In the fall of 1996 I called my old friend Mike to check in and catch up.

 

I had just started on a new career playing music for young people. We talked for a while and I told him about a recent show at a local public school in my Brooklyn neighborhood. The audience was quite mixed – a fairly even split of Black, Latino, Arabic, and White kids. The concert included a multicultural selection of songs as a way to celebrate the diversity of the borough. I felt like I was bringing something good to these students.

 

He asked, “Who else was in the band?” 

 

“A couple of guys from around here, some other dads.”

 

“Were they White guys?” he asked.

 

It was kind of an unusual question. He knew me well enough to know that my musical and social circles were white. 

 

“Yes. Why?” 

 

He followed up, “I’m curious, how do you think the Black girls in the audience related to the show compared to the White boys?” I had no idea where this conversation was going! I wasn’t even sure why he was asking that question.

 

I knew that Mike had been involved in diversity training—or whatever it was called at that time—for people who were racist, but it certainly didn’t have much to do with me. I was just a musician performing songs from a wide variety of cultures for kids and grown-ups. Although my friends (and bandmates!) were pretty much all White and I lived in a White neighborhood, (and read White-owned and operated newspapers, listened to White-owned and operated radio, ate in White-owned and operated restaurants, and sent my daughter to a predominantly white school), I knew I wasn’t someone who had a problem with people of color. Chuck Berry was my favorite guitar player!

 

But because Mike and I were old friends and there was a level of love and connection, I was able to keep my mind open in the conversation that followed. And I’m glad I did.

 

Responding to his question about the audience reactions, I started with, “Everything felt cool.” Young people almost always connect with live music and they don’t get nearly enough of it. I had an uplifting time and it seemed like the kids did too (I didn’t know enough about school days at that point to understand that an hour away from class is, for most students, a cause for celebration regardless of the programming!).

 

The truth was I didn’t know how anyone related to it. I wasn’t thinking about that at all. I’d never stopped to consider who was making music with me and how representation might be important for the young people looking up at the stage. In my mind I was doing something completely altruistic and that was that.

 

But his question sank in and made me dig deeper, “I guess maybe the White boys could see themselves reflected back and that might have made it easier for them to connect with the show.”

 

Mike told me a little about the diversity work he was doing and why it was important to him. I sensed that he had a very mixed group of friends and colleagues and I envied the way he was able to talk about race and racism with such ease. As we continued to talk that day my perspective began to shift. I still think about that conversation because, simple as it was, it changed my life.

 

When I saw my old pal Barbara riding her bike down the street a few days after talking to Mike, I remembered that she played guitar and sang. I stopped her to see if she’d be interested in playing some music and possibly joining the group. She said sure and it worked out. 

 

Having a woman on stage made an immediate difference. It was clear that girls in the audience were responding with more enthusiasm. That was the beginning of a complete change. Within a few years I was performing with a multi-racial group of men and women. The days of the all White male combo were over for good. 

 

I want to be clear—I’ve been blessed throughout my career to have played with deep and thoughtful White musicians every step of the way. I’m grateful for every one of them, they’ve been dedicated and patient teachers and co-conspirators. I wouldn’t trade our time together for all the money in Brooklyn Heights. However, as I began jamming with a more diverse group, I started feeling a different kind of inspiration. 

 

The music, and the atmosphere around it, continued to get more and more interesting and exciting. The down-time talk was richer, the circle of friends hanging out at the shows grew wider, the food we ate was definitely more interesting; in general there was a much broader range of experience and outlook that contributed to the culture of the band. I began to see life and art outside the White perspective and I couldn’t believe that this was happening. It all seemed too good to be true.

 

During this time I read every book about race that I could get my hands on and continued to have regular conversations with Mike. I was on fire, sure that I was now a fully formed anti-racist white dude, ready to jump into the fray and do my part for equality. 

 

In my mind at that time, the way to be an effective anti-racist was to tell other white people how they were the problem. Unlike the thoughtful and loving way Mike had been with me, I was full of self righteous anger and impatience. I told any White person who would listen what to think and how to think it, but no one seemed to want to join the party. What I couldn’t see was that it wasn't a party at all. I was an antiracist jackass on a pretend moral high ground! 

 

The concept of White privilege was a convenient battering ram that I used in most conversations with the people close to me. My mother, who had done so much to give her children a solid start in life, was now being told by one of them that the only reason my siblings and I were doing well was because we were White. She didn’t understand it and I was unable to see how the complexities of our lives needed to be considered.

 

I brought my own guilt and shame into every interaction! My daughter, barely a teenager at the time, told me she didn’t like talking to me about race, it made her feel bad about being White. I told another family member that an Instagram post of theirs was racist and should be taken down. It wasn’t a conversation, it was presented as a fact – I’m right and you’re wrong. We didn’t speak again for over a year.

 

I hadn’t done the work of examining my own conditioning enough to interact with love, compassion, and patience. I felt a sense of urgency that told me there was no time for subtleties. Antiracism, as I practiced it, was unskilled, intolerant, and ultimately ineffective.

 

One day, in the midst of my extensive reading, I came across an article that referred to “the antiracist lone wolf.” That was me! The writer artfully described the inevitable pitfalls of going it alone. The frustration I’d been feeling in my conversations came to the surface. How could I be antiracist if every time I tried to tell someone about White privilege they just turned away? Although I thought I was doing the right thing, maybe, like the article suggested, I needed a White antiracist community. 

 

This concept wasn’t new to me. When drugs and alcohol were killing me, it was the recovery community that saved my life. Maybe it could be the same here?

 

I searched and found one White antiracist group in New York City—a small crew of people who gathered monthly in midtown Manhattan. I was extremely nervous going in for the first time. What if they questioned my background and racial understanding? Or worse, what if they treated me the way I’d been treating other White people for the past few years? I showed up despite my fears.

 

People were welcoming to a degree but I didn’t have clarity on what the purpose was. Was it about action? Was it about conversation? Why were we spending time picking apart the antiracism of public figures (although I have to admit this is where I was most comfortable - pointing out where I thought other antiracists were screwing up!). Even though I had these questions, I continued to attend; it felt good to be a part of something, even if I wasn’t really clear what we were supposed to be doing.

 

At this time, I began to make connections between antiracism and recovery from alcoholism. The alcoholic recovery spaces I attended tried to create the easiest possible entry point. Come as you are, have a seat, we’re glad you’re here. There was clarity of purpose. Put a dollar in the basket if you have it, if not “we need you more than we need your money.” A welcoming and accessible situation. But, in this White group I had joined, they wanted people to also take their workshop - which had a fee - in order to have a shared ideology. Although I had attended their training myself, I didn’t know anyone who would be willing to spend $350 and a whole weekend to be made uncomfortable. 

 

It made me wonder, what if there was a place for White antiracists that operated with the model and spirit of recovery groups? Could there be an easy entry point and a set of guiding principals? I reached out to a few friends, put together snacks, called it Constructive White Conversations, and hoped something would come out of it. And for me it did. 

 

As those of us who showed up regularly shared stories and feelings and worked at educating ourselves, I began to understand my racial conditioning. I could see how it fed my White entitlement and ignorance and made it difficult for me to move through the world with any true humility. And I began to see that with a solid antiracist practice – in community with other like minded people – I could be useful in dismantling White supremacy and helping to move our society toward justice and harmony.

 

With that, my life seemed to open up. I began to move more freely through the world and its neighborhoods. My fears lessened and my curiosity increased. I began to develop and maintain meaningful friendships and relationships across racial lines. In speaking sincerely and honestly with other White people I developed a positive racial identity – something I never imagined was possible. 

 

As the years passed and our relationships have deepened, I’ve learned to love other White people and look for opportunities to work together towards liberation.

 

And all of this started with a simple, judgment-free conversation between two White people in 1996. 

 

What if all White people could talk to each other meaningfully and thoughtfully about what it means to be White? What if we could untangle the lies and see ourselves in a new light, replacing guilt and shame with resolve and dedication? What if we could find our sense of purpose in tearing down broken systems and creating new ones founded in harmony and justice? What if we could love each other enough to be patient, understanding, and mutually committed to building a world in which everyone is free?

 

These are the questions that inspired the creation of CWC. Throughout the "About Us" section of this website, you’ll read other stories from a number of people whose lives, like mine, have been altered for the better because of this community. If you identify with anything you read, I hope you will join us for a conversation. 

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