Being anti-racist
As a white person, I make a conscious decision every day to recognize my privilege and to live in a way that reflects my commitment to being anti racist. This decision is not a single moment of awakening. It is a lifelong journey that has been shaped by experiences, conversations, discomfort, and meaningful turning points. My understanding of privilege, racism, and leadership has evolved over my entire life, and that evolution continues every day. I often reflect on where this awareness began and how it has strengthened over time. The truth is that there was no single moment, rather a series of moments that opened my eyes and expanded my heart.
One of the earliest moments that shifted my understanding of the world happened when I was seven or eight, growing up on my family’s farm. The story itself is simple. The lesson is not.
The Farm, The Labor Camp, and an Early Lesson in Humanity
To set the context, my grandparents and parents ran a small to medium-sized farm. Like many farms of that scale, we relied on seasonal workers from Puerto Rico or Mexico. They lived in a place we called the Labor Camp, which was actually the original homestead where my grandparents raised their children. Every Friday was payday, and this was long before direct deposit existed. My father would bring handwritten checks to the Labor Camp to pay the individuals who worked for us. Without fail, they would invite us in for dinner.
Looking back, these dinners were not simply meals. Those dinners were a celebration of community, hospitality, and love. There was always a beautiful aroma in the air. Some nights it was chicken. Other nights, it was pork chops or some other dish prepared with a level of care and generosity that felt like a celebration. Conversations flowed in a mix of English and Spanish. These individuals were not strangers who worked for us. Over time, they were woven into the fabric of our family. My grandparents treated them with genuine love and respect. My father did the same. Without naming it, the adults in my life were modeling dignity.
However, children absorb messages from the world around them, even ones that are unspoken. And one Friday evening, I unknowingly revealed a message I had internalized.
One Friday night, as my father and grandfather prepared to deliver checks and share dinner, I refused to go inside with everyone. My grandfather asked me why. With full confidence and without hesitation, I pointed toward my grandparents’ house and said, “We eat over there, and they eat here.” To my young mind, it seemed so obvious. In my world, the white people ate in one place, and the dark-skinned people ate in another. The white people owned the land, and the dark-skinned people worked the land. In a child’s mind, that arrangement felt normal because it was the pattern I had observed, unaware of the deeper forces at play.
My grandfather was furious, and I can still remember the look on his face. He told me, “Christopher, the reason we get to eat over there is because of them. They are not beneath you. You are not better than them. You get to experience all the joys in your life because of what they do for our family.”
That moment shook me. It was one of the first times I learned that the world is not structured as a child might perceive it. It was the first time I understood that a belief I held was rooted in a false sense of superiority that I had not consciously chosen, however had absorbed through the environment around me. My grandfather’s words were not simply a correction. They were a profound lesson about humanity, gratitude, and dignity. He helped me understand that every person deserves honor and respect. He showed me that our successes were possible because of the labor and sacrifice of others. His message became one of the earliest seeds of my understanding of privilege.
After that night, sharing meals in the Labor Camp became something I loved. I noticed the laughter, the stories, the way people cared for one another, and the genuine, strong sense of community. I began to understand humanity more fully. Even though I could not articulate it at the time, that moment became a grounding point for the awareness that would continue to grow throughout my life.
Growing Up and Seeing the World with New Awareness
As I got older, I became more aware of how race, identity, and privilege shaped everyday experiences. At school, I began to notice the natural divisions among students, especially in the cafeteria. I remember a book titled Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? that explored how racial groups often gravitated toward one another for comfort, safety, and understanding. I realized that my early instinct to categorize people or draw lines between groups had been absorbed, not chosen.
I also learned that I should not claim to be colorblind. Colorblindness is not inclusive. It denies a vital part of a person’s identity. If someone says they do not see color, they mean they do not see the fullness of another human being. Recognizing people for who they truly are requires seeing all their identities clearly. That recognition is essential for understanding and connection.
Over time, I learned that my whiteness afforded me freedoms that others did not receive automatically. I had the privilege to move through life without questioning how my skin color might threaten my safety, limit my opportunities, or shape the assumptions others made about me. My early awareness grew into a deeper understanding as I entered adulthood.
A Transformative Experience at Rutgers University
My understanding of privilege expanded significantly when I attended Rutgers University. I became involved in social justice-oriented student organizations and leadership opportunities that allowed me to explore issues of race, equity, and identity. Through the Robeson Scholars program, named after Paul Robeson, the first Black African American graduate of Rutgers, I learned more about the courageous work he did to challenge inequality. His story opened my mind to the power of leadership in the fight for racial justice.
It was during this time that I participated in one of the most impactful activities I have ever experienced: the privilege walk. For those unfamiliar, the privilege walk is an activity designed to help participants visualize how privilege manifests in real life. Everyone lines up across the room. Facilitators read statements, and participants either step forward, step backward, or remain still, depending on how each statement applies to them.
Some statements were simple.
“Most of the people on television look like me.”
“I can walk into a store without being followed or questioned.”
“I can walk down the street holding hands with my partner without fear.”
Other statements cut much deeper. The room shifted in ways that were hard to ignore. At the front of the room, one would most often see white, male, able-bodied, heterosexual individuals from higher socioeconomic status backgrounds. At the back, one would often see Black women, members of the LGBTQIA+ community, individuals with disabilities, or individuals from lower socioeconomic backgrounds. Everyone else existed somewhere along the continuum in between.
Each step made the invisible visible.
Each step revealed an unearned advantage or barrier that shaped people’s lives in ways many had never considered before.
As a white man from a higher socioeconomic status, I often found myself toward the front. For a while, I felt ashamed. I wondered if I had done something wrong to earn this privilege. However, the truth is that privilege is not something one earns. It is something one is born into. There is no moral weight to privilege itself. The moral weight lies in what one chooses to do with it.
I learned that my responsibility was not to feel guilty. My responsibility was to take action.
It was in that workshop that I made a commitment to use my privilege intentionally. I realized that, while I was not responsible for slavery, segregation, or the construction of systemic inequities, I was responsible for how I showed up in the world. I was accountable for how I contributed to righting past wrongs. I learned an uncomfortable truth:
Privilege becomes negative when it is used for self‑advancement.
Privilege becomes powerful when it is used to challenge the system that created it.
Using Privilege in Action
A vivid example of how I learned to take action happened at a large LGBTQIA+ equality conference. After the keynote speaker finished, the floor opened for questions. I was somewhere around the tenth person in line. A few people ahead of me, a Black woman took the microphone. I cannot remember her exact words; however, I remember the profound truth she shared. Her words were powerful, insightful, and important. Everyone in the room should have heard them with full attention. The keynote speaker responded with, “Thank you for sharing,” and moved on to the next person. The depth of her message went unacknowledged.
I stood in line, stunned. I felt anger, disbelief, and disappointment. Her courage had been met with minimal engagement, and the moment seemed to slip away.
When it was my turn, I faced a choice. I could ask my planned question, or I could use my privilege to address what had just happened. I chose the latter.
When I arrived at the microphone, I said that we needed to recognize the truth that the Black woman had shared minutes earlier. I said that the room had glossed over her contribution. I said that her voice mattered. I used my voice to amplify hers.
That moment taught me something essential about leadership. This was not charity. This was accountability.
This was leadership.
Leadership is not about giving up a seat at the table. Leadership is not only about offering my voice. Leadership is also about using my platform to lift up voices that have been ignored or dismissed. Leadership is about moving a chair over, inviting someone to the table whose voice has not been valued, and ensuring that their voice is not only heard but respected.
The lesson was clear. Using privilege for good requires intention. It requires action. It requires the courage to interrupt patterns of disregard and inequity.
George Floyd, Driving While Black, and a Nation in Pain
Another significant turning point in my journey came during the racial reckoning that followed the murder of George Floyd. His murder was not an isolated incident. It was part of a long and painful history of violence against Black men and women. However, something about that summer forced many people, including myself, to face the reality of systemic racism in a new and deeper way.
During that time, I had the opportunity to work closely with Black colleagues as they organized a Black employee resource group. Listening to their stories changed me. Hearing them describe the conversations they had to have with their children in order to keep them safe deepened my understanding in a way that statistics or news articles never could.
They described the conversations they needed to have with their Black sons to keep them safe. They explained how they coached their children about what to do if pulled over by the police. They described fear I would never experience. They explained how to avoid actions that could be misinterpreted. They described how they drilled these lessons to ensure their children stayed alive.
I realized that these were conversations I would never need to have with my own children. My white sons would never be viewed as a threat to the general society simply because of the color of their skin. They would never be doubted, feared, or profiled automatically.
While I had heard the phrase “driving while Black” many times, this was the first time I truly understood it. Not intellectually, but emotionally. These conversations revealed the harsh and unjust realities my colleagues navigated daily. It became real. It became human. It became heartbreaking. Their stories reminded me that my responsibility is not only to understand inequity, but also to act against it.
I thought about Trayvon Martin. I thought about Breonna Taylor. I thought about the names that fill the pages of our recent history. These individuals were not threats. They were human beings whose lives were cut short because of racism. That reality was devastating.
I came to understand more fully the responsibilities I held as a leader and as someone with privilege. Awareness was not enough. Empathy was not enough. I needed to act in ways that challenged the systems and structures that uphold inequity.
Leadership and the Anti Racist Organization
As my understanding grew, I often reflected on a powerful question posed by Shereen Daniels in her book The Anti-Racist Organization: “Was not diversity and inclusion supposed to solve this?”
The question is both honest and revealing. For years, many organizations have celebrated diversity and promoted inclusion, yet the root causes of inequity remain intact. Diversity and inclusion initiatives do not automatically dismantle white supremacy. They do not automatically challenge systems of power that benefit some and harm others. They do not automatically create equity.
In order to build anti racist organizations, we must do the deeper, harder work. We must challenge the structures that reinforce inequity. We must create environments where psychological safety is available to everyone, not only those who already hold privilege. We must recognize that the comfort of the majority cannot come at the expense of the minority's well-being. We must be willing to feel discomfort and take risks to evolve our workplaces, our communities, and our society.
Leadership is not neutral. Leadership either reinforces inequity or challenges it.
Leadership that is not actively anti racist is passively complicit. There is no middle ground.
Anti racist leadership requires us to go deeper.
It requires examining power, not simply representation.
It requires naming inequity, not merely acknowledging diversity.
It requires courage, risk-taking, and the willingness to disrupt the comfort of the majority.
It requires humility and demands that we take action that reflects clear values.
For me, the commitment to being anti racist is inseparable from my commitment to being a leader. Awareness helps me understand the harm that exists. Action helps me intervene in that harm. Leadership requires me to use both awareness and action to influence systems, relationships, and decisions in meaningful ways.
A Continuing Journey of Awareness and Responsibility
My awareness continues to evolve. I continue to learn and unlearn. I continue to name systems when I see them and challenge them when I can. I continue to refine my understanding of how privilege works and how I must use it for positive change. It requires openness, curiosity, and a willingness to be uncomfortable.
I often return to my grandfather’s lesson at the Labor Camp.
I revisit the privilege walk in my mind.
I think about the Black woman at the LGBTQIA+ conference.
I remember the stories shared by my colleagues during the summer of George Floyd’s murder.
These stories shape me. These stories guide me. They remind me that privilege can be a tool for justice when used with intention.
These stories fuel my leadership. Leadership requires awareness. Leadership requires action. Leadership requires responsibility.
To be an anti racist leader is to recognize that the world as it exists is not equitable, and that each of us has a role to play in changing it. It requires listening, learning, speaking up, and using whatever privilege we hold to make change possible. It requires us to build environments where every individual is valued, respected, and able to thrive.
My hope is that my story invites others to reflect on their own journeys, their own privileges, and their own opportunities to lead with courage. Every person holds the potential to make a difference. Every person holds the ability to take action. Every person holds responsibility for building a more just and equitable world.
The journey continues, and I remain committed to it.
Reflection & invitation
As you reach the end of this chapter, I invite you to pause and turn inward. Anti racist leadership begins with awareness, continues through action, and deepens through reflection. Your story, your identity, and your lived experiences shape how you lead. They shape how you show up for equity, for justice, and for the people around you.
Take a moment to consider the experiences that have shaped your understanding of privilege, race, and responsibility. Think about the lessons that challenged you, the moments that revealed truths you had not yet seen, or the conversations that expanded your understanding of the world.
Here are your questions for reflection:
What early messages about identity, belonging, or difference did you absorb from the world around you, and how have those messages shaped the leader you are today?
Where have you experienced a shift in awareness that opened your eyes to inequity or privilege? What created that shift?
How have you used your voice, your access, or your influence to challenge inequity or to amplify a voice that deserved more space?
What part of your identity feels more fully expressed today, and what part is still asking for visibility, courage, or acknowledgment?
Which systems, habits, or assumptions in your life or work deserve deeper examination so that you can lead with greater intention?
This chapter is a reminder that the journey toward anti racist leadership is active, ongoing, and deeply human. You are not expected to have all the answers. You are expected to stay awake, stay curious, and stay accountable.
Here is your invitation:
Reflect with honesty.
Reclaim what matters.
Redefine who you choose to be.
Show up in ways that honor your values, your humanity, and others' humanity.
Your evolution is your leadership. Your awareness is your power. Your action is your legacy.