A retired judge learns later in life she grew up racist

It is a new realization for me that I grew up racist. I also grew up recognizing the evil and wrongness of racism.

In the small Arizona town where I grew up, most of us were white, many were Mexican and Indian (as we described them then), and there were only a few Black, Jewish, Chinese or Japanese families. I never considered whether there were any other Asian groups at the time. Seriously.

As a young white schoolgirl, I remember being surprised to hear that antiSemitism was still a thing – how could it be when we defeated the Nazis? And that Black kids experienced racism – how could it be when the civil rights movement succeeded?

I had a few close relatives who used racist terms and expressed derogatory views regarding people who were not white, particularly Black people. This was tolerated by the rest of the family.

The other adults would shake their heads, roll their eyes and gently chide them, but there was an acceptance that this was just the way they were.

I never witnessed direct racist attacks on anyone. I never saw rudeness, repudiation or any kind of violence inflicted, yet, within the family, it was known that racism simmered below the surface.

This upbringing led me to believe that I was not racist. I thought that I knew what racism looked like, in both its worst forms, as seen on “Roots,” and in milder forms that I saw in certain family members. I rejected both, as did my siblings and most of my other family members. We weren’t racist, because we weren’t like that.

I devoted my career to the justice system. I witnessed racism in policing, in prosecutorial charging decisions and plea offers, in jury decisions, and in who was able to access the justice system at all.

I worked on system improvement, particularly in child welfare and juvenile justice. In these two systems a disproportionate number of Black and brown children are removed from their families and marked by the trauma of system involvement. We knew this to be true, we formed committees and organized training to address it, but the disproportionality persisted and persists to this day.

It wasn’t until the end of my career that it was pointed out to me by a very wise man that if I knew that our justice system was unfair and I failed to act with urgency to correct it, then I must not really care. It must not be important. Black lives must not matter.

He was much kinder than that in his delivery, but I heard him.

I started trying to understand the ways in which I had benefited from racism my whole life. It isn’t easy to accept that I have enjoyed freedoms and privileges that others have not.

I mean, I never asked the police to let me go with a warning. I never asked retail staff not to follow me around the store as I shopped indecisively. I never asked my neighbors not to call the cops when I locked myself out of the house and had to break in through a window.

I realized that I have been a beneficiary of systemic racism my whole life. I had grown up racist.

I started listening more to Black voices in public and in private to hear what they experience and what they think. It isn’t their responsibility to educate me about our racist culture. It is up to me to do that work.

I stopped thinking that I understand what racism is like for people of color, just because I know that racism is wrong. I am doing my best to uncover and unlearn the racism that I grew up with and that became a part of me without me even realizing it.

I am trying to stop being defensive. I am trying to figure out what I can do to fix a system that I unwittingly benefited from at the expense of others.

The reason I decided to write this is to encourage my white brothers and sisters to do the same.

Our Black and brown brothers and sisters are showing incredible courage. We can show courage too. We can be better than we have been. Growing up racist doesn’t mean we have to stay racist.

The systemic reforms we need will take coordination and effort. But we can begin reforming ourselves right now.