I’m Biracial. I’m exceptionally White. I am grappling with my privilege. You should too.

Recent footage of the killing of George Floyd and Ahmaud Arbery is shocking and disturbing, and rightfully sparked explosive conversation and action regarding police brutality, gun control, and racism in the US. Police killed 1,099 people in 2019 and Black people were 24% of those killed despite being only 13% of the population. But the problem expands way beyond police brutality. Racism is woven into the United States story. Even more pervasive than this explicit bias is the impact of unintended implicit bias. Recent invents moved me to explore my life experience with mixed identity and white privilege, and what White people can do to combat systemic racism.

My name is Mitra Arienna LeBuhn. When people read my name on paper, they know it’s not White. They look at my light skin and blue eyes and they are confused. “What are you? I mean, like, where does your family come from?” is a frequent first question. “Are you Russian? French? Eastern European?” I am proudly half-Iranian (Persian) and half-American (with Polish/German roots, the borders changed during WWII. I digress). Next question: “Middle Eastern heritage, are you Muslim?” No, but I imagine my life experience would be vastly different if I was due to the depth of Islamophobia in the US. I was born and raised in the United States, in Lake Oswego, Oregon, one of the Whitest and most affluent suburbs in the US. I won the privilege lottery.

I have not been marginalized, I have not felt overt and covert forms of racism, and I have not lived the experience of a Person of Color in the United States. As I have learned of and observed racial inequities throughout my life, I work to understand what to do with my privilege.

I have felt discomfort regarding my racial identity my whole life. I am absolutely white-passing. I got my Dad’s coloration. My brothers got more of my Mom’s. I remember hearing comments that my twin brother looks “Mexican,” that my oldest brother looks “Ethnic,” and that those comments were tinged with a weird, unsettling tone. My parents chose very standard American first names for the boys, Ryan and Justin. They considered names like Muhammad, after my mother’s father, but my parents felt the boys would be more accepted by society if they had White first names. They gave them Persian middle names. I vividly remember kids chasing Justin to tears on the playground mocking “Hey Creeeeamy!” after they found out his middle name is Karimi. I was the only one that was given with a full name representative of our heritage, and it’s the only clear nod to the half of me that could-have-but-didn’t manifest in melanin.

Adolescent Mitra had some questions. Why is it cool for me to have a unique name, but it’s not for my brothers? Would it be the same if I had darker skin? Or is this difference founded upon my gender? I’ve noticed that as a woman, my “exotic” background more often draws intrigue than degradation. I can’t say it’s the same for my brothers, and for me the attention can feel uncomfortably sexualized. A study by Waring explores this phenomenon with Black/White biracial participants.

Being a White-passing mixed woman created a lot of guilt and confusion I had to grapple with growing up in a racist system. For example, the US Census and standardized tests deem Iranians and all Middle Eastern people as “White/Caucasian”. Every time I would face this self-identified race question I felt my soul freak out. The two halves of me would start shouting “I don’t know!! I’m biracial, but does it not count?!” I look white. I was born in the US. But my mother immigrated from Iran and I feel intimately tied to the culture, and that connection has shaped me. However, I have not faced racial discrimination, in fact I’ve experienced White privilege my entire life, so who am I to claim I am anything else? Sometimes I would answer Caucasian. Sometimes I’d write in “other”.

This month (May 2020) I learned that my brothers don’t identify as strongly with their Persian roots. We unpacked this in several self-reflective conversations. Perhaps this has to do with our different relationships with our mother. Or maybe it is tied to my brothers’ histories of receiving negative feedback for that part of their being, while I was mostly celebrated for it.

Frustration over my privilege is why I chose to pursue a career in social impact. At the moment I am working with an internship management platform removing barriers to the workforce by connecting people with paid, remote internships. I chose to support this initiative because of the systemic racism I became aware of through coursework at the University of Oregon and Clark Honors College. I earned a B.A. in International Studies, focusing in Global Health, Africa, French, with minors in African Studies and Music. A majority of my courses discussed various aspects of racial inequality in the US (and all over the world). Speaking of inequality, I think it is important to note the difference between equality and equity. Equality assumes everyone benefits the same from equal supports. Equity is when different kinds of support are offered according to different needs.

During university I learned about how Colonialism began this history of exploitation and marginalization of People of Color (POCs), and how political and capitalist systems reinforce a separation of socioeconomic class by skin color. Looking at the struggle of the Black community specifically, they have faced systemic racism via redlining, inequities in health (Black women are 4x more likely to die giving birth!!), the school to prison pipeline, police brutality, the list goes on. At the same time I was studying these structural barriers to racial equity, I was singing with the UO Gospel Singers. I felt my own hypocrisy to solo spirited music that some of my ancestors may have had ties to, only as the perpetrators of the pain I sang. That style of music is something I appreciate and love and hope to honor by educating myself and others in the history of its origin and how it is continuously stolen. What we call “American music,” like Blues, R&B and Hip Hop, some of my favorites to perform and listen to, was created in the outstanding oppression and suffering of the Black community. Maybe that awareness makes it okay that I sing with spiritual gusto from my White high chair. Or maybe it’s just not my song to sing.

So this brings me to today. And yesterday. And the recent outcry on social media from all of my White friends (myself included) who are speaking out in support of POCs, particularly in support of the Black community in response to video footage of George Floyd’s death. I believe it is good to say something. This conversation on race and rights is not new, but every added Anti-racist voice helps call out discrimination and marginalization. Recognition and discussion is the beginning of change. White people are not often required to learn about the inequity around them. While I believe they should be, I acknowledge it is uncomfortable to admit you have had a leg-up your whole life…that some of your success is partially due to the fact that historically people with your skin tone have been unjustly more respected and received more resources, education, and support in every way. Not only that, BIPOCs have and continue to face barriers that don’t exist for you, and those barriers benefit White people. This is fact, and there are a multitude of resources I can point you towards to learn more about this history. Feel free to comment or reach out.

To all the allies, please put action behind your words, otherwise there was no point. Merely talking about it does not solve the issue. While sharing a post raises awareness…ask yourself, does it also relieve you of guilt associated with your privilege? Do you feel validated when people respond or share your post after you? Is sharing this post partially to display your anti-Trump stance and name your solidarity…so you can move on to the next item on your To-Do list? Those feelings are understandable, but necessary to question. I find myself feeling shame for discussing these issues yet I have never written a letter to a senator or called a political representative. That will change. I’ve volunteered for social justice initiatives, organized campaigns and participated in protests, and contribute in donations but all not nearly as often as I should. Change must be nursed like a healthy habit. Consistent support is essential.

Go inward and self-assess how you are addressing racial inequity outside of the social media space. White people, we have a responsibility to use our privilege, especially those in positions of influence or power, to make change. If you aren’t in a position of power, your voice is inherently more acknowledged due to a history of bigotry in this country. Exercise your voice. Come together and shout for the specific changes we need to see. Put the extra money your privilege has provided you in a place that supports those that had to start the race of life way behind the starting line. *I know most of us feel like we don’t have extra, but if you look around your home and see excess…you have extra.

I am passionate about this because in a 50/50 gamble, I was born with light skin, and that coloration has given me an undeniable advantage in life. The fact that my friends and family who have a darker coloration receive microaggressions, and that I am magically excused from that experience because I’m White, blows my mind. The fact that almost every time we fly my Iranian mother is the one “randomly” chosen to be searched at airport security, is something I cannot ignore.

I cannot fully comprehend the complexity and hurt that comes with being a BIPOC in the US, but I can empathize. It appears that many Americans are daunted by the different ways people look and live, but it is often unfamiliarity that inspires fear. I suggest we meet these moments with patience, and come to a place of acceptance by exchanging experiences.

First, research. And check your sources. It may feel uncomfortable and conflict with some beliefs that have been pillars your whole life. Be open to changing your perspective and being honest with yourself.

Confront yourself and educate others when you notice microaggressions (learn more about what those are and how to address them here). Addressing and changing this behavior is important.

Share the stage. White people often have the microphone. Hand it over and actively listen to the experience of someone that is marginalized.

Actually donate. White people get paid more. Everything about our capitalist and political system is geared to help White people (especially cisgender White males) earn more. Google until you find an organization dismantling structural racism in an arena you’re passionate about (housing? health? food security?) and donate what you’re comfortable with. Literally a dollar is okay. Schedule a specific day to donate once a month, maybe even once a week. And you benefit from this habit, as numerous studies have shown exercising charity brings donors a deep sense of happiness. I’m adopting this practice now.

Contact your politicians. They aren’t your friends on Facebook, they don’t see what you’re sharing. You need to let them know the change you want to see.

How do you determine the change you want to see? What would the world look like if everyone ran the race of life with support that leveled the competition? I imagine it’d be a beautiful collaboration, and we’d be less preoccupied with the finish-line.

Some good reads to feed that vision. Both of these books struck a chord with me. Highly recommend.

Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates

Assata by Assata Shakur