The Year Juneteenth Became My Holiday, Too

In the past, I viewed Juneteenth as a black person’s holiday. I knew it was there, I knew it was important to them, I knew it commemorated the end of slavery in the U.S.

“The end of slavery in the U.S.”

Since witnessing the murder of George Floyd on videotape…no.

In the past, I have known that black people have been treated with extreme prejudice by the systems meant to protect and serve our citizenry. I knew about Michael Brown and the protests in Ferguson, Mo. It was in my news feed back in 2014 – a terrible thing that caught my attention and receded into the background as regular life took over. I knew about Tamir Rice, 12 years old and shot to death for playing with a toy gun. Terrible. I knew about Eric Garner, who died in a police officer’s choke hold for selling loose cigarettes. Crazy. I knew about Botham Jean, who was shot and killed by an off-duty police officer who thought his apartment was hers. That sounded kind of odd.

I knew about Stephon Clark, shot by police over twenty times while standing in his grandmother’s yard for holding a mobile phone. I knew about Freddy Gray, who died in the back of a police van. That was messed up. Not as messed up as Philando Castile, shot during a routine traffic stop in front of his girlfriend and four-year-old daughter, who were documenting the stop via Facebook Live. That one was so heartbreaking.

“That one was so heartbreaking”?? Oh my God.

I am SO ashamed of my ignorance and my inaction. Every time one of these deaths would reach my news feed, I would shake my head, feel compassion for the victim’s family, sympathize with the protests and rallies crying out that black lives matter, feel a moment of outrage when the police involved would be found not guilty. And then my world would go back to normal and I would read the next news story.

But these haven’t been news stories. They have been crimes against humanity. I was oblivious to this in my privileged white newsfeed, in my privileged white neighborhood, talking with my privileged white friends and family, working with my privileged white clients.

There’s an old parable that claims that if you put a frog into a pot of boiling water it will jump right out. Put that frog in a pot of cool water and gradually raise the temperature, however, and the frog will boil alive. I feel like I have transitioned from the frog boiling alive to the frog being thrown into a new pot of boiling water. I am compelled to jump the hell out.

This new boiling pot of water consists of a country that has been sheltering in place for months as a result of the coronavirus, combined with a rash of horrifying murders of black people. The regular distractions and obligations are gone, the prolonged stress of the pandemic has knocked my defenses down.

All I can do is be take in murder after incredulous murder of BIPOC, and face my own white privilege.

George Floyd, crying out “Mama!” in his last breath under policemen’s knees.

Rayshard Brooks, unarmed and gunned down in a Wendy’s drive through.

Ahmaud Abery, murdered by a group of white men for jogging while black in the wrong neighborhood.

Breonna Taylor, shot eight times by unannounced, plainclothes police in her own home.

And so many more. Not to mention all the Karens and other racist behavior that this boiling pot is revealing in white people’s interactions with BIPOC just during the George Floyd uprising.

This brings me back to Juneteenth. In the past I saw June 19th as a black person’s holiday to celebrate the end of slavery in the U.S. These last few weeks have shown me that while the letter of Lincoln’s proclamation may have been followed to some degree, the ugliness, hate, fear, and oppression that drove white attitudes and behaviors towards BIPOC have thrived. They could not help but thrive: our society, our systems, our governments were built on these beliefs, by people who embodied these beliefs, and are maintained by people that – knowingly or not – benefit from those beliefs and therefore have no motivation to make a change.

I mean, Juneteenth marks the day where Union soldiers finally made it to Galveston, Texas, to share the news that the Civil War was over and that all slaves were freed. This happened two and a half years after Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation.

Two and a half years later. Who benefitted from that delay, do you think?

This Juneteenth I am motivated to make a change, and I will not wait another day to make it happen. When my employer could not recognize today as an opportunity for reflection for our employees, I created the opportunity for myself and shared this with my colleagues. I spent the morning with my academic community to respect and remember the meaning of today and its impact on our brothers, sisters, and communities. I am spending time now making my own white privilege visible to myself through this blog post. And even as I write these things, I think “wow, these sound like totally privileged actions, too. Woo, you’re getting all introspective and writing a blog post. Way to change the system, Jeannel.”

Trust me. I see it. And I’m proceeding anyway because this is what I can do right now in this moment. Is it enough? No. Will anything ever be enough? Not until we create our country from something other than a bleached-white cloth. Is this my responsibility alone? No. But it is my responsibility to to everything I can to keep myself and our community from “going back to normal.”

Nobody deserves the hell that a white-privileged “normal” has created for BIPOC. Nobody. Juneteenth may celebrate the day the news reached Texas, but it’s everyone’s responsibility to deliver on that promise of freedom. Myself included.