This Is Where White Guilt Comes From

It’s funny, I never really thought too much about liberal white guilt until I came to graduate school at Harvard. Now that I’m here in Cambridge, it seems to be a reoccurring topic of conversation. I don’t know, maybe the election of Barack Obama has made us think more about racial privilege. Or maybe it was conservative pundits informing me that the only reason I voted for him was my liberal, white guilt. Apparently, I just can’t seem to make a rational decision, with all that guilt building up inside me. Nor am I able to think critically about race, of course. I can’t see straight because of my overwhelming racial guilt, you see. And I just want to give people of color a leg up, even if they are “unqualified.” Damn whiteness, screwing with my moral compass!

White guilt always struck me as an interesting concept. You know, it’s like, why shouldn’t we feel guilty about things like racism and sexism, and feel a certain personal obligation to work for greater equality? I guess it can often cloud our thoughts, and cause us well-meaning white liberals to act paternalistic or reckless in search of diversity or social justice. My mom is going to kill me for writing this...but I know firsthand what it’s like to be around a, shall we say, overzealous racial liberal. She means well, but sometimes I just had to shake my head growing up.

Just like I think it’s possible to put white privilege in check, and be cognizant of my own racial advantage, so too do I think that it’s possible to keep liberal white guilt at bay. Well, at least that’s what I thought. While visiting my girlfriend’s family in Cleveland a few weeks ago, I faced a situation that helped me understand the basis of white guilt.

It was Saturday night. My girlfriend and I went out to dinner at a local chain restaurant in a (predominantly Jewish) neighboring suburb of Cleveland. Being the aspiring social scientist I am, I made the observation that the restaurant was about 50% white and 50% black. Having now spent a couple of years with me, my girlfriend has picked up on my knack for observing racial dynamics everywhere I go. She replied that she also noticed the balanced proportions.

After dinner we went to her friend’s house to hang out for a bit. Including my girlfriend and me, there were seven (white) people at the house, all gathered around the TV watching a Chris Tucker movie. She made the casual comment to the group, “We went to X restaurant tonight. It was interesting; about half white, half black. I don’t remember it being that mixed when we went to high school.” One of her friend’s roommates, flipping through a GQ magazine (I’m not making this up), fixed his collared shirt and nonchalantly chimed in: “It’s been happening for years. It used to be a cool place to hangout. It would be cool, if it wasn’t for all the schvartzes.”

These are the moments that public intellectuals like Tim Wise thrive on. The kind of situation in which you put a bigot in his place, telling him that it’s not right to use Yiddish slurs for black folks. In White Like Me, Wise goes through strategies to put white privilege in check, particularly when racist “jokes” or slurs are made amongst white friends. But I didn’t use any of Wise’s strategies. I didn’t come up with any witty response. I didn’t say, “What are you afraid of? That you will catch some sort of black disease? That their blackness will rub off on you? That somehow, being in proximity to black people will hurt your good time? This isn’t the Jim Crow South—do you expect blacks to eat at different restaurants, and frequent different stores? Are you that ignorant?” I didn’t say any of that. I didn’t demand that he clarify his insult, noting that the blacks at the restaurant that night were by and large middle-aged, and middle class (though, it shouldn’t matter). I didn’t yell, I didn’t laugh it off, I didn’t do anything. I just sat there, mind running a million miles a minute, seething with anger.

The rage continued to build up, but I didn’t say a word. I was paralyzed, shocked, stunned. I sat there, silent, and silenced by my inability to articulate a powerful response. Chris Tucker made a joke on TV, and everyone laughed. My window of opportunity to say something, anything, passed. I wanted to say, “It’s cool to laugh at their jokes, but God forbid they want to go to the same restaurant as you.” But I didn’t.

It’s moments like this—moments when we are tested and fail to respond to racism—that leave a lasting imprint and a simmering rage in the very depths of our souls. I feel ashamed that I let his comment go unchecked, and personally responsible for similar situations that occur daily. I caught a glimpse of casual, recreational racism. And I did nothing. And it made me sick.

I realized, this is where white guilt comes from.