I grew up in a fairly small southern city. It is a city that is big enough for others to recognize by name, but small enough that there is always a chance of seeing someone you know at the grocery store. I attended a private K-12 college prep school where my class was majority White and affluent. I was largely surrounded by this same homogenous demographic growing up, whether it was in the neighborhood, in my math class, or on my soccer team. I don’t remember talking explicitly about race in my classes, with my parents, or with my peers, but I do remember opting into discussions, clubs, and camp experiences that focused on “diversity”. Because my parents sought out these opportunities for me, and I eventually sought them out for myself, I grew up believing that when it came to race, I “understood” and was doing my part to make the world a more accepting place.  

Because I am a White woman in a White supremacist society who attended a predominantly White K-12 private school and predominantly Wwhite college institutions, I have been afforded the privilege of not noticing or remembering specific incidents of racism. I did not have to confront or even recognize my race on a day to day basis, nor did I have to consider the race of others. I had the privilege to opt into conversations when they were convenient or comfortable for me, but I was able to avoid the possibility or experience of discomfort. I can remember very few times where I felt I did not belong or was self-conscious about my presence in a space. My contributions in class were always taken seriously. Those in my social circles and extracurricular activities looked like me. It was easy to float along in my raft of Whiteness. 

One of the only times I remember being aware of my race during my childhood was while playing a basketball game against a nearby public middle school which was considered low income and served mostly students of Color. I recall walking into their gym and noticing the disparity between their facilities and the facilities at my private school. I also realized that my team’s parents were the only White people in the stands. While we had one Black student on our team, their team was composed entirely of Black students. I don’t remember much about the game, but I do remember the feeling of being in a space where I wasn’t sure that I belonged. I wasn’t used to being in a space with potentially different sets of norms or expectations for interactions and I didn’t like the feeling of being watched by others and watched by myself. I was uncomfortable in my skin and found myself wishing I was somewhere else.

The fact that the only time I can remember being aware of my race took place outside of my typical educational or personal settings speaks immensely to my privilege. How many times did my Black, Indigenous, People of Color (BIPOC) peers feel this way when they were around me and my other White classmates? Did they often want to be somewhere else? Our school culture sought to embody a “race-blind” culture (which I used to associate with southern politeness) but in reality, structures and interactions with one another were steeped in systemic racism. The Black students were always assumed to play basketball. There was a social hierarchy based on who had attended the school since kindergarten (with the unspoken knowledge that those individuals could afford to do so). We learned a White-washed version of history where “racists” were individual “bad people” that largely existed before the Civil Rights Movement. At the time, I noticed none of this. It all felt normal. 

It wasn’t until I started teaching in a school that was largely comprised of students of Color that I began to reckon with this memory and its implications for my understanding of Whiteness and of self. At school, I was often the only White person in a room and, therefore, needed to sit with the contrast between the rarity of this discomfort for me, and the consistency of this discomfort for BIPOC. I could no longer opt out of tensions that came out of interactions with students or colleagues across lines of racial difference. I couldn’t learn about the holidays, traditions, or experiences of “diverse” individuals without confronting racist systems.  Having uncomfortable conversations about race and being aware of racism (in both homogenous and heterogeneous spaces) was not something I was raised to do or experienced growing up, but it was now something that I had to do to be the educator my students deserved. I needed to push back on the privilege of choosing how and when to engage with racism. 

Last winter, I went to a bar for a friend’s birthday celebration. When I arrived, I took the elevator up to the roof and joined the group who were already there. I knew the friend whose birthday we were celebrating and one other friend in the group, who is a Black woman. As we were standing there, she asked if I noticed how few Black people there were at the bar. She stated that she felt out of place and that this was not a place she would ever think to come on her own accord. She felt like I did at the basketball game, except for her, this was not a unique experience, it was a common occurrence that she could not as easily run away from, as I could when I went back to my school campus. As I put my memories from childhood in conversation with this more recent experience, I find myself wondering what else I am missing because of my Whiteness and how do I better tune in? How do I disrupt the systems and structures that are designed to sustain the hierarchy of White supremacy and the comfort of White people? Maybe if I take more time to stop, look around, and reflect on the space I am taking up, I can better understand the significance of my presence and the consequences of my actions. 

Lucy Smith is a M.Ed graduate of the Curriculum & Teaching department at Teachers College, Columbia University. She is a middle school math teacher in New York City with a passion for STEM equity, authentic math instruction, calligraphy, running, and reality TV. Find her on Twitter @lucyksmith126.