You’ve signed the petitions. You’ve given money. You’ve posted on social media. You have protested, hung signs in your windows. But there’s a pit in your stomach about the thing you know you need to do but have been avoiding. If you’re a white person who wants to help end racism, anti-Blackness, and police violence, there’s a good chance that there’s an essential action that you’re not taking, usually out of fear. And if you’re like many of the white folks I know, that thing is talking to your family.
Most of the white people I know have a deeply conflicted relationship with talking to their families about race, anti-Blackness, racism, and white supremacy. Some white people relish the opportunity to unload political grievances on their families. Others shudder at the thought of conflict, overcome with anxiety about some lavishly imagined worst-case scenario.
But in truth, the work is often muddier than that, less clear-cut, sometimes even less contentious and dramatic, and often much less cathartic. Our relationships won’t disappear in a cloud of smoke after one conversation, though conversations like these can highlight where relationships were already strained or fractured. We’re likely to do a better job than we thought we would, though still not as well as we’d like. And as much as we preoccupy ourselves with imagined, catastrophic, blowout arguments, we’re much more likely to find ourselves struggling to connect over differing worldviews.
Part of what we’re afraid of is that we’ll do a bad job, or that we’ll cause conflict. But what we’re often more afraid of is revealing about our families what we already know to be true: that many of our family members are hanging onto racist beliefs, and that we’re complicit when we fail to uproot that racism. (Besides, if we’re worried about just talking to our family members about race, imagine the hurt and harm we’re inviting into the lives of the Black folks, Indigenous people, and people of color those family members encounter.)
To be clear, calling your family won’t end police violence in itself. Having these conversations with the white people in our lives is just one part of a long-term strategy to combat and dismantle anti-Blackness, not an instant solution to anything. But it’s a critical component of eroding white people’s support for the institutions and practices that limit the freedom and take the lives of Black people in the U.S. and beyond. And while this work takes longer, it can lead to much deeper, more transformative change. It’s also important for harm reduction. After all, while we’re afraid of hearing our family’s racist beliefs, people of color are on the receiving end of their racist actions. If we care about ending racism, that’s got to include our own families.
Since protests began nationwide—and now internationally—over the killing of George Floyd at the hands of Minneapolis police, I’ve spent every day on the phone with family members of all ages. I call my parents every day to talk through what they’re seeing on the news, how they’re feeling about it, what they plan to do next.
While I was struggling with my own whiteness—guilt, anxiety, what actions to take, and how to best show up for Black people right now—my family was too. Like most white families, mine is being brought face-to-face with events that are challenging their narrative of the role of police, of which institutions are trustworthy, and of which of the people they know are or aren’t anti-Black. They’re having to confront the simple and devastating realization that, no matter what goodness they believe is in their hearts, they simply aren’t doing enough to support Black communities and save Black lives.
And in all that confusion, they’re looking for anchors. They’re seeking out new narratives that make sense of a world that feels to them like it’s rapidly changing. In those moments, no one can comfort us—or bring us along—like our families. That’s because, at their best, our closest relationships are safe spaces for difficult feedback delivered with love and from a deep hope for our growth. Many of us know firsthand the conversations that moved our loved ones, and us, forward on issues like immigration, queer rights, trans justice, worker’s rights, and more. Kitchen-table conversations are a key part of how change happens, shifting public opinion so that institutions have to shift too. It isn’t glamorous, but it’s a crucial part of how change happens.
As much as we wring our hands, anticipating the worst outcomes, these conversations can lead to real, significant change in our loved ones’ outlooks and actions. In the two weeks since my parents and I have begun our conversations, both are new donors to Black-led organizations, and both are giving material support to protestors through everything from bailout fund contributions to letters to the editor of their local papers. And even when conversations like these don’t lead to deep personal transformation or increased anti-racist action, they can send a clear message that anti-Blackness is intolerable—even among those who previously excused it. While not every conversation may feel good to us individually, many of them can create meaningful individual change over time. We just have to do the work of starting those conversations.
And the truth is, we’ve got a short window to act. Many white people are invested in a conversation about race, racism, and white supremacy in ways they’ve never been before. Even the most recalcitrant, racist family friends are currently revisiting their own beliefs and practices, wondering what to do next. So for those of us with family members to move forward, or with supportive family members to move to action: We’ve got work to do.
In the past two weeks of talking with my extended white family, I’ve found some key principles and practices that work well for me. Hopefully they work well for you too.
Things to keep in mind before you begin:
This is a longstanding principle of anti-racist work. Black people, Indigenous people, and other people of color are too busy fighting racism that they didn’t create. It’s on white people to educate other white people—not to make other people of color do it when they’re trying to keep their heads above water. That means bringing folks along in education, yes, but also in action. Think strategically about who to bring along and how those folks can show up for the movement. For example, if you’ve got family members who are generally supportive of protestors, prioritize moving them to action by donating, signing petitions, showing up to protests, and connecting with local anti-racism and anti-police-violence organizations in their communities.
Think about a big political issue you’ve changed or deepened your thinking on in the past decade or so. For a lot of cisgender people, you might think of trans rights. For citizens, you may consider immigration. Our public discourse has shifted tremendously in the past decade, so there are plenty of options to choose from. How long did it take you to revisit your old beliefs about communities you didn’t know well? How long did it take you to admit that you had it wrong, if you ever did admit it? Don’t excuse bad behavior, but recognize that developing a deep, enduring commitment to anti-racism won’t happen instantaneously. It may take time.
Too often we white people approach conversations about race, racism, and white supremacy like a debate. We assume we need to have all of our facts straight, that we need to be able to defend against whatever points are raised. But the existence of racism isn’t up for debate, and we shouldn’t treat it like it is. The key questions here aren’t about facts and figures, though those can help. The key questions here are about who gets to live and die and whose deaths we will simply permit. Stating your values is enough. The brilliant Sonya Renee Taylor addresses approaches to family conversations about white supremacy in her viral Instagram video here.
It’s easy to think of conflict as something that erodes relationships, or signals animosity or a lack of care or investment in another person. But the truth is, when any of us sets a boundary with a loved one or confronts their harmful beliefs and behaviors, we often do that because we love them and we want to stay in relationship with them. Conversations about race, anti-Blackness, and white supremacy are investments not only in a more just world, but, importantly, in the people we love. (After all, if we didn’t care, we wouldn’t bother.) Fundamentally, anti-racist work is an expression of love and care—just a different one than we’re used to.
The way we talk about social justice issues matters a great deal. For example, when we talk about supporting protesters but condemn property damage, we’re scapegoating how some folks grieve, express their anger, and share their despair following a national tragedy. Again, don’t get so hung up on perfection that you don’t do anything, but stay mindful of the impacts of your approach. The best approaches are the ones that are rooted in your own values and integrity and that don’t throw other marginalized communities under the bus or pit “good” Black people against “bad” ones.
Approach these conversations with care and humility. Remember that you don’t know everything either. Be prepared to teach and to learn. If we want to see openness and vulnerability, we have to lead with it.
Tangible tips for talking to our white families:
Depending on the family member, their politics, their personality, and their learning style, different approaches will work for different people. Here are a few that have worked well for me:
This is my favorite method for more hostile family members and family friends: I call and, after checking in on them, ask if they’ve been keeping up with the protests. I ask questions like “What do you think about them?” and “Why do you think that?” I chime in with reminders about empathy, like “I can’t imagine what I would do if that had been my brother,” and open-ended questions about their values and priorities. If they ask you about your own beliefs, answer honestly and lead with your own values. This one is inspired by a conflict resolution tool called LARA (listen, affirm any goals or feelings you share, respond using “I” statements, then ask questions/add information). At its best, this model helps walk folks through the faultiness and harm of their own thinking.
Collectively, as white people approaching conversations about race, we’re not very good at being vulnerable. Consequently, when we are, our vulnerability makes a big statement. Be open about your own learning process. Share quotes, news articles, analysis, and personal accounts that have helped move you forward. Be honest about what you’re struggling with and what’s challenging your thinking. Dive into learning together. Remember: You’re trying to move them forward, and you’re moving yourself forward too. You’re at different points, but you’re on the same path. Walk it together.
Have a family member who’s beginning to embrace anti-racism but hasn’t taken action? Move them to action first, and work on deeper transformation as a long-term priority. Remember that moving white folks forward isn’t something we’re doing for its own sake—we’re doing it so that more white people show up in ways that are materially helpful to people of color broadly and to Black communities in particular.
Go into a conversation with a few statements you can return to time and time again. In conversations with family members who are likely to bring up property damage and looting, I practice saying the phrase “I think a person’s life matters more than a corporation’s property.” When I talk to family members whose sense of safety is threatened by conversations about reducing or eliminating the role of police, I say, “I don’t think my feeling of safety is more important than another person’s life.”
How to stay the course:
Treat your conversations with your family like any other task that simply has to get done. Put it on your to-do list each day, or keep a log of conversations with family members. I keep a running list of conversations with dates, and sometimes with brief notes, just to make sure I’m as consistent as I intend to be. Make sure that you’re reaching out regularly, supporting them in their learning, and holding yourself accountable to your commitment to move forward with them.
Taking time to reflect is essential for honing our skills—and too often we let our own discomfort take the reins, avoiding thinking about an uncomfortable conversation at nearly all costs. Keep a journal, or pull together a group of other white people committed to talking to their families and reflect together. What approaches work? Which don’t? Assess your tactics, learn from one another, and adjust your approach.
Remember, doing this work with integrity requires each of us to push ourselves just like we’re asking our family members to push themselves. Lean into your own areas of discomfort. Push yourself outside of your own comfort zone, both in learning and in action.
Talking to family members can be daunting, but remember that you don’t have to be perfect to do the right thing. Listen to your gut. Stay in the conversation and accept feedback. Stay in relationship with your family—if you don’t, who will? You’ve done much harder things than this before. And while we’re worried about our own discomfort, Black people are worried about staying alive. Find the compassion that drives you in this work. Remember that compassion means solidarity, and solidarity means action.
I believe in you.
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