Yes, spreading COVID-19 scares me, but not protesting against systemic racism scares me more

As a white woman, I don’t and never can know what it’s like to be Black in America. I don’t know what it’s like to fear for my life when I get pulled over, or to be looked at with surprise when people learn about my accomplishments. I don’t know how exhausting it must be to educate white people like me on how we can become better allies. The list of what I don’t know is long, but what I do know is that in the wake of the successive murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd, inaction is not an option—even in the midst of a highly contagious pandemic. While protests spreading COVID-19 terrifies me, allowing the disease of systemic racism to continue to metastasize terrifies me more. And that’s why I’ve been protesting in support of the Black Lives Matter movement in mass gatherings that Anthony Fauci, the director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, recently called the "perfect setup" for spreading the virus and risking public health.

My decision to protest came after months of adhering to strict guidelines to help stop the spread of the novel coronavirus. In early March, before a national state of emergency was even declared, my boyfriend and I committed to not leaving our home except to complete essential errands to the pharmacy, grocery store, or, in our case, Home Depot for the moving supplies we needed to pack up our Brooklyn apartment. (We chose to leave the home we love and relocate to a family friend’s vacant condo in West Palm Beach, under the assumption that New York City will take years to return to “normal” after becoming the epicenter of COVID-19.) 

To this day, when we return from said errands, we wash our hands for 20 seconds and don’t sit on any furniture before changing out of our “outside clothes.” We take sanitizer everywhere and thoroughly wipe down anything we think another human might have touched. (Despite normally trying to avoid chemicals in my skin-care routine, I’ve all but started to bathe in products containing a minimum of 70 percent alcohol.) And, of course, we stay a minimum of 6 feet apart from other people whenever possible, and we always—always—wear face masks.

So how did I, someone who feels anxious about contracting COVID-19 when I share a grocery-store aisle with more than two other people, make the decision to march side-by-side with thousands of others in support of the unequivocal truth that Black Lives Matter? Because I’ve come to the conclusion that white supremacy, especially when camouflaged as indifference, poses as much of a threat to this country as any virus.

I wish I could tell you that this realization was obvious to me long ago, but I can’t. Last month, after the murder of Ahmaud Arbery and before the murder of George Floyd, I joined a workshop on the topic of allyship. We opened the session by reflecting on the question “how have you showed up as an ally for underrepresented minorities recently?”

As someone who has long considered herself to be an ally, I was not proud of my answer. For as long as I can remember, I’ve watched stories of racial injustice on the news, and for as long as I can remember, they’ve always left me feeling sad and angry. And yet, I’m ashamed to admit, I largely kept those feelings to myself. I allowed my fear of saying the wrong thing to outweigh the responsibility of my privilege to speak out. Not only did I not speak up publicly, but I didn’t even check in on my close Black friends to see how they were coping under the ignorant assumption they would be uncomfortable to discuss this with me. As a global leader at LinkedIn, I often speak to my team about the importance of progress over perfection; how trying something, failing, and learning from that failure is more important than not trying at all. And yet, that wasn’t advice I was applying in my own life or in my position of power at work when it came to discussing privilege or racism.

In answering the question “when was the last time you showed up as an ally?” I realized that my decision to attend workshops like this one on effective allyship would do nothing to change the landscape of systemic racism without corresponding action. That being angry and sad on my couch was not “showing up” for anyone.

In my silence, which I now realize presented as indifference, I’d fallen radically short of being the ally I thought myself to be. I realized that simply being “not racist” would never be enough, and I committed to a personal pursuit of becoming an anti-racist change agent for equal rights.

Later, when I watched the video of George Floyd’s murder and the video of Amy Cooper weaponizing her privilege against Christian Cooper in Central Park, something inside me cracked open. I felt furious, but more importantly, I felt heartbroken—the type of heartbreak I should have felt long ago. That outrage and pain, combined with my recent commitment to take action, led to my decision to join in local protests.

As my boyfriend and I sat in a CVS parking lot scribbling “Black Lives Matter” and “Convict Guilty Cops” across our cardboard signs, I asked him to promise me we could leave the protests as soon as our ability to safely social distance felt compromised. As much as I felt compelled to participate, I also felt intense panic about being near a large group of people for the first time since the start of the pandemic.

While, thankfully, most protestors were wearing face masks, I realized upon arrival at the gathering point that my hope for a socially distant day of protesting was wishful thinking. Just as quickly, though, I realized that it didn’t matter. My voice was contributing to a powerful message too loud to ignore—and right now, we must collectively become too loud to ignore.

I believe it’s my responsibility as a white person to help amplify Black voices in order to create systemic change. To me, being brave doesn't mean being fearless, but being afraid and acting anyway. And in this case, “acting” means publicly demanding justice on behalf of George Floyd and every Black American who has suffered from systemic racism for centuries, despite assuming the risk of protests spreading COVID-19. So I decided to be brave on behalf of the Black Americans who aren’t only dealing with the same fears about the pandemic as I am, but are actually dying from it twice as often as white people like me. Brave on behalf of the Black Americans who are losing their jobs at a higher rate than white people like me.

To anyone who is unable or chose not to participate in protests: I want to recognize that there is no one “right” way to be heard. My decision to protest was a personal one. Having a difficult conversation with a family member over dinner to help them better understand ways they may be unconsciously perpetuating racism is just as important. Donating to non-profits supporting the Black Lives Matter movement and emailing your local officials demanding changes to police funding and local policies is just as important. Voting in your local and primary elections is just as important. Doing the deep introspective work to confront your own biases is important. What is important is that we are all working collectively towards the dismantling white supremacy and creating a culture of inclusivity.

I am committed to becoming a more effective ally, which means my work won’t stop when the protests slow down. I will persist until Black Americans have the same access to healthcare as I do. The same access to employment as I do. The same access to housing as I do. The same access to loans as I do. The same expectation of protection by the police as I do. 

I’d like to end by borrowing words from one of my friends, Thomas Igeme, in a beautiful note he wrote to all of the “newly activated Black allies”:

 “We noticed when you joined the party late, but we’ll be gutted if you leave early.” 

Now, I won’t leave this party ever, let alone early—even if doing so means coming in a face mask.