“I can’t breathe.”
Amidst a crowd of 5,000 strangers in the brisk air of downtown Manhattan, I momentarily felt as though I couldn’t draw a breath. I instinctively placed a hand over my heart, struggling to steady its erratic beating, as tears streamed down my face. Just moments before we began marching to express our collective rage and sorrow, I managed to regain my composure.
“We can’t breathe.”
This phrase has become a poignant rallying cry, resonating deeply in the chants reverberating through bridges and highways, as well as in public venues like coffee shops and transit stations. It forces us to confront the harsh realities of systemic racism that persist in our society. While it was easy to believe we had moved past prejudice, especially after the election of a president with brown skin, the truth remains that our communities and schools are still largely segregated.
Upon arriving at Foley Square that evening, I locked eyes with a woman holding a sign that read, “Telling me that I’m obsessed with talking about racism in America is like telling me I’m obsessed with swimming when I’m drowning.” I captured her image, telling her, “That’s beautiful,” as I resonated with her message. Yet, it is a tragically sad reality that centuries after the Declaration of Independence was penned, and decades after the Civil Rights Act was enacted, the lives of Black individuals remain perilously endangered.
Within just 24 hours, my intense anger transformed into a flicker of hope. After the Eric Garner verdict was announced, I had just returned home from yoga, ready to work. Alone in my apartment, I unleashed a series of expletives at the television, while my social media feeds erupted with mutual condemnation—a universal reaction to what felt like an unfathomable injustice. Even prominent figures, such as political commentators and public officials, voiced their dissent against the non-indictment.
The prevailing sentiment among my peers suggested we had reached a critical juncture; there was no returning to the status quo after a week of staggering injustices that began in Ferguson. It was a moment that united individuals of all backgrounds, as noted by Rev. Jacqueline J. Lewis, who remarked that we had been “cracked wide open around race”—a realization that was long overdue.
I have participated in various protests throughout my life, with my first being a march for abortion rights in 1992. Since then, I have joined movements for environmental causes, anti-war demonstrations, and even the Occupy Wall Street movement. However, this latest movement feels distinct from anything I have encountered before. It is organized and effective, yet raw and visceral. We stood together, our voices hoarse from shouting, as we marched in solidarity.
In cities nationwide, protests erupted, connected through social media, where activists tirelessly staged die-ins, confronted law enforcement, and blocked major thoroughfares. After one such march in New York City, I learned that protesters had laid down in the middle of Broadway for 11 minutes of silence—the number of times Eric Garner uttered “I can’t breathe” before losing consciousness.
#Black Lives Matter
The powerful mantra #BlackLivesMatter emerged in the wake of Ferguson. As noted by journalist Maya Sampson, the significance of this movement became clearer to me after the tragic killing of 17-year-old Trayvon Martin by George Zimmerman in 2012. Despite my previous awareness of social issues, I had never fully grasped the profound fear that Black parents must endure as they watch their children leave for seemingly mundane activities. The stark realization that their children become targets in ways that children with white skin do not is a burden that must weigh heavily on their hearts.
After the events surrounding Trayvon Martin, I became acutely aware of “The Talk”—the necessary conversation Black parents have with their sons about navigating a world that views them as threats. This discussion, which focuses on behaviors such as keeping hands visible and maintaining politeness during police encounters, is essential for survival. If one were to send their child into a dangerous situation, proper preparation would be imperative. “The Talk” serves as the only armor that Black families possess in a society where their children are often not safe.
This realization compelled me to confront my own white privilege more profoundly than I ever had before. I had always considered myself an ally; however, my understanding shifted dramatically when I recognized that innocent Black boys are viewed through a lens of danger and suspicion. If I had a biological son nearing the age of 12, his primary concern would likely be preparing for a bar mitzvah, a luxury that children of Black parents cannot afford, regardless of their living situation.
The persistent heartbreak experienced by my Black friends in response to the recent spate of unjust deaths is a powerful testament to the crisis at hand. After learning of another fatal encounter involving an unarmed Black man, a friend expressed that it felt like “open season” on men of color. In the midst of this turmoil, I was struck by the simultaneous news of 12-year-old Tamir Rice’s tragic death at the hands of police in Cleveland.
Moving Toward Empathy
What does it mean to be a white ally when we can never fully understand the experience of navigating life in Black or brown skin? I realized that merely attending rallies was insufficient; I had to accept that although I will never know the struggle in my bones, I must constantly strive for empathy. This endeavor starts with listening—truly listening—even when I think I comprehend the situation.
White individuals like myself often dominate spaces we enter, accustomed to being acknowledged first. On the day of the Garner verdict, a well-intentioned hashtag, #CrimingWhileWhite, began trending on Twitter. While it aimed to humorously highlight white privilege, it momentarily overshadowed the grief of people of color, illustrating the need for their experiences to take precedence.
My journey as an ally is ongoing. For example, I didn’t simply watch 12 Years a Slave with my family last Christmas; I engaged them in conversations about the enduring legacy of slavery. Last summer, after reading Ta-Nehisi Coates’ impactful essay “The Case for Reparations,” I brought it up frequently with my white friends. While some may resist or respond with indifference, it is imperative that we actively strive for a world where Black lives are treated with the same dignity and respect as those of white individuals.
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Summary
The challenges of being a white ally in today’s society call for a deeper understanding of systemic racism and the harsh realities faced by people of color. Active listening, genuine engagement, and a commitment to empathy are essential components in fostering meaningful change. By acknowledging our privileges and actively participating in conversations about race, we can work toward a more equitable future.