10 Lessons the 12-Step Community taught me about my own racism
Gregory and Travis McMichael, the father and son arrested for the murder of Ahmaud Arbery, are familiar characters in the tragic narrative of violence against people of color in the south: sunburned men with a Scot-Irish last name, riding in a pickup truck, armed with a shotgun and a revolver. Even central casting would likely cringe at something so on-the-nose.
But relegating “racism” to the tobacco swirling, confederate flag waving, working-class white man, whether wearing a pointed hood or red cap, hinders progress. If we consign racism to caricatures, we’ll never confront the racism within ourselves.
It’s for that reason, let me state unequivocally: my name is Ted Neill, and I’m a racist. I am a white, politically liberal, middle-aged, middle-class, male with college and graduate degrees . . . and I am (still) racist.
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I have come to understand that just saying “I’m against racism,” doesn’t mean I’m part of the solution; it doesn’t mean I’m not complicit or benefiting from some racial injustice; it doesn’t make me any less racist than saying “I’m an environmentalist,” magically makes my life carbon neutral.
In my own journey of confronting my own racism I’ve learned a great deal from an unexpected source: the 12-Step community. Yes, as in Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous, founded by Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob Smith. You see, recovering from racism is a life-long process. We’re never cured. The continuing work requires deep self-examination, honest and frank feedback from others, and confrontation with our own denial — all the same practices Wilson and Smith championed in their recoveries and now the recovery of millions who follow their program.
The effects of individuals’ racism are playing out before our eyes as police officers cite people of color for not wearing face masks more frequently than whites. We see the effects of structural racism in higher fatality rates from Covid-19 in communities of color. Let’s just underscore that last bit: people are dying. Racism kills. Whether shot down while jogging in Georgia, suffocated from a knee on your neck in Minneapolis, or contracting Covid-19 working in a meat processing plant in South Dakota, the death toll mounts.
If we are serious about being anti-racist, white-progressive folks like myself, even if we watch Blackish, listen to Lizzo, and wear Black Lives Matter bracelets, need to let go of the virtue signals we use to advertise our “wokeness” (like the fact we watch Blackish, listen to Lizzo, and wear BLM bracelets). We must recognize that not only does racism live within us, but that we frequently still benefit from it. We have to be willing to work for equity and let go of the privileges, covert and overt, bestowed upon us because of the oppression of people of color. That is the only way we’ll beat it. It’s the only way we can avoid more Philando Castiles, Ahmaud Arberys, Travon Martins, Tamir Rices, George Floyds, Breonna Taylors, Jacob Blakes, as well as the inequitable suffering some communities are facing from this pandemic.
So here are the ten lessons I’ve learned about my own racism from my time working with the recovery community. I hope maybe they can help you, too.
ONE — It’s an inside job. Racism is something that lives inside your head. You have to be willing to do the intrapersonal work to address it. My friends in 12-step programs recovering from drug and alcohol abuse will tell you, “your brain is a big fat liar.” The only way to remedy it is through honesty, an open mind, and willingness to admit you’re wrong. In my case, it was admitting I have biases and that as a white man I benefit from racial injustice and white privilege every single day.
TWO — To white people: You want to do something? Listen. Listening is an action.
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My friends in 12-step programs taught me that there is a secret step a lot of people forget in recovery. It’s step zero: sit down, shut up, and listen. This is really hard for white people. My friend Pastor Daniel Hill, author of White Awake, reminds the well-intentioned white people he works with that “before you try to fix racism, take a breath and listen to those who have been working on it and affected by it longer than you.”
THREE — Also to white people: Wait to be called on. As a white person, not only do I need to take a posture of listening, but my entrée into this work is not something I have control over. I need to be invited by gatekeepers. These are people who are more affected by racism than me, people who do not have my blind spots. They’re the best judges of whether or not I have anything of merit to say. And once I’ve said it, I need to go sit back down and repeat step two.
FOUR — What is an abstract, intellectual discussion for me, is a painful and emotionally taxing one for others.
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I have made this mistake many times. In the aftermath of some tragedy, like the murder of Ahmaud Arbery, I’ll want to dissect the event, analyze how the media is talking about it. I’ll seek out my friends of color. But many times, they’ll remind me: “Hey Ted, this isn’t intellectual for me. This is personal. I’m still hurting. I’m just sad. Can we talk about this later when I’m not so raw?”
FIVE — Sadly, facts are triggering. In 2019, while leading a workshop on racism with a group of mostly white men on a church retreat, I decided I would start with a review of facts on health and wealth disparities in the US. I wanted to outline how these trends break down according to race. I was certain this was a safe place to start. These were objective, measurable facts. No one was going to argue with those.
I was wrong. The discussion put people on the defensive right away. Folks questioned my sources (the CDC and Census Bureau if you’re wondering). The session degenerated into name calling and finger pointing. People walked away more entrenched in their racist positions than before.
SIX — Story has a way of getting past defense mechanisms in a way that facts don’t. On that same church retreat, the next session I held with those men, we steered free of facts. Instead we started by simply sharing stories — our own stories. Men of all ages and all ethnicities spoke. White men spoke of feeling bewildered by charges that they were racists. I told embarrassing stories of my own prejudice. A Latino teen shared about being harassed by police.
Out of this came connection. The thing the stories had in common was each speaker modeled self-examination, not self-congratulation. No one peacocked like they were the only “woke” person in the room (as I had the previous session). No one acted as if they were the only one with the credibility or authenticity to speak on the topic. No one told any story besides their own. As a result, people listened.
SEVEN — For people of color, please take time for self-care.
Dismantling racism takes an emotional toll. More on some of us than others. Step back as you need to, but please, don’t step out. As my friend Dr. Caprice Hollins of Cultures Connecting says to her friends of color when they need a break: “Take a break, but please come back when you can — we need you. Can you imagine how this work would go without your voice?”
EIGHT — Trauma is at the root of hate and fear. My 2019 novel, Reaper Moon, examined the evils of white nationalism and white supremacy in the aftermath of a viral outbreak. For the background research, I spent months learning about white nationalists. I visited their websites. I read their manifestoes. I watched their documentaries. Research is usually fun for me. This was like sticking my hand in an unflushed toilet day after day, after day.
But being in their world revealed something to me. In so many cases, underneath their fear and hate, was trauma. Often in the form of childhood neglect, abandonment, and/or abuse. It could be emotional, physical, sexual abuse, or all three. None of these things justify hate, just like childhood trauma doesn’t justify or excuse drug or alcohol abuse. But trauma is a contributing factor behind these self-destructive tendencies. This, at least, helped me come to understand the root of some of this and check some of my own resentments.
NINE — We can all come to understand one another — it requires more effort for some than others — but it’s possible.
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I wrote my 2016 novel, The Selah Branch, from the point of view of a black female college student. Critics attacked me for trying to write in that voice. One batch said the effort amounted to cultural appropriation. A second batch claimed that a white man could never write an authentic black point of view.
This first criticism has validity. It’s the reason all the proceeds from that novel go to scholarships for students of color. The second criticism, I let readers decide. What worries me about the second line of critique, though, is that it implies that even with work, I, a white heterosexual male, could never understand someone different from me. Granted, when you’re a minority in a dominant, oppressive culture, you have to learn it to survive it. James Baldwin famously said as much.
But I refuse to believe it can’t go both ways. If I can’t come to understand my friends of color, if I can’t come to endorse their perspectives, if I can’t learn to overcome my blind spots (even with effort), that leaves all of us without hope. I’d rather believe that, with work and dialogue, we can come to understand one another’s perspectives. Otherwise, what is the point in any of this?
TEN — Beware of sanctimony. No one has a monopoly on suffering or pain. Related to number nine, there is a danger that comes when we believe our pain and our experience makes us unrelatable. My friends in 12-step programs call this “terminal specialness.”
We do ourselves a disservice when we assume the white suburban soccer mom has absolutely no way to understand the struggles of an Afro-Latina asylum seeker at the border. Maybe she doesn’t, but let’s not jump to that conclusion. Otherwise we devalue people’s lived experiences. I think that is the very blindness to humanity we’re trying to avoid.
I can only speak from my experience. Ten years ago, paired with three women of color during a diversity and equity training, we each had to share an experience of oppression. Not for a second did I think my limited experiences would compare to three women of color. But I wasn’t without something. I shared about being bullied in high school. I was taunted, punched, and kicked by bullies because I was perceived as gay; because I didn’t measure up to a narrow, traditional version of masculinity.
The feedback I received, post exercise, was that initially, all three women admitted they didn’t expect to connect to any story a heterosexual white male might offer. Their tears at the end of my sharing said otherwise. Just like in 12-Step work, honesty, open minds, and willingness had led to new insights. Along with vulnerability and empathy, these are our tools to dismantle racism — in ourselves and in society. They are not easy tools to work with — it hurts to recall how we’ve been hurt — but these are the only tools that work. (continued below)
I repeat, the cost of this work is higher for some than others. That is not fair and we should acknowledge that and extend care to those who need it. But we can’t let that stop us.
I do think we as a society can recover from racism, if we’re willing to do the work. It won’t be easy, there is heavy lifting involved, pain, and great effort, but that is why it’s called work. And nothing worthwhile — like sobriety, living drug free, or living in a world recovered from the scourge of racism — ever came without effort.
Ted Neill is a writer based in Seattle. He conducts anti-racist workshops and has written extensively on HIV/AIDS in Africa and the recovery community. His 2019 novel, Reaper Moon examines the intersection of politics and racism after a global viral pandemic; his young adult novel Zombies, Frat Boys, Monster Flash Mobs (2020), takes on issues of racial justice, LGBTQ representation, and immigration in a format accessible to younger readers.
