I met a black woman—not an African American—in one of the Asian countries I recently visited. A random encounter—like so many of the joyspotting ones I’ve documented here. We talked for almost two hours and connected on many levels. In later communication, she made it clear to me that she did not want me to include her in my online stories. I resisted. I responded that I would tell her story in a way in which she could not be identified, changing her name and any identifiable elements. I would not include her photo. Her silence told me that I had betrayed our fledging friendship. I, who often view life and the world through a racial lens because of the racial healing facilitation I’ve done, had to ask myself why I felt entitled to tell her story even in a greatly revised form. I could not deny that it most likely had to do with privilege. Even though as a child I experienced bigotry aimed at “spics,” I was never a visible target because I looked white.
Her silence forced me to face my privilege and regret my response. I resolved not to tell her story. Period. Why did I have to lose her friendship before I could agree to her request?