I’m probably racist. I don’t think I am, but that’s probably what makes me racist. After all, I never used to think that I was racist until I became a little less racist, at which point it became glaringly obvious how absurdly racist I used to be.
I don’t want to be racist, but I am. How could I not be? I grew up in an almost all-white suburb within a country that was built on racism; almost every day, I was presented with racist imagery and speech—sometimes implicit bias and ignorance and other times explicit hate. Even as I write this, I have to admit that I’m only doing so because a cop killed George Floyd—or rather only because so many people spoke out and took to the streets that I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Racists like me have the privilege of forgetting about racism.
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