The current truth of white angst for black suffering

If a story begins with “From my perspective as a Southern white man …” it’s probably not worth reading. This is a cruel irony for a writer who, now in the second half of life, has become more memoirist hoping to leave thoughts worth considering before he puts down the pen for good.

A middle-class, white male in the South is a perplexing status these days. On one hand, you are the privileged, enfranchised beneficiary of 400 years of ancestors who colluded to do despicable things to anyone who didn’t look like them. On the other, those sins are coming to bear on you, even though you had nothing to do with perpetuating them.

I was raised in a family of very liberal women. Grandfathers were quiet or dead. Fathers skipped out on responsibilities. My mother and two grandmothers raised me. They were empowered, independent women who stood up for themselves and others. They demanded respect. And gave it to those who deserved it. Particularly those not typically provided such by privileged, white men.

They raised me to do the same. But my gender and color made it confusing for me to be so assertive. White men don’t have to protest to be let in or given rights. But I learned others did. And I was taught to support them.