A way to begin

There is no protocol.

Racism is a cancer: this metaphor has come up repeatedly in the anti-racist reading I have done this summer, and it’s one that my husband and I have discussed often at home, even before George Floyd’s murder and the ensuing protests. (In a way, it’s a metaphor that saved our marriage, but that’s a story for another time.)

I am a white woman who lives with metastatic cancer and with internalized racism, so I’m drawn to the parallel. I want to explore the experience of coming to terms with both—especially since our current president has declared that it is anti-racist education that is actually the “sickness” in this country. (Spoiler alert: I disagree.)

To begin, let’s consider the onset. Both cancer and racism can go undetected for years. You may not feel sick, and it’s not your fault that you are. Hearing the words, “It’s cancer” can bring forth a surge of heavy emotions—or leave you feeling numb. Having someone call you out for doing or saying something racist can come as a big shock, too. I know, because I’ve been told both.

So you get a diagnosis. What do you do next? Do you ignore it? Deny it? Get angry? Cry? You probably do, at first. You might proclaim, “I’ve done nothing wrong!” or, “I did everything I thought I was supposed to do!” You might question, “What did I do to deserve this?” or, ”Why do I have to deal with this?” All valid feelings. But eventually, you will have to do something, because the disease is not going away on its own. Left unchecked, cancers spread and become deadly.

Fortunately, there are many resources available. You might start by seeking out expert opinions. Maybe you do some reading and research. Maybe you talk with people who have first-hand experience of what you are now facing. (Please be considerate, though, because these conversations can trigger real trauma.)

Once you’ve acknowledged your disease and done some learning, you will probably feel a little more confident about moving forward. Maybe you even start to feel hopeful. You probably still feel scared and angry and sad and confused and hurt and a little ashamed or guilty, but there’s hope, too, and curiosity. At least, that’s how it was for me. It’s all part of the process.

Next, in the cancer world, you and your healthcare team come up with a treatment plan designed to target the visible tumors and eliminate any microscopic cancer cells floating around inside your body. Likewise, when dealing with racism, you and your newly educated self start by calling out racist damage wherever you find it—or at least proactively considering the racist impact that your own words and actions could have.

You continue with your protocol for several months. The side effects might be awful, but you press on, because you know the discomfort is normal and necessary. Then, best case scenario, your scans are clear—you have no evidence of disease. If you have been actively learning about and identifying racism, you might believe you don’t have any of that left in you, either. You think, “Wow, that was really hard, but I did it. I got through it, and I’m better for it. I have a new outlook on life. I’m grateful. I’m ready to take on the world!” You might feel proud and happy, maybe even excited. Again, valid feelings.

And yet. You find that you have some nagging worry. Perhaps a faint doubt or a troubling sense of unease: Is it really gone? What if it comes back? And even if I no longer have to personally deal with it, are others still suffering? Are people continuing to die because of it? How do I feel about that? Do I care?

Chances are, you will care.

So you look for ways to alleviate your concerns. You search for guidance and inspiration, seeking out leaders, activists, and different voices. Maybe you donate your time or money to organizations that are working to eradicate the disease and support those most affected by it. Maybe you work to raise funds or awareness. You put all of your energy into fighting the disease. You do a lot of good.

It never feels like enough, though.

And one day, you realize with dismay that you have been acting out of fear this whole time. You have been resisting and suppressing your disease. Running from it, breathless, hoping it doesn’t catch up with you. You wrestle with the idea that you might never be able to get away from the disease. It’s always there, whether you see it or not. This new awareness causes a great deal of stress and anxiety, because it is rife with uncertainty and a lack of control. You don’t know what to do, because there is no protocol for this part.

So you stop running. And you get brave, and you turn around. 

What you see surprises you. Where before there was fear, now there is love. Where before there was self-preservation, now there is compassion. Where before there was resistance, now there is acceptance. And you understand that instead of suppressing your disease, perhaps you can transform it.

You begin to see your disease as a symptom of something much bigger than poor luck or unfortunate circumstances. Maybe this illness is not so much an individual problem as it is a societal issue. Maybe our environment is sick. Maybe our systems are sick. Maybe our policies are sick. Maybe the people in power suspect—or even know—that these factors are making us sick, but they benefit too much to do anything about it.

Maybe if we acknowledge that we are all sick because our whole structure is sick, and we demand change and we hold our leaders accountable, we can begin to get better. 

We cannot undo the past, but we can move forward differently. 

We can go in love, rather than in fear.

Racism, like cancer, is complex in its origins, pathways, mechanisms, and manifestations. Racism, like cancer, has a way of hiding, growing, recurring, and metastasizing without our being fully aware of what’s happening. Racism, like cancer, is the sickness, and right now our entire country is grappling with metastatic disease. There is no protocol, no cure. But we can move forward and heal anyway. We can get better and do better anyway. Anti-racist work, like anti-cancer work, is a way to begin. 

I am no longer afraid of facing either my cancer or my racism, nor of getting it wrong. There is no protocol, and I cannot control the outcomes. What I can do is learn, listen, think, consider, feel, try, mess up, have setbacks, learn something new, listen harder—hear, think some more, reconsider, feel differently, and try again. 

There is no protocol. But I love myself, my fellow humans, and the promise of this democracy enough to face my disease anyway—trusting that doing so enables me to get better and to do better, too.