girlonahalfshill

I’m going to tell a different story this morning and it’s not one that I’m proud of, it’s not one that you should “like.” I’m not telling it to be congratulated. Some of you will read this and think that it’s nothing and others will find it horrible. I’m telling it because it’s honest and because I’m NOT proud of it and because it says something bigger than I’ve ever wanted it to. But, more than anything, it’s my way in to seeing where I can improve and own my biases and begin – begin to improve.

A number of you know that I’ve volunteered at San Quentin off and on over the last decade. It’s work that I’m proud of and work that I’ve loved, but this is a story that only maybe my ex-husband knows because he was there when I got home that night and he helped me push away the discomfort and reassured me that I didn’t mean it.

In the program that I’ve worked with, Prison University Project, (google them, donate, all of that!) we work with incarcerated students to help them earn transferable units from an accredited institution. All well and good.

I can’t tell you the night that it happened. I’ve totally lost track of the date, but one night when I was tutoring students one-on-one, I had finished with one appointment and went to the whiteboard to see who was signed up next. Now, as happens semi-regularly, I wasn’t able to find the student. I looked in and around several classrooms calling his name, to no avail. As I walked back toward the main classroom, an administrator walked into the education building in street clothes and I asked him – a black man, whether he was “____” and whether he was the student I was looking for.

There are no female prisoners at San Quentin and thus no female students, so I cannot guess as to whether I would have asked that question to a female administrator in the same position. I can justify, and HAVE, that there aren’t many people other than students who move in and out of that building during those hours and that I genuinely didn’t mean anything by it.

Here’s the thing: I no longer care about my justifications. The man in question didn’t answer me for the longest time and I’m embarrassed that I needed it ALL spelled out to me. I stood there blinking while he pointed out his street clothes and his degrees, had him read me his CV and then he asked me whether I thought that he was my student.

He stood there with poise and dignity and pride and rage as I curled up in a vat of shame and for all of my talk of being open and transparent, I haven’t told that story to anyone since that night, but that hasn’t faded my memory. I’ve had racism pointed at me and I have some idea of how ugly and horrible the slightest tinge can feel. I HATE and have hated that I put him in that position that night. I’m grateful that I was only armed with words because they were bad enough. I’m sharing this because I see a lot of solidarity out there, but very, very few admissions.

I knock myself for not being among the protesters, for being an armchair jockey – still using words instead of anything stronger or more effectual. My sons have me at this point. I don’t feel like I can responsibly jeopardize that – at least not until they’re launched. The part of me that feels that they would be benefited by the example of me protesting or protesting alongside me has been arguing against the part of me that hopes I’ll find a job that will give me means to donate again and where I can support and serve my community and encourage others and, when the pandemic subsides, I hope to be able to return to my volunteer work there because as shameful as that moment was, I know that it’s not the whole story and that I have done meaningful work there and want to continue.

But there you have it. I’m more racist than I want to be. I want to learn and be better.