On white women who don’t see color

The mountains of New Hampshire, October 2024

In the summer of my thirty-third year, I began my new job at the palace as a court jester. For me, this was no mean feat. I am nothing if not unfunny. Dour, humorless, unable to take, or even understand, a joke. My nervous disposition is off-putting to nearly everyone I come across. I am by turns aloof and cloying, stuck in a permanent loop of anxiety and pandering. 

Still, I remember that summer with clarity. Somehow, I, emerging from the recesses of another spat of self-imposed isolation, had forged a new bond with existing friends. One was a woman I had a known for many years and held in great importance. A long-term friend. I had considered her to be among my most profound lifelong friendships. The other, an acquaintance to whom I had recently grown closer.

Shortly before this, Covid had distanced me from my larger community. I was thrilled at this new connection. I was lonely and eager to rejoin the world of group chats and planned brunches. 

I had not meant to create such distance from my existing circle - but my mental health was shaky with anxiety, contending with OCD and frequent loops of anxious intrusive thoughts. My wounds were all so old. This was a chance to start anew. For the purposes of this essay, my focus will be this one long-term friend.

 At first, the friendship fared well. Acceptance, initially, did not seem to come at too high a price. There were some jokes that did not sit well with me. I became acutely aware that I was a lone South Asian person with two white women. Something felt wrong. I tried to ignore it.

Of course, it was not long before I became the joke. It makes sense. A childhood friendship can be many things - a sanctuary in adulthood, a treasure trove of half-forgotten memories. It can be a sunken ship, forgotten under the currents of life. And, between two white women and their new friend of color, it can be poison.

 This is how the cracks came. My long-term friend, the one who had been so important to me, slowly began to present my life as the punchline. It was hard to detect.

 As women of color, we are often taught that our instincts are wrong. That we should be grateful for what we have and to not ask for more. Above all, we are taught that our viewpoints, experiences and very lives are less important than white people’s experiences.

 This is why it was hard to see at first. I could fill pages, but the gist was this: my friend began to collect stories from my life to present as jokes, and she was not sorry to do this.

She called herself a “sleuth” without a hint of irony or awareness. That is, she felt it was her right to dig into my life and mock my experiences with her circle of friends. In our thirties, a white woman had decided that it is appropriate to treat her friends of color this way.

 The racial behavior grew rampantly. She boasted about being a “shield” and “megaphone” for people of color. In reality, we were the punchline.

 I began to find that in this group dynamic, I wore the jester's hat - fitting, as this was a fool's errand.  I burned with shame at myself and my culture. Why weren’t we good enough to be accepted?

 They had a veneer of caring, that quickly devolved into jokes at my expense. At my community's expense. They assured me that they would never make jokes at the cost of my culture. They lied. My community and community members became a target of ridicule.

 When did my life become the joke? How did I become a fool to two white women? I found it difficult to leave my new job as clown and bumbling idiot. Sycophantic, I stayed. The more they mocked, the more I yearned for their approval. I was cool. I was fun. I could prove it. I threw lavish parties. They ignored me to take photos amongst themselves. I memorized their favorite colors, their family histories, their preferences in all matters. I tried as hard as I can to be likable. No one knew what to say. I found myself on the outside again.

I very clearly remember some moments. My long-term friend expressed to me that she was uncomfortable with the “pushiness” of Arab and Muslim activists on social media during the start of the genocide.  That she had felt her heart sink when they had urged others to speak out because she felt pressured.

 I was a good little minion. I apologized right away and said that I would watch my words from there on out.

 One day, the jokes went too far. They insulted my close friends, a group made entirely of people of color. They threw around racially insensitive jokes. I confronted them and received steadfast silence in return.

 After some time, I received a response from my long-term friend. She was very angry and defensive. She said that I have no right to "attack" them by pointing out their racism. That I was too hard on them.

 She said, as a woman in her thirties in 2024, that she did not see color.

 I asked for space and she said that it was unacceptable unless it is mutually agreed upon by her. Her hurt feelings were more important than my boundaries. She asserted that my friends of color, who had never once spoken against her, would treat her as a “punching bag.” I had hurt her by wanting distance. She gave reason after reason for why these insensitive jokes are okay from her in particular.

 I wanted to block her but my guilt stayed my hand. The exchange went on for months, with my retreating and her reaching out to me to talk. I wavered between ignoring her and wondering if I was the one in the wrong.

 But this is so often - a white woman's tears spur guilt and shame in brown women. Their guilting acts as a deterrent, stopping women of color from leaving the toxic dynamic.

 When they tell me they do not see color, I imagine a world as just that. Colorless. I try to see as they see. Without nuance and without context. In this, the white women reveal themselves - that it is all the same to them. A person of color's pain is nondescript. It is all the same to them, person to person. My hurt feelings are nothing to them because there is no differentiating. As long as they are not inconvenienced, it is all the same.

 They only see themselves in blaring, bright technicolor. Everyone else is black and white. In this world of theirs, it is perfectly acceptable to laugh at entire communities of people.

 This is the main tenet of white feminism. No one else matters.

 Eventually, I managed to extract myself but I am still suffering from depression following the breaking of a long and profound friendship due to racism. I hope that therapy and better friends will bring me some ease and I will try to give myself some time to heal. Still, I don’t regret the exchange. Prejudiced folks will always reveal themselves. I am glad that this time, I believed her.