feeling.
Since Brexit and Trump’s election, commentators have been quick to talk about a new era of political polarisation. In my experience, this is nothing new. My blog post wasn’t just about me and my situation. It was a broader comment on the phenomenon that often plagues these polarised conversations about race – in which people of colour must defer to and prioritise white people’s feelings, or face severe social consequences. It was an admission that I was tired of feeling scared of saying how I was really feeling, in case I came across as aggressive. White people’s terror of being called ‘racist’ was clearly much more important than me challenging racism. I’d had enough of banging my head against a brick wall.
The reaction to the post online was instant, and overwhelmingly positive. It went viral. Some people got in touch, thanking me for articulating what they’d long been afraid to say. Others thanked me for changing their minds on the issue. Socially, I didn’t put myself in situations in which I would ever be talking to white people about race. This didn’t mean I excluded myself from society – it just meant that I kept the topic off the table. I’d talk about EastEnders, the weather, their pets, their jobs, and their holidays. Just not race. I carefully followed the lead of other participants in conversations I found myself in. I kept my thoughts to myself, and channelled them into my work, which eventually became a book.
There were people who exploded in anger, furious that I’d withdrawn in this way. Those people were mostly online. That I chose not to argue with them made them angry. I still don’t understand what they were so indignant about. If you doubt my testimony, I’m not taking anything away from you by opting out of the conversation.
There were others online who’d find out about the blog post, and would be keen to hear more from me, eager to understand. But I didn’t have the emotional energy to explain, even to the most well-intentioned. The people asking me ‘not to give up on white people’ were illustrating the very communication gap my blog post had addressed. It was never written with the intention of prompting guilt in white people or to provoke an epiphany. I didn’t know at the time that I had inadvertently written a break-up letter to whiteness. With the number of requests, it would have been a full-time job, and I wasn’t a full-time teacher. So
I wrote it all down. I am a journalist. I write about social issues, and often about race. Professionally, I almost always work with white editors, because that’s the way the industry goes. It’s sometimes been difficult discussing race with them, but it has been necessary to earn a living. When I got the opportunity to write a book, I knew I couldn’t write it on anything else.
Once I set that boundary, my life changed for the better. The quality of conversations I was having about race changed. I stopped feeling full of despair, and started to have hope again. My career took off, my sleep improved, and a weight was lifted from my shoulders. Giving up taught me a lot. We are coached to believe that persistence is the key to success, and most believe that giving up is a sign of failure. But I think that giving up can be a sign of defiance. There are more cons than pros to talking about injustice with people who are committed to not listening.
My strategy helped me channel my energy away from pointless squabbles and into a book, which put me in the position I’m in today. I now spend a lot of time talking to white people about race. Publishing, like journalism, is very white. Getting to this point without engaging with a white person would have been impossible. I haven’t stepped away from these conversations, but I’m now having them on my own terms. Withdrawing in the way I did protected me from burn-out. Working on my book, I had the freedom to research and explore my ideas without running into barriers of denial. Your strategy may be different. It doesn’t mean that you need to stop trying to make a difference. I just don’t believe in sacrificing mental wellbeing for any cause, no matter how noble.
‘Why I’m No Longer Talking To White People About Race’ (£16.99, Bloomsbury) is out now
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