There was a time when I held the naive belief that I, a “white” person, could grasp the full weight of racism. 3 decades later, I stand corrected. With each encounter, each new perspective peels back another layer, revealing the insidious depths of a system built on “white” supremacy. For me, the goal has become not to ‘arrive’ at a complete understanding but to commit to a lifelong journey of learning and supporting the dismantling of these structures. As a teacher, this naturally included educating other “white” people on how to begin the process.

My journey in anti-racism wasn’t a straight line. A defining moment was when I took to heart that it’s NOT ABOUT ME. It’s not about my feelings or my fears. It’s about a cruel and unfair system that I was born into but directly benefited from.  This compelled me to become an outspoken advocate. Facing the “price” that comes with challenging the status quo has been the most transformative experience of my life. It’s not just about personal growth but about the chance for me to influence other “white” people to take action and follow the lead of the Black community to support dismantling racist structures. I regret nothing… not the friends and family I’ve lost, not the vile things I’m called online, and certainly not the threats of violence. I wouldn’t trade living a “safe” life for the world… not until all my fellow humans can live without the threat of systemic racism because, for me, systemic racism IS violence. It is simply too painful to just watch.

My journey isn’t about seeking praise or accolades but about the responsibility we all share to dismantle racism. True equity and justice require collective action, not “white” savior narratives.

So, while some excel in specific areas, I found my calling in advocating for my fellow humans. I worked hard to view my deep compassion, although not fully valued in our society, as a gift.

Realizing that empathy is a gift, not a burden, has been a long journey. Even as a child, I vividly remember being told I was a “wallflower” and would not amount to anything unless I toughened up. For a while, I believed that being sensitive was a weakness. I believed the world. But in my heart, I knew better.

Sparked within me was a deep sense of injustice at the suffering of others. In a culture that often prioritizes toughness and self-reliance, being so deeply affected by the pain of others sometimes felt like a curse. It was painful to feel the suffering of others. But over time, I learned to harness this sensitivity, to turn it into a strength for fighting for a more just world. Today, I can honestly say that I love who I am because of it… at least most of the time.

Just like some hone their athletic prowess, I’ve chosen to cultivate my empathy. Maybe it’s not a traditional talent, but it’s a powerful tool. While I can’t take credit for its existence because I was born this way, I can choose to use it to advocate for those in need, to dismantle discriminatory structures, and to build a more compassionate world.

Although it’s hard to imagine now, high school was a world of solitude for me. Lunch breaks were spent alone in the library. Group projects became solo endeavors, the sound of my own voice a stranger. Yet, all that time spent observing painted a vivid picture of the world around me, a world where true devotion to help often seemed in short supply. But somewhere within those silent observations, woke a yearning to bridge the gap between my empathy and the world outside the library walls…

Though painfully shy, my quiet solitude became an unexpected gift. It allowed me to become a keen observer of the world around me and to witness the subtle joys and struggles of my classmates. I vividly remember seeing sad people roaming the halls, wishing I could help. Even in my invisibility, there was a yearning to connect with others, to share the empathy that burned brightly within me. The question remained: how could a quiet, unseen kid like me find a voice to advocate for a just world?

Three vivid memories surface from my elementary school days. One centers around a girl in our neighborhood; she was especially tall for her age. She had acne and looked conspicuously different. She had developmental disabilities that made her stand out. Unlike others who seemed wary, my sister and I felt a connection. She was our neighbor and friend. On the playground, during recess, she often became a target for teasing. But not on our watch. We’d play together, weave her into our games, and if anyone approached with malicious intent, they knew we had her back. It wasn’t a grand gesture but a simple act of empathy that sparked a fire within me, a sense of responsibility to stand up for those who couldn’t stand up for themselves.

As a “white” person growing up in Los Angeles, where colorblindness was the norm, so many things about race remained a mystery. Discussions about racism were taboo as if acknowledging its existence made us racist. The reality, however, was undeniable. I noticed predominantly Black neighborhoods with neglected infrastructure, a stark contrast to the areas I frequented. It made me wonder why things were so different. This wasn’t about Black people preferring certain areas but about a system that created these divisions. The confusion extended to interactions as well.

One memory etched in my mind is from a visit to an outdoor mall when I was around six. A homeless Black man wandered by, his clothes worn and his face etched with hardship. I could tell he needed our help, but my mom walked right by as if he wasn’t even there. His eyes held a flicker of fear, a fear that sent a jolt through me. I wanted to tell him I’d be his friend. But I realize something. He was afraid of me, too. Here was someone who clearly needed help, yet my mom’s reaction made me question my own instincts. Was I wrong for wanting to reach out? Was there something I didn’t understand? The contrast between his need and my mom’s indifference was stark. It was a moment of dissonance, a crack in the foundation of my childhood understanding of the world. This confusion, this yearning to help, coupled with the fear in his eyes, became a turning point. It ignited a strong desire within me, a desire to understand the complexities of race and the responsibility we have to each other.

These are the experiences that led me to finally speak the truth publicly and confidently. I found that once I started, all the cognitive dissonance I felt about the way I thought life should be and the reality of how it was came to a close. I didn’t have to live a lie by silently condoning our culture of systemic racism. I could use my voice to express my disgust, to educate, and to challenge other “white” people to use their thinking skills and not accept that “it’s just the way it is.” Instead, I want to help be a part of the solution. There is nothing better than living an authentic life. I could never go back to silently watching the cruelty… condoning it through my inaction. I refused to live a lie any longer. Now, my voice is a weapon against injustice. I use it to educate, challenge the status quo, and passionately urge others to dismantle the racist structures around us. I know I’ll never know what it feels like to be a Black or brown person living in a culture of “white” supremacy, but I’ll never stop trying to dismantle hate and, instead, empower equity and justice.