We were a bootstraps family.
We lived in the Midwest, we owned a small construction business, and we worked hard. That was the nightly discussion at the dinner table. We worked hard. We were tough. We didn’t get sick or go to the doctor. We didn’t ask for help. The lessons were doled out with the cottage cheese, and I ate it all: If you got hurt, you put duct tape on it and went back to work. You didn’t accept charity or eat free lunch at school; you didn't wear designer clothes and you didn't shop at Goodwill; you ate ancient chickens that you butchered yourself and then boiled for hours, trying to soften up the leather before you canned it and made it into chicken a la king on toast. You went to college on scholarship or not at all. You did it yourself. You were self-made.
Except, of course, you were not. Your parents somehow sent you to Germany for two months after graduation, even though they were struggling to pay the bills. You see, they had a home they could put a 2nd mortgage on; they had an ability to take out loans; they had collateral in the construction company; they were well respected in town. Your scholarship was tied to your real dad’s employer; your grades and your standardized test scores—the gateway tests that you waltzed through—were a direct reflection of your mother’s college education and your race. You had privilege, and you were frightfully unaware.
In college, you quickly realized that there was a Black Caucus, but no caucus for students who were white. The Black Caucus helped incoming freshmen navigate the university, figure out how to drop and add classes, understand financial aid, and just simply belong. You felt lost alone and on your own, with no club or caucus (or classes), but you were also proud. And then, you did it by yourself. You navigated “the Pit,” you filled your blank schedule, you got a job, you figured out what to do when your scholarships came in after your bills were due, you got a long-distance calling card so that you could call home; you were self-made.
Except, of course, you were not. You knew how to negotiate and arrange financial aid and get a job because your parents were small-business owners.You quickly figured out how to play the game in college, because college was designed for you. Your classes were scaffolded on your high school education. The food in the cafeteria resembled the same chicken casseroles you grew up with. Your professors looked a lot like your high school teachers, just slightly more absent-minded and unironed. You understood how to navigate the system because the system was built for you.
And still, you lamented that you had no culture. No traditions. No race. The word “Caucasian” always seemed ridiculous, because it sounded like you were trying to be Asian-adjacent; but you didn’t even think to research the very ridiculous (and racist) history of that word. You just ticked the silly box, never questioning, and then felt sad that you had no Kwanzaa, no Hanukkah, no Cinco de Mayo. There was no white music, no white traditional clothing, no special white food. You knew that your own family’s grasping of Scottish heritage was an attempt to grasp on to a culture, even though you were barely Scottish. You wished for something that symbolically represented you.
You never realized that this country was designed for you. The entire school calendar was organized around your religious holidays. The post office schedule aligned with your family’s work schedule. Your leaders looked like you. Your friends dressed like you. Christmas, with its white Santa and white sugar cookies and white baby Jesus: that was a mirror reflection of you. Your bubble of whiteness, the one you claimed had no culture, was, in fact, your entire country—all of the holidays, all of the systems, all of the culture—all about you.
You wish you would have known all of this when you were younger. You wish you didn’t spend 20 or 30 or 40 years of your life ignorant of your own privilege, buying into your own family mythology of self-sufficiency and bootstrap success, blissfully unaware of all of the institutional help you received. But you didn’t know what you didn’t know. It wasn’t written in your textbooks or preached from your pulpits. It wasn’t talked about at the dinner table. It wasn’t passed down, generation after generation, the story of your success whilst standing on the backs of others. How could you possibly know?
Except, of course, you were not. Your parents somehow sent you to Germany for two months after graduation, even though they were struggling to pay the bills. You see, they had a home they could put a 2nd mortgage on; they had an ability to take out loans; they had collateral in the construction company; they were well respected in town. Your scholarship was tied to your real dad’s employer; your grades and your standardized test scores—the gateway tests that you waltzed through—were a direct reflection of your mother’s college education and your race. You had privilege, and you were frightfully unaware.
In college, you quickly realized that there was a Black Caucus, but no caucus for students who were white. The Black Caucus helped incoming freshmen navigate the university, figure out how to drop and add classes, understand financial aid, and just simply belong. You felt lost alone and on your own, with no club or caucus (or classes), but you were also proud. And then, you did it by yourself. You navigated “the Pit,” you filled your blank schedule, you got a job, you figured out what to do when your scholarships came in after your bills were due, you got a long-distance calling card so that you could call home; you were self-made.
Except, of course, you were not. You knew how to negotiate and arrange financial aid and get a job because your parents were small-business owners.You quickly figured out how to play the game in college, because college was designed for you. Your classes were scaffolded on your high school education. The food in the cafeteria resembled the same chicken casseroles you grew up with. Your professors looked a lot like your high school teachers, just slightly more absent-minded and unironed. You understood how to navigate the system because the system was built for you.
And still, you lamented that you had no culture. No traditions. No race. The word “Caucasian” always seemed ridiculous, because it sounded like you were trying to be Asian-adjacent; but you didn’t even think to research the very ridiculous (and racist) history of that word. You just ticked the silly box, never questioning, and then felt sad that you had no Kwanzaa, no Hanukkah, no Cinco de Mayo. There was no white music, no white traditional clothing, no special white food. You knew that your own family’s grasping of Scottish heritage was an attempt to grasp on to a culture, even though you were barely Scottish. You wished for something that symbolically represented you.
You never realized that this country was designed for you. The entire school calendar was organized around your religious holidays. The post office schedule aligned with your family’s work schedule. Your leaders looked like you. Your friends dressed like you. Christmas, with its white Santa and white sugar cookies and white baby Jesus: that was a mirror reflection of you. Your bubble of whiteness, the one you claimed had no culture, was, in fact, your entire country—all of the holidays, all of the systems, all of the culture—all about you.
You wish you would have known all of this when you were younger. You wish you didn’t spend 20 or 30 or 40 years of your life ignorant of your own privilege, buying into your own family mythology of self-sufficiency and bootstrap success, blissfully unaware of all of the institutional help you received. But you didn’t know what you didn’t know. It wasn’t written in your textbooks or preached from your pulpits. It wasn’t talked about at the dinner table. It wasn’t passed down, generation after generation, the story of your success whilst standing on the backs of others. How could you possibly know?
Now you know.
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| Actual photo of Chicken a la King |
Sharon, Yep. I get it. I, too, have been thinking and talking about "Waking Up White" and its implications. Most of my adult life has been spent intentionally attempting to change the narrative for my daughters. Our family is racially diverse. I teach English Language Learners. Al and I chose to buy our house in a neighborhood that is comprised of 50% low-income and 50% non-native English-speaking families. Two children were in Dual Language programs. Through foster care, guardianship, and mentoring we have become personally involved in issues related to race and inequity. And though my family's awareness, conversations and choices have changed from my childhood, in many ways what people see in our our every day lives probably doesn't look like much different, unless someone knows us well. I am left wondering "and...?" I am glad to know others like you and people I work with are processing with me.
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