Violence against Black and Brown bodies is, tragically, not a new phenomenon. People of color are acutely aware of this historical and ongoing reality. Almost three decades ago, the horrific beating of Rodney King, an African American man, by four white police officers was captured on video, shocking the nation. This event serves as a stark reminder: why do these acts of violence against people of color continue to occur?
At the time, I was a young features writer for the local newspaper in the Santa Clarita Valley, where three of the officers resided. A year later, when the officers were brought to trial, I was home sick, nearly an hour away. News reports then broke that an almost entirely white jury had acquitted all officers of assault and excessive force. Why do such verdicts, which seem to disregard clear evidence, happen and further erode trust in the justice system for minority communities?
The city of Los Angeles and surrounding areas erupted in protests, many of which turned violent. I vividly recall the sounds of shattering glass as nearby stores were looted and the ominous plumes of smoke rising from burning buildings. The riots persisted for six long days, leaving a devastating toll: 63 lives lost and over 2,000 people injured. Why do these societal wounds, opened by injustice, so often lead to such intense expressions of pain and rage?
Fear was my immediate reaction. I realized the vastness of my ignorance regarding racism and white privilege. Growing up in a predominantly white suburb, my exposure to people of color was limited. In my high school, only one Black student attended, and her stay was brief. My college experience offered minimal interaction beyond African American football players. Church sermons touched upon integration and racism, but these were often abstract, failing to truly challenge our own white privilege. Why do predominantly white communities, even within religious settings that preach equality, often fail to confront and dismantle systemic racism within themselves?
Graduate school marked a turning point. Courses in Black theology and Peggy McIntosh’s seminal work, “Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack,” opened my eyes to systemic racism, moving beyond individual acts of prejudice to understand deeply ingrained societal structures. However, when I attempted to teach about white privilege at a college with many first-generation and non-traditional students, I encountered significant resistance. This pushback, while challenging, forced me to refine my arguments and better articulate the often-unseen realities of privilege. Why do discussions about white privilege often provoke defensiveness and resistance, especially among those who might not perceive themselves as privileged?
Living in a biracial family has been profoundly educational, yet it doesn’t automatically erase ingrained biases. The work of anti-racism is ongoing and essential – for myself, my family, my community, and my church. This continuous effort is what my neighbor aptly calls “white people’s homework.” This “homework” consists of articles, books, documentaries, podcasts, and videos, primarily shared on social media, all aimed at educating white Americans about the pervasive realities of racism, white privilege, and white supremacy. Why do white individuals need to actively seek out this education, and why do these resources often circulate within social media spaces rather than mainstream educational systems?
Our nation appears to be at another critical juncture, a racial reckoning spurred by a seemingly endless stream of violent, racist incidents, now tragically identifiable by the names of the victims: Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, Christian Cooper, George Floyd. Two lives were lost due to police brutality or misconduct; one was murdered while jogging; another narrowly escaped danger after being falsely accused by a white woman. Why do these names become hashtags and symbols of a struggle that seems perpetually unresolved? Why do these horrific incidents continue to plague our society?
As news of these tragedies unfolded, I immersed myself in my own “white people’s homework,” including a virtual presentation, hosted by the Ignatian Solidarity Network, featuring writer Olga Segura, who is currently writing a book about the Black Lives Matter movement and the Catholic Church.
Weeks prior, Segura had penned an article for NCR following New York Cardinal Timothy Dolan’s controversial call with President Donald Trump. During her presentation, she discussed her piece, titled “Do US bishops really believe black lives matter?” This question itself prompts reflection: why do we even need to question whether religious leaders, who are supposed to champion justice and compassion, truly believe Black lives matter?
Towards the presentation’s conclusion, Segura offered crucial advice in light of recent events. She reiterated a vital point: “I think that white Catholics who want to be allies … their first instinct has to stop being, in moments like these, reaching out to people of color and asking them what they should be doing.” Why do white individuals often default to seeking guidance from people of color in moments of racial crisis, rather than taking independent initiative to educate themselves and act?
People of color are, understandably, grieving and processing immense trauma when forced to witness what Segura aptly terms “a modern-day lynching.” “There’s a dread and a fatigue that we have to process,” she explained. “I think being an ally — a true ally — means acknowledging that, giving people of color space to breathe in moments like that, instead of gravitating to ‘Help me be a better white person.'” Why do true allyship require this understanding and space, and why do it necessitate a shift in focus from seeking immediate personal absolution to offering genuine support?
As the relatively new editor of a publication that values inclusiveness, human dignity and social justice, Segura’s words resonated deeply. I understood the importance of refraining from immediatelyTasking African American writers to articulate the pain and injustice we were witnessing.
However, our commitment to diverse voices remains unwavering. We were grateful when Fr. Bryan Massingale contacted us with his powerful essay, “[The assumptions of white privilege and what we can do about it](https://www.ncronline.org/news/opinion/assumptions-white-privilege-and-what-we can-do-about-it).” We were equally honored to publish Jesuit Fr. Joseph Brown’s poignant piece, “Black in America: I am so tired.”
Several of our regular columnists have also bravely confessed their own privilege and added their voices to the growing chorus demanding justice. Yet, we acknowledge that too many of our writers – and employees within our organization – still do not reflect the rich diversity of our church and society. Why do media organizations and institutions, even those committed to social justice, struggle to achieve true representation and diversity?
White people, it is imperative that we do our homework. Our brothers and sisters of color cannot afford for us to fail this critical test. The urgency of this moment demands action, understanding, and a sustained commitment to dismantling the systems of injustice that continue to fuel these cycles of violence and pain. Why do we have a moral obligation to engage in this “homework,” and why do our collective futures depend on it?
[Heidi Schlumpf is NCR executive editor. Her email address is [email protected]. Follow her on Twitter: @HeidiSchlumpf.]
