Like a Goat

Sometimes, I feel like a goat. Bleating. Because I am so useless.

Last year at BlogHer, I went to a panel about white privilege, among other things. I was one of the fewer than 10 white people there, and I was ashamed. Not to be there, but that more white people weren't.

I should've written about it then. I don't blog so much anymore. But that's not an excuse.

It's not intentional, not to write. It's that with all the bullshit that's gone on in the past two years (the past 1,000 years), I'm starting to wonder what people think of me. I haven't been able to achieve any change. Not that I have delusions of grandeur. It's just ... am I just a goat?

It is even privileged to wonder such a thing, to think my voice should matter. I want to speak, to show solidarity. But I also recognize that to speak is to interrupt, at this point.

I don't want to interrupt.

I don't want to bleat.

I don't want to be silent, lest that be seen as acceptance.

I sit in audiences, listening to my friends speak of racial inequality. I sit to bear witness and show my face. I'm not sure how my friends interpret my presence. I hope they see me as supporting them, not inserting myself.

I find it hard to believe we haven't come farther. I find it hard to believe we've come this far.

I still can't fathom any person ever thought it was okay to "own" another person.

Sentient beings can't be owned.

I won't let my daughter ever forget that. We, white people, we screwed up so bad for so long. But we are all human beings.

Damn.