I’m white.

Fair skinned (or so society tells me).

Very pale.

And very, very privileged.

I can stroll down the street or into a restaurant and be quite certain others will respond kindly toward me. I never fear or worry in the slightest about law enforcement. Magazines, movies, and newspapers are plastered with images of people who look like I do. I have never been asked to speak on behalf of my entire race. I can walk around unaware of my color and reap the undeserved benefits and entitlements that come along with my white privilege.

I could also choose to fight against systemic racism one day and completely ignore it the next because I am not disadvantaged by it personally. It doesn’t affect my daily life. But I affect it. Daily. The white privilege woven into my everyday life allows me to collect unearned advantages and opportunities at the expense of others.

Is my white skin really fair skin?

We’ve gotten to a point where in certain situations the color of our skin speaks louder than the words that come out of our mouth. It’s awful. It’s frustrating. It’s downright sickening. It’s the system we have been born into. Our society is saturated in white privilege. Oppression comes based upon skin color. Before a word is spoken, minds are made up about who people are based on appearance alone. Culture screams that the color of your skin determines your place.

My white skin is not fair skin. It gives me an unfair advantage that grants me unearned freedoms, unearned benefits, and unearned exemptions in our society.

I’ve heard a number of people say that they “don’t see color” or are “colorblind” when it comes to discussions about race and privilege. It’s always white people who are making these claims. Go figure. What they mean to say is they don’t consider themselves racist and don’t see themselves as prejudiced against people of color. However, it’s statements like “I don’t see color” that reek of white privilege.

Because with that declaration people are actually discounting racism all together, not helping to solve it.

Ignoring color just further promotes ignorance. As James Baldwin said, “To be white in America means not having to think about it.” Whites are in denial about their participation in the perpetuation of racism. Myself included. While I try to be aware, I know there are still hidden ways that I am contributing to this system of oppression without realizing it. Blindly going about our lives silently, and often unknowingly, oppressing other races is what has to change.

Not seeing color also strips people of their identity. Our differences are there to be seen and celebrated. I believe there is significant purpose in each of our ethnicity backgrounds for the glory of God and the expansion of His kingdom. *Surprise side note: Jesus wasn’t a white American, contrary to popular westernized “Christianity” belief*. Every human is created equal in worth, value, and dignity. I believe God has made us all uniquely in His image and it is the diversity of humanity that makes it so beautiful.

Rather than whites searching for the reflection of themselves in other people, shouldn’t we be looking for the reflection of Christ?

As a church, we need to come alongside our brothers and sisters and stand together in unity – as the family that we are.

Until people of privilege feel compelled to make this problem of privilege their own problem and do something to change it, systemic racism won’t end. We need to consciously have the eyes to see how our white privilege is affecting the lives around us. Until the issue is acknowledged and faced head on, no change will be made.

We have to become listeners and learners.

We have to become mindful of the ways we are contributing to the system of oppression and disrupt these social norms when we see them. Even if you don’t think you are contributing, you are. I’m not accusing you of being racist; I’m saying the problem of racism is much bigger than you and me. It has become institutionalized and ingrained so deeply into every aspect of our society. We have been trained to not see and simply overlook the ways we whites participate in systemic racism. So we actively have to learn to recognize the effects. By interrupting cultural norms we make the invisible visible. We shake the system.

It all begins with breaking the silence.

A dialogue has to start. It is long overdue. The time was decades ago for the conversation to begin between whites and people of color. Rather than assuming we know all the answers, we listen. We listen to the voices of the minorities who have been kicked around because of our privilege.

We listen to the experiences of those who have received unearned disadvantages because of white privilege. We educate ourselves. We remain learners, admitting we will never know all the answers. Instead of turning away or stepping back, we lean into the conversation as we humbly ask, tell me more.

I want to get some things clear:
A rapist does not have to drive a white van.

A rapist does not have to be a bum.

A rapist does not have to be strung out.

A rapist does not have to be Hispanic, or Latino, or Black.

A rapist does not have to wear a wife beater or have any gang paraphernalia,

Hell, a rapist does not have to be a guy…

A rapist can have a 401 K.

A rapist can have a trust fund.

A rapist can have a kid, who is cute as a button, and can have pictures of this kid framed all over his house, which leads me to my next point…

A rapist can wear Vineyard Vines (or in my case, a blue button down, which I fixated on as I came to), can be from the suburbs, and look like the complete package.

A rapist can be your friend.

Looks can be deceiving.

I learned that the hard way.

And now that our nation is finally sensitive toward having that “hard conversation,” as they referred to it, in countless post-rape talk and group therapy support sessions, there are still some things that are yet to be cleared up.

Rape is never a joke.

No, you did not rape him on the court.

You did not get raped by that test.

Your best friend did not “rape you” when you shriek, in jest, as her or she hugged or touched you in a way that you wholeheartedly welcomed and appreciated.

Rape is not funny,

Even if you don’t intend to poke fun, you need to choose your words wisely, because so many people in our country, like myself, are secret survivors in a silent sisterhood (or gender-inclusive community, at large), who are struggling to get through each day without a reminder of what was taken from them.

The word “rape” is a trigger.

We do not want to be reminded of what we endured more than already necessary; our brains naturally provide us with waves of flashback to those heart-wrenching moments, on a near-daily basis (depending on the person)…things will never be normal for us. Even in our complacency, survival and endurance epitomize the new normal.

Being pulled into those flashbacks by inappropriate, ill-fitting comments, regardless of the intention, can be trying to any survivor, who already withstands uncontrollable memory-stimulated flashbacks as a means of coping and purging.

When I hear people use the word “rape” in an inappropriate, joking manner, I can’t help but flash back.

I see myself trusting a “friend” to sleep on his couch for the night due to roommate issues.

I see the texts I sent him, making him promise that he would respect me if I stayed over. That he would respect our friendship, and just let me couch surf as he would any other dude. Preventative measures, because as a girl in this patriarchal world, I knew I had to protect myself.

I see myself accepting a glass of some sort of alcohol from him, because I was too sober to deal with his drunkenness, and just wanted to sleep.

I see the pixels of those texts, engorging then retracting, now fuzzy and obsolete; meaningless promises spinning down the rabbit hole with my dignity as I immediately black out.

I see myself from an out of body POV, hanging above, waking up, on his couch…my pants are on the ground, I am in his boxers, I have no recollection of the previous night, but I am in extreme pain.

I see the bruises running up my sides.

I see the tears streaming down my face.

I see his goddamn blue button down…one of my triggers, a fixation, as I come to.

I see a loss of dignity, an onslaught of probes, prods, things being taken from me, to ensure that I’m all right because HE took something FROM me.

My “friend.”

Not a stranger…a white, preppy trust fund kid from the suburbs, with a good job and a 401K.

One of my close guy friends said it was my fault…that I “asked for it” by sleeping at a guy’s place.

Do guy’s “ask for it” when they spend the night at each other’s places?

Did I ask to be stripped of my ability to trust?

Every day when I look in the mirror, I still see bruises. Even though I know they are gone, I can still see them crawling up my side, like vines.

We, as a society, need to be more sensitive to the plight of survivors.

We are not victims. We are coping, adjusting to a new normal, riding the waves of traumatic recall, and ultimately surviving to thrive.

We are not untouchables.

The word “rape” cannot just be thrown around in jest. Similar to “retard,” and “gay,” it must be used with consideration…people are and have been constantly affected by such words. These words are our lives, or they have been, and it is not acceptable to use them inappropriately…think before you speak, because people fear judgment, and that is why they remain silent. Rape is a serious experience, and just because we choose to remain silent, does not entail cowardice; self-healing is a priority, and nobody should take it upon his or herself to judge those who have survived rape until they walk a mile in their moccasins. Do not throw around the term…it can cause unthinkable amounts of hurt.

For those who are survivors of rape or sexual assault: it is not your fault.

I know that isn’t always reassuring to hear, but after having a few assholes try to weigh you down by saying otherwise, you need to know, that nobody has a right to you, your voice, or your body except you.

We need to reevaluate our perspectives on rape culture. We need to realize that not all rapes are the “stereotypical strangers,” but that they can hit closer to home then we might think. The best way to prevent is to inform, and I think we can start by sharing our stories, anonymous or not. But remember, you are never alone.

As I cringed and opened my email, my first reaction is the all too familiar “I must not be Mexican enough for their program.”

Followed up with incidences of colleagues using of my racial status in quotations, I am left feeling both arguments of not enough. Not enough Mexican. Not enough White.

If you ever wondered what it is like to only be half…I reopen the calloused wounds of rejection from minority programs. It was the perfect program; exactly the kind of work I want to do as a clinical researcher, making the kind of changes I want to contribute to the world. I thought for sure as a dietetics major, I would present a unique opportunity for this northern hospital to diversify its research mentor program.

But despite my laundry list of accolades and good marks in clinical and pre-med classes, I am searching for another minimum wage summer job with salsa playing painfully in the background. This is not to say that there are other factors at play, but society has successfully trained me to shy away from applications that have a minority requirement despite not only being a first-generation Mexican-American, but also college student.

Clearly, the bootstraps mentality is not enough.   You can’t talk about being a minority without exploring the unique experiences that transverse the stereotypes society expects. Never have I been deemed a fiery Latina ready to serve a silver bullet of tempered Spanish with flirty hips swaying and tantalizing tendrils of voluptuous hair.

Instead, my quiet demeanor only adds to the perception that I am a white lady; to be feared. I am called ma’am like a southern belle, born and reared. And yet, this is not the narrative I ever expected. It is so important that we stop expecting people to fit racially driven stereotypes. The field of dietetics is somewhere around 95% white female. While my aim is not to dismiss individual stories, we must build up the people who are going into this field whether they are white or not, female or not.

With racial groups, come cultural food norms.

And yet, when we talk about healthier options, our discussions are riddled with white norms. We are replacing unhealthy “white foods” first. Not only does that spells dismissal for thousands of people needing guidance from registered dietitians, but in an instant a child is taught you don’t eat like me, so you don’t deserve the same health as me.

Doctors, firefighters, and even dentists persuade children to grow up and make waves in their field. They persuade them to grow up to be big and strong, brave, and have a healthy smile. When will minority children reach the collegiate classroom with their own stories of dietitians who helped them, who told them they too could grow up to be movers and shakers in the field? But wait. Maybe that’s  not it at all. Maybe they didn’t see the STEM in dietetics. Maybe they missed all the pre-med classes, the clinical training, and understanding of medical diagnosis.

It doesn’t seem as far-fetched as I consider a recent blog that cried out for doctors to have nutrition training when we have an ENTIRE field of professions armed with their evidence-based practice to change perceptions about food.

For now, I will brush off my recent rejection letter. I might indulge in a pint of ice cream-moderation of course. But, I will hold onto my Mexican Bootstraps. I will continue to seek out opportunities to be a mover and a shaker in my field, in my research, and in my future practice. But tonight I will wonder, maybe if I had been named Guadalupe then things would be different.