[ Amy Cooper knew exactly what she was doing. We all do. And thats
the problem.] [[link removed]]

THE ASSUMPTIONS OF WHITE PRIVILEGE AND WHAT WE CAN DO ABOUT IT  
[[link removed]]

 

Bryan N. Massingale
June 1, 2020
National Catholic Reporter
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_ Amy Cooper knew exactly what she was doing. We all do. And that's
the problem. _

A Black Lives Matter protester carries a sign against police
brutality as protests around the country continue over the death of
George Floyd at the hands of the Minneapolis police in the days of the
coronavirus pandemic May 30 in New York City., (Newscom/UPI/Corey
Sipkin)

 

_"Every white person in this country — I do not care what he says or
what she says — knows one thing. … They know that they would not
like to be black here. If they know that, they know everything they
need to know. And whatever else they may say is a lie." — _James
Baldwin, "Speech at the University of California Berkeley
[[link removed]]," 1979

It has never been easy to be black in America. Still, the past few
months have pushed me to depths of outrage, pain and despondency that
are unmatched in my 63 years of life. Look at what has transpired:

* _The COVID-19 pandemic _showed that while all might be vulnerable,
we are not equally vulnerable. Blacks, Latinos and Native peoples are
the vast majority
[[link removed]] of
those infected and killed by this virus. In some places, the levels of
"disparity" (such a sanitizing word!) are catastrophic. But as tragic
as this is, it was entirely predictable and even expected. The
contributing factors for this vulnerability have been documented for
decades: lack of insurance, less access to healthcare, negligent
treatment from and by healthcare professionals, overcrowded housing,
unsafe and unsanitary working conditions. All of this compounded by
how the least paid and protected workers are now considered
"essential" and must be exposed to the virus' hazards. As a young
black grocery clerk told me, "Essential is just a nice word for
sacrificial." Sacrificed for the comfort of those who can isolate and
work from home, who are disproportionately white.
* _Ahmaud Arbery, _an unarmed 25-year-old black man, who was
executed on Feb. 23
[[link removed]] as
three white men stalked him while he was jogging in Brunswick,
Georgia. One of the killers had ties to local law enforcement. Only
after public protests and the passing of 74 days were any arrests made
and charges filed over this death.
* _Breonna Taylor, _a 26-year-old African American woman, who was
killed by Louisville police officers on March 13
[[link removed]] after
they kicked in the door of her apartment unannounced and without
identifying themselves. Fearful for their lives, her boyfriend fired
his lawfully possessed gun. Breonna was killed with eight bullets
fired by three officers, under circumstances that have yet to be
satisfactorily explained.
* _Christian Cooper, _a young black man — a birdwatcher — who
was reported to the police May 25
[[link removed]] by
Amy Cooper (no relation), a young white woman, who called 911 to say
that "an African American man" was threatening her in New York's
Central Park merely because he had the gall to ask her to comply with
the park's posted regulations to leash her dog.
* _George Floyd, _an unarmed 46-year-old African American man, who
was brutally killed on May 25
[[link removed]] in
Minneapolis by a white police officer who knelt on his neck for 8
minutes and 46 seconds, despite being restrained, despite the urgent
requests of onlookers, despite his repeated desperate pleas: "I can't
breathe."
* _Omar Jimenez, _a black Latino CNN reporter, who was arrested on
May 29 in the middle of doing live reports on events in Minneapolis,
while a white CNN reporter doing the same thing
[[link removed]],
at the same time in the same neighborhood, was not
only _not_ arrested but was treated with "consummate politeness" by
the authorities. The stark contrast was so jarring that Jimenez's
white colleagues noted that the only possible difference was the race
of the reporters.

All of this weighs on my spirit. I try to pray, but inner quiet eludes
me. I simply sit in silence on Pentecost weekend before a lit candle
praying, "Come, Holy Spirit" as tears fall. Words fail me. I ponder
the futility of speaking out, yet again, trying to think of how to say
what has been said, what I have said, so often before.

Then it occurred to me. Amy Cooper holds the key.

The event in Central Park is not the most heinous listed above. The
black man didn't die — thankfully. Compared to the others, it has
received little attention. But if you understand Amy Cooper, then all
the rest, and much more, makes sense. And points the way forward.

WHITE PRIVILEGE
                                                                                

Let's recall what Amy Cooper did. After a black man tells her to obey
the posted signs that require her to leash her dog in a public park,
she tells him she's going to call the police "and I'm going to tell
them that there's an African American man threatening my life." Then
she does just that, calling 911 and saying, "There's a man, an African
American, he has a bicycle helmet. He is recording me and threatening
me and my dog." She continues, in a breathless voice, "I'm being
threatened by a man in the Ramble [a wooded area of Central Park].
Please send the cops immediately!" This despite the fact that
Christian Cooper's camera records the events and shows that he made no
threatening moves toward her, spoke to her calmly and without insult,
and kept his distance from her the whole time.

In short, she decided to call the police on a black man for nothing
more than politely asking her to obey the park's rules. And made up a
lie to put him in danger.

She knew what she was doing. And so do we. The situation is completely
"legible" as my academic colleagues would say. What did she and rest
of us know? Why did she act as she did?

* She assumed that her lies would be more credible than his truth.
* She assumed that she would have the presumption of innocence.
* She assumed that he, the black man, would have a presumption of
guilt.
* She assumed that the police would back her up.
* She assumed that her race would be an advantage, that she would be
believed because she is white. (By the way, this is what we mean by
white privilege).
* She assumed that his race would be a burden, even an
insurmountable one.
* She assumed that the world should work for her and against him.
* She assumed that she had the upper hand in this situation.
* She assumed that she could exploit deeply ingrained white fears of
black men.
* She assumed that she could use these deeply ingrained white fears
to keep a black man in his place.
* She assumed that if he protested his innocence against her, he
would be seen as "playing the race card."
* She assumed that no one would accuse her of "playing the race
card," because no one accuses white people of playing the race card
when using race to their advantage.
* She assumed that he knew that any confrontation with the police
would not go well for him.
* She assumed that the frame of "black rapist" versus "white damsel
in distress" would be clearly understood by everyone: the police, the
press and the public.
* She assumed that the racial formation of white people would work
in her favor.
* She assumed that her knowledge of how white people view the world,
and especially black men, would help her.
* She assumed that a black man had no right to tell her what to do.
* She assumed that the police officers would agree.
* She assumed that even if the police made no arrest, that a lot of
white people would take her side and believe her anyway.
* She assumed that Christian Cooper could and would understand all
of the above.

(And she was right. He clearly knew what was at stake, which is why he
had the presence of mind to record what happened).

I am not a mind reader. I have no access to Amy Cooper's inner
thoughts. But I know, and we all know, that without these assumptions,
her words and actions — her lies — make no sense. We also have to
admit that her assumptions are not unreasonable. In fact, we have to
admit that they are well-founded. They match what we know to be true
about how the country works and about how too many white people think.

All of this was the almost instantaneous reasoning behind her actions.
By her own admission, she acted out of reflex. No one taught Amy
Cooper all of this. Likely, no one gave her an explicit class on how
whiteness works in America. But she knew what she was doing.

And so do we. We understand her behavior. We know how our culture
frames whiteness and folks of color. We know how race works in
America.

The fundamental assumption behind all the others is that white people
matter, or should matter, more than people of color. Certainly more
than black people. That black lives don't matter, or at least not as
much as white lives. That's the basic assumption behind Amy Cooper's
decisions, actions and words. That's the basic assumption that links
Christian Cooper with COVID-19, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, George
Floyd and Omar Jimenez.

Amy Cooper knew that. We all know that. So who taught her? Who taught
us?

A man in Minneapolis is seen near National Guard members May 29
guarding the area in the aftermath of a protest over the death of
George Floyd, an African American, while in the custody of a white
police officer. (CNS/Reuters/Carlos Barria)

THE WAYS OF WHITENESS

This is where things may get uncomfortable for most of you, who I
assume (and hope) will be white. Because just as no one gave her an
explicit class on the ways of whiteness and how it works in society
— and for her — most likely you never received a formal class or
explanation either. It's just something that you know, or better, that
you realize on some distant yet real part of your brain. At some early
age, you realized that no matter how bad things got for you, at least
you would never be black. And it dawned on you, though you rarely
consciously say it, that you would never want to be black. Because you
realized, even without being explicitly told, that being white makes
life easier. Even if you have to do some hard work along the way, at
least you don't have to carry the burden of blackness as a hindrance.

And if you're really honest, something else dawned somewhere in your
mind. You realized that, if you wanted, by being white you could make
things hard — much harder — for others. Especially black folks.

How did you, how did I, how did we all learn this? No one taught you.
No one had to. It's something that you absorbed just by living. Just
by taking in subtle clues such as what the people in charge look like.
Whose history you learned in school. What the bad guys look like on
TV. The kind of jokes you heard. How your parents, grandparents and
friends talked about people that didn't look like you.

I can hear some of you protesting. You don't want to admit this,
especially your ability to make life rough for people of color. You
don't want to face it. But Amy Cooper made the truth plain and
obvious. She knew deep in her soul that she lived in a country where
things should work in the favor of white people. She knew the real
deal. We all do.

That's the reason for the grief, outrage, lament, anger, pain and fury
that have been pouring into our nation's streets. Because folks are
tired. Not only of the individual outrages. But of the fundamental
assumption that ties them all together: that black lives don't matter
and should not matter — at least not as much as white ones.

We struggle to admit that Amy Cooper reveals what W.E.B. Du Bois calls
"the souls of white folks." Because, to quote James Baldwin again,
facing the truth "would reveal more about America to Americans than
Americans want to know." Or admit that they know.

What don't we want to admit? That Amy Cooper is not simply a rogue
white person or a mean-spirited white woman who did an odious thing.
Yes, we should and must condemn her words and actions. But we don't
want to admit that there is a lot more to this story. That she knew,
we all know, that she had the support of an unseen yet very real
apparatus of collective thoughts, fears, beliefs, practices and
history.

This is what we mean by systemic racism. I could call it white
supremacy, although I know that white people find that term even more
of a stumbling block than white privilege. Essayist Ta-Nehisi Coates
gives the best short description of this complex reality called white
supremacy. He describes it as "an age-old system in America which
holds that whites should always be ensured that they will not sink to
a certain level. And that level is the level occupied by black
people." Amy Cooper knew that. And so do we.

I could call it white supremacy, although I know that white people
find that term even more of a stumbling block than white privilege.

We don't want to admit that Amy Cooper is not simply a bad white
woman. We don't want to face the truth about America that her words
and actions betray. We don't want to admit that present in Central
Park that morning was the scaffolding of centuries-long accumulations
of the benefits of whiteness. Benefits that burden people of color.
Benefits that kill black and brown people.

Without facing this truth, Amy Cooper's actions make no sense. She
knew what she was doing. And so do we. Even if we do not want to admit
it.

WHERE DO WE BEGIN?

"But I don't know what to do with this information." That's what a
white male student declared in class after I gave a lecture detailing
the long tragic history of medical experimentation and maltreatment
inflicted upon African Americans by the medical establishment, that
is, by white doctors and nurses, by white hospitals, including
Catholic institutions sponsored by white religious communities.

I understand the feelings of helplessness, confusion and even
despondency that can afflict us. It's easy to be overwhelmed by the
magnitude of the problem, by the immense weight of centuries of
accumulated fear, resentment, privilege and righteous anger. It can be
shocking to confront the vastness of this nation's commitment to white
benefit and advantage. Where do we begin?

Let me be more specific: what are white people to do now that they
know that they know what Amy Cooper knows — assuming they want to do
anything? (The reason for the specificity will become clear).

First, _understand the difference between being uncomfortable and
being threatened. _There is no way to tell the truth about race in
this country without white people becoming uncomfortable. Because the
plain truth is that if it were up to people of color, racism would
have been resolved, over and done, a long time ago. _The only reason
for racism's persistence is that white people continue to benefit from
it._

Repeat that last sentence. Make it your mantra. Because until the
country accepts that truth, we will never move beyond superficial
words and ineffective half-measures.

The only reason for racism's persistence is that white people continue
to benefit from it.

Systemic racism benefits white people. That's the truth that Amy
Cooper knew and that we all know. That truth supports all the
assumptions that sustain the racial craziness and insanity in which we
live. I know that bluntly stating that systemic racism benefits white
people makes people — especially white people — uncomfortable. I
also feel a pang of discomfort in being so direct. (I know the kinds
of online comments and emails that are sure to follow.)

But avoiding and sugarcoating this truth is killing people of color.
Silence for the sake of making white people comfortable is a luxury we
can no longer afford.

If white people are unwilling to face very uncomfortable truths, then
the country is doomed to remain what Abraham Lincoln called "a house
divided." And he warned that such a house cannot stand.

What to do next? Nothing. _Sit in the discomfort this hard truth
brings. _Let it become agonizing. Let it move you to tears, to anger,
to guilt, to shame, to embarrassment. Over what? Over your ignorance.
Over the times you went along with something you knew was wrong. Or
when you told a racist joke because you could. Because you knew that
your white friends and family would let you get away with it, or even
join in. Because you thought it was "just a joke." Or the times you
wouldn't hire the person of color because you knew your white
employees would have a problem with it and you didn't want the hassle.
Or when you knew the person of color was in the right, but it was
easier not to upset your white friends. Or wealthy donors, who are
almost always white. (By the way, the wealth disparity didn't just
happen nor is it due to black and brown folks' laziness. Look at the
complexions of our "essential workers" for proof.) Most of all, feel
the guilt, the pain, the embarrassment over doing nothing and saying
nothing when you witnessed obvious racism.

Stay in the discomfort, the anxiety, the guilt, the shame, the anger.
Because only when a critical mass of white folks are outraged, grieved
and pained over the status quo — only when white people become upset
enough to declare, "This cannot and will not be!" — only then will
real change begin to become a possibility.

Third, _admit your ignorance and do something about it. _Understand
that there is a lot about our history and about life that we're going
to have to unlearn. And learn over. Malcolm X said that the two
factors responsible for American racism are greed and skillful
miseducation. We have all been taught a sanitized version of America
that masks our terrible racial history.

For example, most of my white students — and students of color, too
— know nothing of the terror of lynching. They don't know that for a
30-year period from 1885-1915, on average every third day a black
person was brutally and savagely and publicly murdered by white mobs.
This wasn't taught, or it was taught to mean only that, in the words
of a white student, "some people got beat up real bad." (Note the
passive voice, which obscures who did these beatings and why).

Yet without knowing this history, the Civil Rights Movement only
becomes a feel-good story about desegregation and bringing races
together — sharing schools, drinking fountains and (maybe)
neighborhoods. The brutal, savage and sadistic violence that whites
inflicted with impunity upon black — and brown and Asian — people
in order to defend "white supremacy" (their words, not mine) is never
faced. Nor do we have to face the truth that most racial violence in
our history has been and continues to be inflicted by whites against
people of color.

(Unsplash/Logan Weaver)

To create a different world, we must learn how this one came to be.
And unlearn what we previously took for granted. This means that we
have to read. And learn from the perspectives of people of color. (Not
to toot my own horn, but my book _Racial Justice and the Catholic
Church_ is a good place to start).

Demand that your parish and diocese sponsor not just an evening on
race, but a whole series. How about during Lent? Tell your priests and
religious education directors to make anti-racism a staple feature of
their homilies and your children's religious formation. Insist that
your children learn a truer picture of the world than you did, and not
only during Black History Month. Take a stand and say you'll take your
presence and dollars elsewhere if they don't. And when they do the
right thing, write them a note of support — because, trust me, they
will hear plenty from the other side.

While you're at it, write your bishop and ask how anti-racism is part
of your church leaders' formation for ministry. Ask how he is actively
educating himself to become anti-racist. Let him know that if
seminarians and candidates for ministry and religious life are
unwilling or unable to be actively anti-racist, then they do not have
a vocation for church leadership since they haven't embraced a
fundamental requirement of Christian discipleship.

Fourth, _have the courage to confront your family and friends. _I
tell my white students that they will see and hear more naked racial
bigotry than I do. Because when I am in the room, everyone knows how
to act. Sociologist Joe Feagin documents how white people behave one
way when on the "front stage," that is, in public. But "backstage," in
the company of fellow whites, a different code of behavior prevails.
Here racist acts and words are excused: "That's just the way your
father was raised." "Your grandmother is of a different generation."
"It's just a joke." "But deep down, he's really a good person." "But
if you ignore all that, he's a really fun person to be with." "You
can't choose your family, but you gotta love them anyway." "It's only
once a year." "I wish he wouldn't talk that way. But you can't change
how people feel."

I understand the desire to have peaceful or at least conflict-free
relationships with family and friends. But as the Rev. Martin Luther
King said so well, "There comes a time when silence is betrayal."
Silence means consent. Or at least, complicity.

Until white people call out white people, there will always be safe
places for racial ugliness to brew and fester. And people like Amy
Cooper will continue to assume that white people will always have
their backs, no matter what. And they won't be wrong. And black people
will continue to die.

Until white people call out white people, there will always be safe
places for racial ugliness to brew and fester.

Fifth, _be "unconditionally pro-life." _These are the words of St.
Pope John Paul II from his final pastoral visit to the United States.
He summoned Catholics to "eradicate every form of racism" as part of
their wholehearted and essential commitment to life.

This has a very serious consequence: You cannot vote for or support a
president who is blatantly racist, mocks people of color, separates
Latino families and consigns brown children into concentration camps,
and still call yourself "pro-life." We need to face, finally and at
long last, the uncomfortable yet real overlap between the so-called
"pro-life" movement and the advocates of racial intolerance.

In the name of our commitment to life, we must challenge not only
these social policies, but also the attitude that cloaks support for
racism under the guise of being "pro-life." John Paul declared that
racism is a life issue. Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd
and the many black and brown victims of COVID-19 prove it. It is way
past time for Catholics to become "unconditionally pro-life."

Finally, _pray._ Yes, racism is a political issue and a social
divide. But at its deepest level, racism is a soul sickness. It is a
profound warping of the human spirit that enables human beings to
create communities of callous indifference toward their darker sisters
and brothers. Stripped to its core, white supremacy is a disturbing
interior disease, a malformed consciousness that enables white people
to not care for those who don't look like them. As historian Paul
Wachtel succinctly declares in his book _Race in the Mind of
America_, "The real meaning of race comes down largely to this: _Is
this someone I should care about?_"

Protesters in Minneapolis gather at the scene May 27 where George
Floyd, an unarmed black man, was pinned down by a police officer
kneeling on his neck May 25. (CNS/Reuters/Eric Miller)

This soul sickness can only be healed by deep prayer. Yes, we need
social reforms. We need equal educational opportunities, changed
police practices, equitable access to health care, an end to
employment and housing discrimination. But only an invasion of divine
love will shatter the small images of God that enable us to live
undisturbed by the racism that benefits some and terrorizes so many.

In her essay, "The Desire for God and the Transformative Power of
Contemplation
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 Baltimore Carmelite Sr. Constance FitzGerald writes, "The time will
come when God's light will invade our lives and show us everything we
have avoided seeing. Then will be manifest the confinement of our
carefully constructed meanings, the limitations of our life projects,
the fragility of the support systems or infrastructures on which we
depend … [and] the darkness in our own heart."

God's love is subversive and destructive. It exposes self-serving
political ideologies as shortsighted and corrosive.

And yet FitzGerald and the Carmelite tradition insist that God
subverts our plans and projects for the sake of new life. FitzGerald
relates how, through unmasking the shallowness of our "achievements,"
God leads us to "new minds, as well as new intuitions, new wills, and
passionate new desires."

Perhaps, then, the grace of this dark time in our nation is that it
reveals how racially toxic our politics, society and culture have
truly become, in order to spur us to build a new culture based not on
the exploitation of fear but on solidarity with and for the least
among us.

We need to pray for a new infusion of the Spirit and for the courage
to let this Spirit transform our hearts. Come, Holy Spirit!

(Do we dare to really make that our prayer?)

IS THIS ENOUGH?

I can hear some of you saying, "But is this enough?" I am under no
illusion that these actions, by themselves, can erase the accumulated
debris of centuries of commitment to white preference and black
detriment. None of us can do all that is required at this moment.

But just because we cannot do everything doesn't mean we should not do
something. We are not as helpless as we fear. Moreover, helplessness
is an emotion that we cannot afford to indulge. As James Baldwin
believed, despair is an option that only the comfortable can afford to
entertain.

We can create a new society, one where more and more people will
challenge the assumptions of white racial privilege that sustain Amy
Cooper's universe. _Our_ universe. One built on a different set of
assumptions, one where all lives truly do matter because black lives
finally will matter.

I end with the final words of _Racial Justice and the Catholic
Church:_

Social life is made by human beings. The society we live in is the
outcome of human choices and decisions. This means that human beings
can change things. What humans break, divide, and separate, we can —
with God's help — also heal, unite, and restore.

What is now does not have to be. Therein lies the hope. And the
challenge.

_Come, Holy Spirit!_
_Fill the hearts of your faithful._
_Enkindle within us the fire of your love._
_Come, Holy Spirit!_
_Breathe into us a fiery passion for justice._
_Especially for those who have the breath of life crushed from them._
_Amen._

_Fr. Bryan N. Massingale is a theology professor at Fordham University
in New York. He is the author of Racial Justice and the Catholic
Church._

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