Holding Complexity: Fighting Racism Without Losing My Humanity

I live at the intersection of a lot of identities. I am Black. I am queer. I am neurodiverse. Each of those realities shapes how I move through the world, how the world responds to me, and how often I am asked to explain my own existence. Fighting racism is not theoretical for me. It is personal, constant, and sometimes exhausting.

But I also hold a belief that can feel unpopular in polarized times: I do not believe white people are inherently evil.

That belief does not come from denial or naïveté. It comes from lived experience, deep reflection, and relationships with people across races, cultures, religions, and political beliefs. My friends and family are not monolithic. They are messy, loving, flawed, curious, stubborn, growing human beings. Some are white. Some are not. None of them are perfect. Neither am I.

For me, fighting racism means telling the truth without flattening people into villains or saints.

I believe there is a critical difference between racism rooted in ignorance and racism rooted in hate.

Ignorance-based racism is learned. It is passed down through families, media, schools, and systems. It often shows up as harmful assumptions, poorly chosen words, fear of the unfamiliar, or blind spots people don’t realize they have. That does not make the harm disappear. Impact still matters. But ignorance leaves room for accountability, education, and growth. I have watched people unlearn beliefs they once defended fiercely. I have watched genuine remorse turn into changed behavior. That matters to me.

Hate-based racism is different. It is knowing something is wrong and choosing it anyway. It is dehumanization with intent. It is cruelty sharpened by certainty. It is violence, exclusion, and power wielded deliberately against others. That kind of racism deserves firm resistance, boundaries, and consequences. No amount of “understanding” requires me to tolerate abuse or excuse harm.

Holding this distinction does not make me softer on racism. It makes me more precise.

As a Black LGBTQ+ neurodiverse woman, I am often expected to perform rage on demand or to adopt a worldview that sees entire groups of people as irredeemable. But I know what it feels like to be misunderstood, mislabeled, and reduced to a stereotype. I refuse to replicate that harm, even in the name of justice.

That refusal does not mean I center white comfort. It means I center truth.

I can fight systemic racism while still believing in individual humanity. I can call out harm without abandoning nuance. I can protect myself and my community without surrendering to hatred as a guiding principle. I can demand change without pretending that shame alone creates transformation.

Justice, to me, is not about flipping the hierarchy so someone else gets crushed. It is about dismantling systems that rely on dehumanization at all.

I am tired, yes. I am angry sometimes, absolutely. I grieve losses that never make headlines. But I also believe that a future built only on punishment and polarization will not heal us. Accountability and compassion are not opposites. They are partners.

I fight racism because I believe people, including myself, are capable of more than what history has handed us. I fight it because I want liberation that doesn’t require me to lose my empathy, my relationships, or my belief in growth.

Complexity is not weakness. It is courage.

And I choose to hold it, even when it’s heavy.