By Dāna James, Empowerment & Engagement Specialist

No matter how straight I got my hair or how many big words I knew. Even the praise I received in most spaces for how articulate I was felt tinged with something else. Something I didn’t yet have words for.

I make total sense. 

There was a time when I could never have said those words without irony, but those battles have been fought, and that time has long passed. You make total sense too. Always. *pauses* 

Yeahhhh, how did that feel?

I was born to two very different people with very different experiences. My mother is the daughter of a man who watched his father make instruments from discarded wood he found in the dumpsters of his neighborhood and a woman whose family did not experience the impacts of the Great Depression. Seriously. 

When I came home in elementary school with my assignment to ask my grandparents about their experience in that era, it was equally revealing and confusing. It just led to more questions. Both 1st generation Italian immigrants, my maternal grandparents still somehow seemed to belong to two different worlds. But I admit, I always have more questions. All I’ve ever wanted was to understand and be understood. 

My father is a descendant of the histories tied to the southern states of the US and the African Diaspora. The details of that lineage are a little less linear, but the summary points I have to offer are: my grandfather drove his own cab, and my grandmother was beautiful and she knew it. Both grew up in the same region and shared similar experiences, though rarely feeling anything other than oppositional energy toward each other, according to what’s trickled down to me from my elders. We’ll leave it there. 

This half of the cultures that exist in my blood and bone eluded me for many years for a myriad of very human reasons… but that’s a story for another time. For now, I just want to paint a picture of where baby Dāna was once upon a time. You could say I spent my childhood cosplaying as a white girl. In high school, I laminated a chart of my hairstyles — over 40 — not a single natural hairstyle in the bunch. Yes, Legally Blonde had a profound impact on me (the chart was inspired by the BTS on the DVD, iykyk), but I grew up chasing an ideal that I could never embody, never assimilate into. No matter how straight I got my hair or how many big words I knew. Even the praise I received in most spaces for how articulate I was felt tinged with something else. Something I didn’t yet have words for.

My mother and I traveled a lot when I was young, so the difference between my parental cultures didn’t strike me much back then. As far as I knew, every space had a different culture. My school was a Jewish community, we went to Buddhist retreats several times a year, and our friends were mostly from different regions and backgrounds — walking within and between worlds I didn’t belong to was not unfamiliar.

Also not unfamiliar was the feeling in my body of not making sense. As a child, these moments were often brought mostly by other children’s curiosity. Passing moments of discomfort and searching for the words to explain myself. Explain why I am what I am while fighting off the feeling that there’s something wrong with it. That nobody could make sense of me because I, in fact, did not make sense.

“Why are you brown and your mom isn’t?” 

“You hear her? SistER, why she talk like that?”

“You should really try to fix your hair.”

As childhood spaces of curiosity shifted into workplace dynamics of expectation, the effects grew from passing discomforts to full-blown mental health impacts. Adult spaces brought the same challenges to assimilation but with much greater consequences. The quicksand that is our financial experience within capitalism ensures those consequences. I’m a performer by training, so taking in feedback is a natural part of my process. Still, nothing prepared me for what I experienced:

“It’s important you present professionally, but you’re showing off your *ahem” assets too much.” And then, after wearing baggy sweaters for a while, “Maybe you should wear more form-fitting clothing. Looking polished is important. You want to move up here, don’t you?”

Or

From one day to the next, within the same workspaces, I would be told, “You just really need to socialize. It’s important to build relationships.” And then the following week, “You’re being seen talking too much. Folks are saying you’re not focused on your work.” That comment happened the same week I launched a CRM by myself for the entire organization. So I had some inclination that this feedback really wasn’t about me. But still, it kept coming.

Round and round and round I’d go, taking in and revamping my personality, my appearance, and my work ethic based on the feedback of the minute. Doing my best to contain the emotional pain that came from always feeling like I was the problem. This was the only logical conclusion. I never saw any of my peers experience the same attention from authority. Though the feedback changed from space to space, culture to culture, the common denominator was me. If my 20’s mind had a sound, it would be T-Swift’s “It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me.” I was sure of it. Repeated it like a mantra and told myself all I had to do was be less. Less loud, less social, less vibrant, less opinionated, less engaged, less creative, less laughter, less feelings, less less less. And I tried. But even my silence wasn’t safe. “You’re just so noticeable when you’re happy that when you’re not, your silence makes people uneasy. You seem angry.”

I was. I am. 

I’m angry that for centuries all our diverse and vibrant ways of being have been synthesized into the illusion of a standard that fits nobody I’ve met in my time on this planet. I’m livid that every person who manages people isn’t required to have a base level of trauma-informed awareness necessary for working with and within populations of people who are healing from generational harms of all kinds. And most of all, I’m outraged at how efficient white supremacy culture is at maintaining and propagating itself. Especially within our own minds.

Now, I have been lucky. I have always been able to build relationships within my environments that help me navigate them. In my 20s, when I finally hit a wall with this experience of cyclical not-enoughness, I was lucky to have someone close whose love for me was obvious and intentional. That day, she told me something I already knew, but nobody helped me to understand. 

“Why is this what happens to me? Everything I’m taking in is conflicting. It doesn’t make sense. I feel crazy.”

I’m not sure why, but on this day, coaching me into yet another strategy seemed to weigh on her as much as I felt the effort of embodying them weighing on me. She stumbled in a way I’d rarely seen her act. After starting the same sentence a few times with different iterations of “this isn’t really my place,” “But you already know,” and “maybe it’s better if you don’t see it through this lens,” she looked me in my eyes and just said, “You’re a black woman.” My brain went straight into auto-response because, yeah, I knew that. I knew that the Civil Rights era had happened in the 60s and that half of my lineage had more recently been recognized as, you know, people. My mother was always passionate about education, so I knew the things. At least, I thought I did. 

“Yeah, I know, what does that have to —”

She took my hands in hers. “Dāna. You’re a black woman.” I heard everything unsaid that time.

She took my hands in hers. “Dāna. You’re a black woman.” I heard everything unsaid that time. 

And suddenly, everything started clicking into place. I did know the things. I’d taken human rights courses in college, studied histories of religions, and knew the trends and statistics of Black experience. Still, nobody had given me any tools or permission to recognize what it felt like in my body when those experiences were present tense. 

All the awkward moments of my childhood, the funny feeling I got in my gut when I was told I was “one of the good ones,” even the resentments I’d seen hurled back and forth between my parents — there were words for it all, and I’d known them for years. I just didn’t think I had a right to claim that cultural experience. (Something I still struggle with to this day, I recently realized after watching The 1619 Project on Hulu. Episode 3 hit. But, again, that’s a story for another time.) 

She held me while I cried. Bless the managers with the courage to care.

From the time I was little, I was always looking for patterns. You see, when you don’t really fit anywhere, you get really good at identifying norms. And trying your best not to trip over the invisible lines. It starts with folks always pointing it out (lest your spirit get a moment’s peace) and can often morph into a decided effort to use all your energy to assimilate. But assimilation can never be accessible for me. Even alone, I exist in duality. This used to feel exhausting, but now it feels like a superpower. It helps me to see our intersectional experiences, and I’ve come to the conclusion that without awareness of the day-to-day aspects of white supremacy culture, we can spend our whole lives never getting outside of the small and confining box the values of that culture puts our human experience in. Without those barriers removed, we simply bounce back and forth within them. Like Pong… but less fun and with even less color.

So what are we supposed to do? 

The epidemic of ‘not-enoughness’ has successfully sustained itself for eons, and there seems to be little defense against the onslaught of messages we receive from our mainstream culture about our own worth and value. And we struggle. Our only defense is therapy if we’re lucky enough to be able to access and afford services, which, in the US, is not the average experience. Let’s talk about that for a second.

Our healthcare system in general, and by extension, mental healthcare is a system. A system that is built on knowledge and history that carries its impact to this very day. The origins of our healthcare system are more “What’s wrong with you?” and less “What’s wrong with us?” If you ask me, when we can look around and see that our personal challenges resonate with most people around us, it matters if the systemic goal is to fix symptoms or address causation. One addresses the present; the other looks toward the future.

We speak of racism, sexism, and xenophobia in terms that alienate it from the beliefs and histories that fuel the violence that manifests. The worst part of that being the way it alienates us from seeing the normalized ways that those beliefs encourage folks to behave to this day. Though we often find ourselves agreeing (in most spaces) that we do not want to be complicit in these atrocities, we rarely explore what these patterns look like when physical violence isn’t present. Luckily, those who came before us have done much of the leg work. 

In 1999, Dr. Tema Okun worked to distill the extensive knowledge shared by herself and her colleagues in equity workshops into a succinct outline of, seemingly benign, day-to-day characteristics of white supremacy culture. Now, without context and critical analysis, these may not make sense to many folks as the insidious poisons that lead to genocide, erasure, classism, and the overall experience of oppression. And it’s our choice to work toward understanding that context or not, but I advocate for curiosity. 

These poisons exist within parent-child relationships, friendships, and workplace exchanges. And they have the same impact in an office as they do in households. Within a culture that believes in Perfectionism, nobody escapes the fear of their mistakes being found out and what it might mean to their relationships. If there is Belief in One Right Way, anything or anyone different is inherently wrong or, at the very least, dismissed and belittled. And if we maintain a Fear of Open Conflict? Well, how then can we ever explore differences at all? Do we even allow ourselves the freedom to explore within our own minds? Only we can speak to the culture within us, but without knowing what to look for, how can we know? We agree that we want a shared culture that divests from white supremacy, but do we know it when we see it? Do we know it when we feel it?

The culture of white supremacy is the pinnacle of what drives folks to struggle with their human existence because it stops us from seeing our own experiences clearly. And it can keep you from yourself.

The culture of white supremacy is the pinnacle of what drives folks to struggle with their human existence because it stops us from seeing our own experiences clearly. And it can keep you from yourself. Whether systemic or personal, the harms that come from these values are universal and self-propagating. It is the reason that so many well-meaning parents fail to listen when their child advocates for themselves, the reason we strike back harder than we mean to when in conflict with a partner or friend, and the reason we don’t resist some of the harsh feedback that comes from outside of us. Because what we say to ourselves is often much worse. 

What I don’t want to do is minimize the factual risk that comes with resisting assimilation into white supremacy culture. Because for most of us, those risks are material and violent. Our family lineages are made of the stories of who resisted and what consequences were wrought. Our risks are ours to assess. But what I do want to do is begin to focus on how important our own internal culture is, especially when we serve as leaders. I believe it to be the area where we have the most work to do and the area that will have the most impact. 

Whether in our families, our teams, our personal relationships or even our own mindsets, how we treat ourselves is the blueprint for how we treat others. And if we cannot find liberation within our own bodies, how then can we believe we can extend it to anyone else? 

One of the most confusing phenomena over the last few years for me has been watching my peers who are minimally melanated struggle to understand that they themselves are also exposed to white supremacy culture on a day-to-day basis and are also conditioned by fear and violence. In fact, none are more aware of the expectations of white spaces than those who grew up in them. And none more regularly choose assimilation over authenticity. Our bodies remember the choices we make, and they shape our internal culture.

Resistance to assimilation incites extreme responses from those still struggling to understand what white supremacy culture is. However, it is small day-to-day moments that chip away at our self-worth and our courage, and slowly convince us that there’s no point in trying. That is the lie that the generational curse of white supremacy told us. It’s up to us whether we want to believe it.

The next time you finish hosting a training and the wind gets taken out of your sails because you realize you actually didn’t have more participants the last time, ask yourself. Is that your voice? Or white supremacy?

When you’re at a networking event and an unfamiliar hand finds its way onto your body, uninvited, and a voice in your head says, “Don’t make a scene.” Is that you? Or white supremacy.

When what you need more than anything is someone to just know what you’re going through, but a voice says, “Don’t burden them” each time you reach for the phone, I just want you to know: that’s white supremacy. Don’t you let it win, honey. You’re loved.

I implore us as human beings to think of our antiracism work as a cornerstone of any mental health practice. Only then can we begin to see that as the problem instead of policing our own human fallibility.

Last year, a courageously introspective ally wrote an article entitled White People: Heal Thyself To Be More Effective At Antiracism! I submit that they are two sides of the same coin. When our awareness is such that we can see the threads of white supremacy culture in our day-to-day, we begin to understand that both goals lead to the same place. I implore us as human beings to think of our antiracism work as a cornerstone of any mental health practice. Only then can we begin to see that as the problem instead of policing our own human fallibility.

We now have the data, qualitative and quantitative, that provides context to some of our biggest questions. We know how we got here; collectively, we make total sense. We as individuals are the product of the environment that nourishes us, poisons and all, and it’s about time we stop gaslighting ourselves asking, “Why am I like this?” Only then can we begin the real work of what we’re gonna do about it.

It’s hard to focus on our own work, I know. I’ve been wading around in my own psyche for a while, and I’ll be damned if I’m not still finding hidden hurts and myths swept under rugs in the corners of my mind. 

Healing is messy, and there’s a lot of grief involved, so if it’s easier for you to do hard things for others, then sure, heal yourself to be a better ally. Whatever gets you on the train. Maybe once you’re onboard, you’ll see that this is a shared fight against the poisons in the water. Literally and figuratively. 

The train is already moving, but if you’re running to catch up, don’t worry, love. 

Breathe. 

Stay curious. 

We’ll save you a seat.