http://www.alternet.org/story/36892/
The Fears of White People
by Robert Jensen
Journalism Prof. @ U of T
It may seem self-indulgent to talk about the fears of white people in
a white-supremacist society. After all, what do white people really
have to be afraid of in a world structured on white privilege? It may
be self-indulgent, but it's critical to understand because these fears
are part of what keeps many white people from confronting ourselves
and the system.
The first, and perhaps most crucial, fear is that of facing the fact
that some of what we white people have is unearned. It's a truism that
we don't really make it on our own; we all have plenty of help to
achieve whatever we achieve. That means that some of what we have
is
the product of the work of others, distributed unevenly across
society, over which we may have little or no control individually. No
matter how hard we work or how smart we are, we all know -- when we
are honest with ourselves -- that we did not get where we are by merit
alone. And many white people are afraid of that fact.
A second fear is crasser: White people's fear of losing what we have
-- literally the fear of losing things we own if at some point the
economic, political, and social systems in which we live become more
just and equitable. That fear is not completely irrational; if white
privilege -- along with the other kinds of privilege many of us have
living in the middle class and above in an imperialist country that
dominates much of the rest of the world -- were to evaporate, the
distribution of resources in the United States and in the world would
change, and that would be a good thing. We would have less. That
redistribution of wealth would be fairer and more just. But in a world
in which people have become used to affluence and material comfort,
that possibility can be scary.
A third fear involves a slightly different scenario -- a world in
which non-white people might someday gain the kind of power over
whites that whites have long monopolized. One hears this constantly in
the conversation about immigration, the lingering fear that somehow
"they" (meaning not just Mexican-Americans and Latinos more
generally,
but any non-white immigrants) are going to keep moving to this country
and at some point become the majority demographically. Even though
whites likely can maintain a disproportionate share of wealth, those
numbers will eventually translate into political, economic, and
cultural power. And then what? Many whites fear that the result won't
be a system that is more just, but a system in which white people
become the minority and could be treated as whites have long treated
non-whites. This is perhaps the deepest fear that lives in the heart
of whiteness. It is not really a fear of non-white people. It's a fear
of the depravity that lives in o!
ur own hearts: Are non-white people capable of doing to us the
barbaric things we have done to them?
A final fear has probably always haunted white people but has become
more powerful since the society has formally rejected overt racism:
The fear of being seen, and seen-through, by non-white people.
Virtually every white person I know, including white people fighting
for racial justice and including myself, carries some level of racism
in our minds and hearts and bodies. In our heads, we can pretend to
eliminate it, but most of us know it is there. And because we are all
supposed to be appropriately anti-racist, we carry that lingering
racism with a new kind of fear: What if non-white people look at us
and can see it? What if they can see through us? What if they can look
past our anti-racist vocabulary and sense that we still don't really
know how to treat them as equals? What if they know about us what
we
don't dare know about ourselves? What if they can see what we can't
even voice?
I work in a large university with a stated commitment to racial
justice. All of my faculty colleagues, even the most reactionary, have
a stated commitment to racial justice. And yet the fear is palpable.
It is a fear I have struggled with, and I remember the first time I
ever articulated that fear in public. I was on a panel with several
other professors at the University of Texas discussing race and
politics in the O.J. Simpson case. Next to me was an African American
professor. I was talking about media; he was talking about the
culture's treatment of the sexuality of black men. As we talked, I
paid attention to what was happening in me as I sat next to him. I
felt uneasy. I had no reason to be uncomfortable around him, but I
wasn't completely comfortable. During the question-and-answer period
-- I don't remember what question sparked my comment -- I turned to
him and said something like, "It's important to talk about what really
goes on between black and white people in this country. For instance,
why am I feeling afraid of you? I know I have no reason to be afraid,
but I am. Why is that?"
My reaction wasn't a crude physical fear, not some remnant of being
taught that black men are dangerous (though I have had such
reactions
to black men on the street in certain cir stances). Instead, I think
it was that fear of being seen through by non-white people, especially
when we are talking about race. In that particular moment, for a white
academic on an O.J. panel, my fear was of being exposed as a fraud
or
some kind of closet racist. Even if I thought I knew what I was
talking about and was being appropriately anti-racist in my analysis,
I was afraid that some lingering trace of racism would show through,
and that my black colleague would identify it for all in the room to
see. After I publicly recognized the fear, I think I started to let go
of some of it. Like anything, it's a struggle. I can see ways in which
I have made progress. I can see that in many situations I speak more
freely and honestly as I let go of the fear. I make mistakes, but as I
become less te!
rrified of making mistakes I find that I can trust my instincts more
and be more open to critique when my instincts are wrong.
This essay is excerpted from The Heart of Whiteness: Confronting
Race,