Dear Mr. Floyd,
A few days ago, you were known by your family, friends and
community. Today, you are known all over America and probably all over the
world. We all know your name. So many are making sure your name is spoken and remembered.
Your name is shared across social media, across political parties, across religious
affiliations. More people are asking questions, asking how to partner with
Black brothers and sisters, and seeking education. Conversations have begun, because
of you. But, it shouldn’t have had to be because of you, because of the loss of
you, because of your family’s loss, because we have added you to a list of names
of Black men and women unjustly taken.
I’m a White woman that you’ll never know. I’m married to a Black
man and have an amazing biracial daughter. I am so proud of our family we have
created. It’s rich in culture and love. I grew up in rural Mississippi and
went to school with so many African American classmates that I adored. I’m sad
to say, however, that I really didn’t know them in the way they should have
been known. We didn’t have mixed birthday parties, church services, dinners
out, etc. I’m not calling fault out in the past, but I’ve learned we must do
better to know each other so that we can better be accountable for each
other. I had always had good intentions and never considered myself to possess
racist ideals, but that’s how a lot of white people feel I guess. I know now
that good intentions are not enough, and we don’t know what we don’t know which
keeps us entrenched in our limited perspectives. Good intentions are not even a
start. I have surrounded myself as much as possible with people of color in
friendship, and I’ve learned and am learning so much. I’m unlearning a lot of
things as best I can, and it’s hard work but I know it’s a fraction of your
hard work. It is not my friend’s place to teach me what I should know; it is my
own responsibility to learn. We can’t truly ever understand life for people of
color, but we can learn more of their struggles as we listen. We can see
their hesitance, exhaustion, disappointment, and as we begin to love them and
truly know them, then we begin to see what we could not have seen
before. We too regularly see another piece of soul chipped away with another Black
death.
For me, I have never had to think of safety, really, as I go
about my daily life. I am hyper aware in some surroundings because I’m a woman
aware of statistics for assault, but I’m not worried about doing daily mundane
things. My husband and I moved to St. Louis in 2015 shortly after the Michael
Brown case when racial tensions were still high. I’ll admit- when those
protests happened, I was pretty planted in white ideals and privilege although I
didn’t realize it or know it had a name. My husband answered a lot of questions (and
was very patient), and I continued to argue my mindset because it made sense
to me and my intentions were good. I was not a racist. I felt like I had
not contributed to white supremacy because I treated everyone the same, but as I
would learn, that’s the biggest problem. I was unknowingly complacent. Because
I didn’t see it firsthand, it didn’t make sense to me. I never realized advantage
I had being born as a white person in America because I never had to tangibly
exercise it – my existence was enough. I needed some shifts in thinking. I needed
more experiences, more stories from people. As I navigated our new city, I
began to ask more questions, read more books, subscribe to more podcasts, and follow
more diverse Instagram accounts. I knew it began to make sense when I didn’t
want my husband doing some of the things I did on a daily basis. I would, with
no hesitation, hop in the car at 9PM with a broken taillight and run to CVS.
When he volunteered to go, then my mind shifted to “Well, it can wait until
tomorrow.” I was terrified of him being pulled over. We live in a wealthy
neighborhood and I can dart through the alley to one street over where my
sister lives to borrow something, but I would recommend that he drive to do the
same. Don’t get me wrong, we have a great neighborhood filled with nice people.
But, the discomfort there or worry began to rise and started to yell in my ear
and it could not be ignored. I should not have to feel this way. I can do these
things with no worry at all, but I hesitate to send my husband out. He knows
the rules, the code. He’s the sweetest, gentlest, kindest, softest spoken man I
know, and I think everyone would agree that has met him. And I still get scared
of a stranger confronting him who does not know these things. I know all these
things are old news to you, Mr. Floyd. You have seen this contrast since you
were young. Your parents probably explained all this to you at a young age, as I’ve
learned most African American families do. My worry, that emerged when I began
to understand and see more, is a worry your parents have harbored their whole
lives.
So Mr. Floyd, I had vowed to do
better for my family and learn more. My daughter, before she was even 3, had identified
as brown. She openly talks about skin color and states proudly that she has
brown skin. She identifies with her father more, with the dark eyes, curly hair
and dark skin. I owe it to her to talk about race openly and to ensure that she
has a voice that is used kindly and justly. Then your story came along. I
already felt a heightened obligation to learn more after the murder of Ahmaud
Arbery, and your death was yet another catalyst. I say all this to promise you, a stranger,
that I’ll do better and continue to learn. I’m going to write your name and so
many others inside my Bible. I want to remember your names as I go to scripture
for guidance. I want to be reminded that we are all created in the image of god
so your faces come alive as I read. I’ll
see your name as I’m reminded that God calls us to work toward justice and reconciliation.
I have a long way to go in my journey, but I am in a posture of humility and learning.
I’m also going to share resources with friends so that it’ll be easier for them
to pick up one to get started. I know that your Black brothers and sisters are
tired. You’ve needed us as white allies and we haven’t understood or acted
based on what we have learned or seen in media.
I will always remember your last
words of “I can’t breathe.” I know you were speaking not only of the physical
pain of the moment but also the ongoing pain of Black men and women suffocating
in injustice.
Rest in peace, George Floyd.
Danielle
Danielle
