What do I know about privilege or discrimination? After all, I'm a white woman with blonde hair, brown eyes, average in height, and with no apparent reasons to ever have experienced any kind of discrimination in my life. On the surface, you would be correct. But you'd also be dead wrong.

I distinctly remember the first time I was old enough to realize what was happening when my family was 'pulled over' on our way to the beach on a mid-1980s blazing hot summer day.

We had been singing along loudly to Van Morrison as our well-loved Chevy sedan, at least 10 years past its prime, chugged down the highway in Temecula, California, toward the golden beaches of San Diego.

My daddy's comforting baritone, mixed with my mama's familiar soprano as the belted out the lyrics. We were probably munching on Lays Classic potato chips and hummus, a staple in our vegetarian home. None of us were wearing seat belts, and my sister Anna and I were laying on each other's shoulders as we sang our little hearts out to 'Brown Eyed Girl.' I was seven.

Suddenly, lights were flashing behind us.

The mood in the car changed in an instant. Like the electric feeling of the ozone just after lightning strikes. "Were you speeding?" My mom asked my dad with a worried twinge in her voice. "You know I wouldn't risk it," my dad stated flatly.

Pulling over to the side of the road, we all sat like statues, not speaking as we waited for the inevitable. The highway patrol, with his crisp uniform, and don't eff with me attitude strolled up to our old white Chevy twirling a flashlight even though it was the middle of the day. While I couldn't remember the last time we had been pulled over for no reason, I had the distinct feeling this was not the first time this had happened, and would definitely not be the last— a sinking sickness in the pit of my stomach. 

"Hi, there." The officer said, looking in every window of the car, and scanning my dad's face up and down while shining a flashlight in his eyes. Again, it was the daytime.

"What did we do?" My little sister whispered as she squeezed my hand. "Shhhh..." I whispered back. Of course, that's the moment my youngest sister, still a baby, started to whimper. 

"Did you know you didn't use your turn signal there?" the officer scolded. "Oh, I'm sorry about that," my dad stated flatly. He was never very good at kissing ass.

"Well, I just wanted to make sure you were aware of the speed limit in these parts," the officer said.

It went on like that for 30 minutes while he checked our registration, took an unusually long time looking over my dad's license plate, and driver's license. At one point, I think he asked my mom if she was his wife, and if these were his kids...just in case we had been kidnapped.

I probably should mention that my daddy is fully Italian -- Sicilian, in fact. And wore his dark brown hair and beard long, cascading down his chest and chin in a mahogany blanket -- his bright, keen brown eyes and prominent cheekbones resting above. He would usually be wearing all-white clothing on these occasions -- not his rubber boots and jeans for the hard construction and landscaping work he did at home. 

My mama, 12 years his junior, is the perfect compliment to my dad's dark and brooding appearance. Her light blonde hair would have been parted in the middle, flowing over her shoulders. Her high cheekbones and blue eyes accentuated by her pale Danish skin tone. 

My two sisters and I were white-blonde little ragamuffins, with golden skin and lots of mischief twinkling behind our eyes. Our family was the focus of any room we walked into. It was just too hard for anyone not to stare at the family of fair blonde girls, with my mama who looks like she could be Joni Mitchell's sister, and my daddy, who would often be asked, "Are you Jesus?" when we were younger.

This was our reality.

We knew no different. Fortunately, my dad could break down most barriers and initial assumptions about our family with his resounding and confident voice, dynamic presence, and sharp intellect. My mom was the ultimate host, and even though we always lived in a humble home, our house buzzed with group dinners, friends, and music.

But whenever we left the little bubble of our small mountain town to venture to the city, or the beach, or anywhere, fear would take hold.

Would we get pulled over on the way there or the way home?

Would the cop give us a ticket this time -- for nothing, or make my dad get out of the car and do a sobriety test (my father doesn't drink alcohol, by the way). What would this time be like?

Because we drove an old car. Because my father looked like he walked out of the 1960s or a passage from the Bible. Because my mom was so much younger, and we girls were always causing a scene. Because of all of this, we were a target. A symbol of what NOT to act like, dress like, be like. In the mid-1980s, the early 1990s, the intense scrutiny was significant.

And we weren't immune even at home in our little town, where my parents had escaped to try and live a simple and peaceful life. We had our friends, our 'artist community.' But the majority of the residents in Idyllwild, California, were cut of a different cloth. A beer-drinking, truck driving, cloth. They didn't know what to make of us.

"Are you going to change your name to Moon?!" Nick, the bully, yelled at me on the playground in 5th grade. His friends all snickered and gawked, waiting for my inevitable crumble. My dad had legally changed his name to Almadeus Star Gioeli before I was born. It suited him, and it was his conversation starter. As a young kid in school, my feelings about his name meant nothing. Survival was all about who you knew, and whose family was considered the coolest -- mine was definitely NOT. "I bet if you change your name to Moon, your dad will love you more!" the boys snickered. I couldn't take it anymore, my face red as a tomato split, and tears ran down my cheeks, hot and stinging as I ran away to hide in my usual spot behind the classroom until recess was over. 

These two stories are just two in a sea of experiences that taught me to be resilient and withstand discrimination at a young age, and yet, I had it easy. I could go someplace else, and no one would know me. I could pretend that I had a family with a white picket fence, and a soccer mom, and a dad that drank beer and cussed on the weekends. My history and experience of discrimination came from lifestyle choices. That was my scarlet letter, not my innate biology.

I continuously lived in fear when I was growing up.

Fear that we would not be accepted. Fear that we would be unjustly targeted by the police. Fear that we would be shunned by our community. I did not live in fear of losing my life.

At the end of the day, I am white, and in this country, that's the difference between life and death.

Time Magazine recently published an op-ed titled, “There’s No Right Time to Fight for Your Life,” and the message of the piece spoke to the heart of this crisis. Being black, or Hispanic, or of Asian descent in America means you cannot just go to a different city and be different. Your scarlet letter is right there, no matter what and where you go. You could be mistaken or falsely accused at any moment, and you could die.

My small glimpse into the discrimination our culture is willing and able to impose on individuals and communities makes me sick inside. We, the collective 'we,' continue to treat our citizens of different ethnicities apathy and avoidance. It's inconvenient to look at what's really going on. It's easier to stay quiet when someone makes a racist joke or comment. The recent death of George Floyd and others have sparked our communities into action. The rise of movements like Black Lives Matter are forcing indifferent white Americans to look at what we have collectively caused. We are all being put in the spotlight, and it's for a reason.

We cannot proceed as a world knowing that beautiful, intelligent, peaceful human beings cannot even leave their homes or raise their children without fear that if they look at someone the wrong way or don't act 'subordinate enough,' they will die.

What is wrong with our country. Is this the reality we want in the free world?

I will admit that I have let myself be sucked into a false reality where everyone is given an equal chance for health, wealth, and happiness in America, but that was a facade. It's time for every person with a voice to stand up against bigotry and racism. It is time for us to take steps forward into a space where the status quo and institutional discrimination are no longer allowed to continue. Where if you choose to disseminate racism by action or inaction, you will have to answer to us, the people of this country -- all of us, not just some or a few.

I have known discrimination, but I have never felt or suffered from living in a racist nation. I will no longer sit by and allow my silence to speak volumes. I am now and will continue to act. Will you join me?

If you are interested in becoming an advocate for change and civil rights, follow these leaders and activists in the effort to eradicate racism and bigotry from our nation:

• Shaun King, Writer, and Activist

• Kevin Prince Boateng, Athlete and Activist

• Change By Feminism, Activist and Feminist

• Hey Beloved Mama, Business Owner, Mama, Activist

• Black Lives Matter, Organization for Social Change

• Yolanda Renteria, Therapist and Activist

• Moxi & Sass, Feminist, and Racial Equality Channel

I know there are so many more individuals and organizations who are fighting day-in and day-out to create systemic change. Please share who you are following with me!

I believe we are only as good as the causes we are willing to put our voice and backbone behind.

And, we can only effect change if we're ready to be vulnerable, yet have courage and be strong. It's time to take on our institutions and fight for lasting change. The alternative is to live in ignorance and/or fear.

I am white, and I am privileged, and I am aware. My mission is to become more informed and more engaged day-by-day. I am a woman, a mother, an activist, a business owner, and a feminist. I will fight for the rights of all humans until my dying day.

This quote from World War II has been one of my mantras since I first heard it in college. The author, Martin Niemöller is a controversial figure, but the words of his famous quote are immensely relevant at this time. It's been on repeat in my mind for the past few weeks, so I'll end with this thought:

"First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out— because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me." - Martin Niemöller

I am actively looking for guest bloggers! If you're a woman and have a story to tell, let's connect. 

xoxo

EM 💜