We Can’t Afford to Hold Our Breath

I had two major points on my list: how to deal with overwhelming feelings and how to cope with the rejection that is sure to come as I apply for my first tenure-track position. I know that many employers may say “no” before I find the one who will say “yes,” but I wanted some tips on staying optimistic and bouncing back from those blows to my ego.

Still, my main concern was the No. 1 item on my list: “feeling overwhelmed and frustrated.” I’d made a sublist of concerns – work, school, Ferguson, Eric Garner.

In the past few weeks, I told my counselor, I’d felt my walls crumbling down. I told her that, quite frankly, wearing the mask becomes more and more difficult when you realize that you may be complicit in larger systemic processes that contribute to the deaths of unarmed black men and to national unrest among people who, although you’ve never met them, share the black and brown hues that are used as markers to treat all of you in similar ways. “It’s so hard,” I whispered, as the tears broke free from my eyes. “It’s so damn hard.”

My counselor, who is a white woman, could be described as an ally. For months, she’s helped me work through the mental and emotional angst that comes along with completing my doctoral studies, being a single mother, entering the job market, and lingering family issues (the latter of which she assures me we all have). However, sitting in a cozy chair in her office, conveniently facing a large window with a view of the leaves twirling in the wind, I couldn’t find the words to talk about the angst that comes with the racially charged issues we’ve both watched unfold in recent weeks – undoubtedly with very different perspectives.

My frustration over those national events was tangled up with my emotions over tensions of a more personal nature at work. I had pushed back against a colleague’s offensive remarks related to race, gender, and class, and somehow my complaints had been passed along to our department’s HR person. I was called downstairs, asked to close the door, and have a seat. I was told that I was letting my emotions get in the way of work and that I needed to find a way to not let that happen. I was also told that remarks I had perceived as offensive were probably not intended to be, so I shouldn’t take them personally. I was speechless.

About a week later, that same HR rep sat in on a conversation between the offending colleague and me as we tried to work out our “personality” kinks. The rep sat quietly as my colleague made a series of what I perceived to be offensive and insensitive remarks, culminating in a snarky comment related to affirmative action. At that point, and with the HR rep silently nodding along, I knew I had to speak up. I imagined myself holding up both arms and yelling “Hands up! Don’t Shoot!” I wanted to move the chairs back and stage a 4.5-minute die-in right there on the office floor.

Unfortunately, I knew that neither one of those acts would help my colleagues understand the injustice that was happening in that moment. Chances are they wouldn’t even get that I was protesting systemic racism and injustice. (I know that because I had a colleague ask me to explain what “I can’t breathe” was in reference to, after seeing NBA players wear T-shirts bearing that phrase.)

What I did, instead, was lay my job on the line by refusing to be complicit anymore. I explained to my colleague what a “microaggression” was and I gave concrete examples of how it would feel if the tables were turned. I explained to her why there was a need to be more conscious in our comments about the bigger picture — because it is impact, not intent, that shapes people’s experiences. She thanked me and asked me to help her to continue to learn, as she always felt like she was walking on eggshells around me because, she said, she knew I was “sensitive.”

Another jab.

I started to apologize for making her daily experiences so uncomfortable, and immediately recanted. “I can’t apologize for constantly being aware of the larger picture,” I told her, “I can’t do that and I can’t change it. I’m constantly aware.” I told her, “if you think you’re walking on eggshells about what you can say, imagine how I feel.” I was shaking, but I knew this colleague was finally listening.

In recounting the story to my counselor, it was at that point that my tears broke free and I reached for the tissue box. Often, these experiences feel like a wave of heat flashing over your entire body as you struggle to remain professional, always professional.

Too often, I laugh off the comments, and turn the proverbial “other cheek” when I find myself in these encounters because I know that my honest response would make the offending parties uncomfortable, and because – I tell myself – they didn’t mean it “that way.”

But not this month.

This month, I’m painfully aware that whether or not it’s meant “that way,” an act of injustice is still an act of injustice. And because those acts can cause serious, irreparable, life-changing, and sometimes, life-ending harm, we can’t afford to hold our breath during those moments any longer.

It becomes evident that we can’t hold our breath on these issues when we consider those last haunting words of Eric Garner. Before he was gasping for air, repeating, “I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe,” he told the officers: “Every time you see me, you want to mess with me. I’m tired of it. It stops today.” Unfortunately, people don’t listen to the pleas for our lives on sidewalks, when we’re yelling in defense of ourselves, claiming our innocence and hoping that they will see us as humans as opposed to demons, thugs, criminals, or threats to their security. They don’t see our tears as we mourn those losses in the privacy of our homes, in the bathroom stall at work, in a parked car too paralyzed by grief to drive, or in the corner of our counselor’s office clutching a handful of tissues.

As the tears dried, my counselor and I came to a resolution: I will try to start a conversation as often as possible. I will be honest about my perspective on such critical issues, and if the receiving party is not open to an honest exchange then I will find solace in knowing that I did try, and that I did not laugh-to-keep-from-crying in the face of open fire.

I’m not sure that it will stop today, or even in my lifetime, but I know that it will never stop as long as we don’t address minor acts of injustice during times when people are willing to listen: in our work places, in small groups at church, in bars, in classrooms. And, contrary to how we want to imagine “the oppressors,” they are not bundled together in a back room with cigars and white hoods, strategizing how to continue a cycle of oppression. “They” are next to us at work, school, church, and home. “They” are our friends online and in real life. And as I’ve realized over this past month, we can very well replace “them” with “we,” as we all have blind spots and suffer from that horrible human condition that is ignorance.

The only way to overcome that plight is to have awkward, uncomfortable, painful, and emotional conversations about why some people in this country – a lot of whom are black – are more likely to be perceived as angry or sensitive or inferior; be incarcerated and behind bars for longer durations; have trouble finding employment for an extended period of time; or be killed on site when perceived as a threat, even when unarmed.

We can’t afford to hold our breath any longer. We cannot wait until we can’t breathe.

Felicia Lynne Harris is a doctoral candidate in the Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication at the University of Georgia.

This piece was reprinted by EmpathyEducates with permission or license. We thank the Author, Felicia Lynne Harris and Vitae for their kindness. We are grateful for open, honest, reflective and perspicacious observations. We invite those long-delayed conversations.