I can’t breathe.
Three words that I have never uttered but still elicit a
tightness in my chest, a knot in my stomach, panic in my heart.
I can’t breathe.
Three words that, as a white woman, I am more likely to associate
with inside jokes and belly-laughter.
I can’t breathe.
Three words that, as a mother, I hope to hell my children
never need to gasp.
But as a white mother, the nightmare plays out in a crowded
public pool or trapped under wreckage on the side of a highway. Not at the
hands of law enforcement.
I have privilege. I am white. I am not poor. As a mother, the
lessons I get to teach my children about the “dangers of the real world” include
islands of refuge, safe places, and people to turn to for help. I can
confidently tell my children that if they are in trouble, or if someone or something
feels unsafe, they can seek the shelter of a police officer. I can send my
children out into the world knowing that there is social infrastructure to help
me keep them safe.
I can’t breathe.
But it’s not because I can place myself or a family member
underneath the boot of that police officer.
As a white mother I get to teach my children that if they
break a law or do something stupid, they may be arrested or detained. I get to warn
them that the punishment would fit the crime, and may be a hefty fine, a night
in the drunk tank, a few months in jail. However, I do not have to teach
them that that the price of any infraction, perceived or real, may be their
life.
I can’t breathe.
Because since the murder of George Floyd, I have heard
numerous people of privilege suggest systemic racism can be stopped if only we take
a cue from children. To not see colour, not see differences. As if this earns
them a gold star in race relations and can magically combat the racism that
runs prevalently through our society.
I can’t breathe.
Because I know that there are children, far younger than my
own, who do see colour, who do see differences. Who have witnessed their
parents be racially profiled, who have had playmates whisked away by racist
caregivers, who have been warned by their parents not to wear a hoodie, not to cut
through a neighbours backyard, not to gather in large groups with their
friends.
I can’t breathe.
Because there are people, some that I love, that forward
racist chain mail, create racist memes, support racist members of parliament.
Because there are people who believe that what happened to
George Floyd was the result of one bad apple.
I can’t breathe.
Because while I teach my children that all humans are
created equally, I must also teach them that society does not treat them
equally. I must implore them to do better, to call out the same injustices that
many adults in their life are unwilling to address.
I can’t breathe.
Because I can only begin to imagine how vastly different my
experience of motherhood is from a mother of colour.
I can’t breathe.
Because tackling racism is an uphill battle, and as a white woman
I know I’m not even looking at the same hill.
And that too, elicits a tightness in my chest, a knot in my
stomach and panic in my heart.
