Fellow white-identifying people in West Marin: We need to talk about white supremacy. I’m a primary care provider and medical director of our safety-net clinic who, like many of you, is processing how our country elected an openly racist president. It’s tempting to distance ourselves from the social forces that have brought us to this moment, but in my daily work, I witness racism right here in our community. I understand that, as white people, we must confront the uncomfortable truth that our beliefs and actions have played a role.
In the clinic, I have witnessed white patients ask Latine office staff to find someone who speaks English, even though those staff members speak English. I’ve heard white people defend the deplorable living conditions of workers on some local ranches, saying the tenants are better off than they would be in their countries of origin. A Latina friend of mine was accused of “biting the hand that feeds her” when she raised concerns about her housing circumstances.
More subtle forms of racism can be even more harmful. When some members of the Latine community recently began speaking out about their housing conditions, many white people initially refused to believe it, reflecting an unwillingness to understand these community members’ lived experiences. I’ve noted some white community members’ aversion to creating affinity spaces where Latino people are centered. And on and on.
Many of you may be thinking, “But this isn’t me.” This response is what “Me and White Supremacy” author Layla Saad refers to as white exceptionalism—a person holding white privilege’s belief that they can be exempt from the conditioning of white supremacy and that the need to examine racism doesn’t apply to them.
We white people are at the root of the problem, and none of us are exempt. I certainly am not. When I was in residency, my car was stolen. At the start of a 24-hour shift, I received a call from the police saying they had found my car and I needed to pick it up from the station immediately to avoid it being towed. I called my partner at the time, who is Black, and asked her to pick it up. What I didn’t know until later was that the police treated her like a suspect from the moment she arrived at the station. She was terrified. My ignorance and white privilege put her in a traumatic situation that could have led to serious harm.
I am not an antiracist expert, but I am committed to the lifelong work of anti-racism. I believe, as writer Ijeoma Oluo says, that “anti-racism is the commitment to fight racism wherever you find it, including in yourself.”
This work involves making mistakes and admitting to ourselves that we are racist because we have been conditioned to be so. It requires interrupting systemic racism in ourselves and around us. We need to stop burdening our BIPOC neighbors with the labor of teaching us how to be anti-racist and build anti-racist community with other white people. Decentering ourselves is essential; we can find ways to authentically connect with our BIPOC neighbors without dominating space. The Reverend Kyodo Williams underscores this when she says, “People who have always been entitled to space and to place have no idea what it’s like to have never been entitled to space.”
We must listen to and believe our BIPOC neighbors, while also exercising cultural humility to understand that some may not speak out due to fear of retaliation or power dynamics. As a local Latina leader said, “Our hardships have been hiding in your plain sight for two decades… Our fear of losing what little we have has kept us from speaking up.”
Redistributing resources is essential, as is being explored in brainstorms around housing solutions. Latine leaders should guide us in how best to show up for their community, rather than us assuming we know what they want or need. We should support our Latine community organizers, the West Marin-based Circulo de Esperanza and Newcomers Resource Collaborative, and other groups organizing around farmworker and Latine housing.
If you feel defensiveness, guilt or shame while reading this, pay attention to those feelings. Recognize that they are part of our white culture’s conditioning and what holds us back from progress. This work requires embracing discomfort and pain—what trauma specialist Resmaa Menakem describes as “clean pain,” the kind that heals and builds our capacity for growth.
When I feel this discomfort, I remind myself to channel those feelings into action. I think of what author Kelsey Blackwell said she wants to hear from white people regarding racism: “I’m sorry. I didn’t see. I didn’t listen. I’m working to see and listen.” Let’s commit to seeing and listening and building something together.
Christina Gomez-Mira is a family medicine physician, the medical director of the Point Reyes and Bolinas Health Centers, and an AMA-Satcher Health Leadership Institute Medical Justice in Advocacy Fellow. She lives in Penngrove.