Will You Join Us?

by Josh Rivers

I will readily admit that I found the increased attention of white people during June 2020 very stressful. As news of George Floyd’s murder populated my Twitter feed, and as protests erupted around the world, the spotlight on Black lives created within me tension and foreboding that I found hard to articulate and to place. The rationality of those sentiments was confirmed when Netflix announced that The Help was the number one movie on their platform globally. I was bereft. Everywhere I looked, Black people had produced lists of movies, books, articles, podcasts and YouTube videos to help white people understand what was happening. The Help wasn’t on any of those lists – and for good reason.

As my heart broke for our people, the announcement of The Help as the number one movie on Netflix nearly broke my spirit: “We literally told you what to watch and you chose The Help?” For those who don’t know, The Help joins a long and enduring list of movies, books and cultural output that positions white women as saviour and Black liberation the object of white women’s benevolence. (Viola Davis went so far as to say she regrets taking the role.) It turns out, we would have to do, as Black people have always done, a great deal of hand-holding. The tension and foreboding I felt was actually stress; I haven’t yet figured out how to hold my broken heart and your white hands at the same time. It’s difficult to muster the energy to explain the problems and point to well-documented solutions when I want to crawl into the deepest recesses of the couch.

And so, as I often do on my podcast Busy Being Black, I invoked an ancestor for guidance. Bayard Rustin was the key strategist behind many of the advances of the Civil Rights Movement and organised the 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom. He was a tremendous asset to the movement but was sidelined when he refused to hide his sexuality. He often engaged the media in a relentless and acerbic back and forth, constantly challenging what he felt was misleading and unproductive reporting about the Civil Rights Movement. He had this amazing reverse dog whistle, as it were: he often referred to white people as “people of goodwill”. He knew that among those hearing his message were those who wanted to do the right thing, but needed a little more moral courage, and a nudge towards it, to break with and stand up against the status quo. “People of goodwill”, I think, was his way of calling to them, of coaxing them out of stasis.

What we see around us, on our feeds and in our interpersonal relationships is an ever-pressing urgency, but with that urgency and that desire for change, the emotional labour of Black and Black LGBTQ people is often taken for granted. Those who feel compelled to speak are unceremoniously put forward to offer words our organisation doesn’t know how to speak; and those who don’t want to be the poster child for Black people are often encouraged to undertake interventions they might not be interested in (Blackness isn’t a pre-determinant of activism!). Even more prevalent, though, are “people of goodwill” stepping forward to “help”, but instead making diversity, inclusion, acceptance and equality about them, their desire for change, their sacrificial and hard work at making that change happen and how important it is that people like them do they work they are doing (LinkedIn offers a crisp example of this). In each of those scenarios (and there will be more), the person for whom the change could be transformative is not necessarily the person who sees, feels or benefits from that change.

A friend called me a few weeks ago distraught, and as he began to reel off what was on his mind, I stopped him and asked: “So I’m clear on what you need from me right now, do you want me to listen or offer advice?” He wanted me to listen. I offer this example to demonstrate that there is nothing to lose in asking the person in front of you what they need so that you can give it to them. Your Black employees might not want to speak about race with you. They might not feel safe to do so. They may be bursting at the seams to take on the role of diversity champion, or they may just want to sit in on a few meetings at their leisure and speak up when they feel it’s important to. But have you asked them what they want? Have you communicated what you would like from them? And if you’re concerned about asking your Black employees what they think or what they want, might that be an indicator in and of itself? Does the work you’re doing in diversity and inclusion land in the lives of those you intend it to, or does it bolster your reputation without any examination? These are important questions to ask.

Despite the increased awareness among “people of goodwill”, it’s important to recognise and remember that many Black people and Black LGBTQ+ people will continue on in the education, organising and dismantling that has become so par for the course of our lives. Those of us who can, and want to, will keep pushing for more meaningful inclusion of Black people and Black LGBTQ+ people in the workplace. Our work must be matched by yours and with equal amounts of energy, humility and deference. For those on the outside looking in, the people of goodwill who are as hungry for change as we are, sometimes you may need to be quiet, step aside, or check yourself. Know that your discomfort is part of this process of unlearning and those of you who lean into places and feelings that make you uncomfortable often come out the stronger, more effective allies for it.

Someone asked me the other day if I think white people finally get it and my honest answer is that it’s too soon to say. What we feel now is compounded by Covid, by job losses, by an ineffective government, by lockdowns, by the sheer scale and volume of information we’re receiving. It’s too soon to say if we are crossing the Rubicon. What I do know, because I’m witnessing it, is that a lot is staying the same – and that gives me a great deal of concern.

We have offered up solutions, our communities have advanced some of the most edifying and applicable theories and our people have taken to the streets to demonstrate that we have never been willing to sit back and not do anything. As Serena Williams once said, “I’m not a do-nothing b*tch.” The work that our communities have undertaken for so long will continue in earnest, long into the winter and long after Black History Month. The question on my mind is: Will you join us?

Josh Rivers is the creator and host of Busy Being Black, the podcast exploring how we live in the fullness of our queer Black lives, which myGwork proudly supports as a funding partner. If you’re interested in supporting Busy Being Black or inviting Josh to speak, email [email protected].