Of all the things I never aspired to be - somebody helping white women advocate for racial equity advancement in the United States in our lifetime was one of them. It wasn’t ever on my bucket list and yet, here we are.
Lately, I’ve been feeling it around the way violence is witnessed—or ignored—depending on who it happens to. I’ve watched the country erupt when harm touches certain bodies, and stay oddly calm when it touches others. I’ve noticed the differential response when the victim is white versus when the victim is Black, immigrant, poor, unhoused, or already marked by society as disposable.
That contrast has been sitting in my chest like a stone.
And then there’s the part I don’t love admitting: I have lived inside a bubble of privilege. I used to think that bubble was protection. Now I’m not so sure.
What if the very thing that insulated me—my “normal,” my comfort, my belief that certain atrocities happen over there—is also what makes me vulnerable?
Not invincible. Not protected. Vulnerable. Because denial is not safety. Silence is not shelter. And “this doesn’t happen to people like me” is not a plan.
