I’d bought into stereotypes about African Americans, accepted the party line of “hard work” as the ticket to the American dream. I’d measured my looks, my success, and my worth off a racist system that refused to value me. On more than one occasion I had looked at homeless people on the street and thought they must’ve done something to deserve it. These were ugly truths to confront. I’d work for years—I still am today—to root out the white supremacy in me. But simply being aware of it was liberating. It allowed me to recognize when I was seeing myself in relation to whiteness and create space
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