Leah here, popping in from maternity leave to write one last edition of this newsletter. I won’t lie — I’m really sad that this space will be going away. It’s been a privilege getting to process the news with all of you here for the past eight (!) years.
Over the course of that time, I’ve heard over and over again the observation (and sometimes criticism) that Americans are obsessed with race. Well, guilty as charged. I have been covering the “race and identity” beat for more than a decade, and I have never gotten sick of it. And even while I’ve loved getting to be away from work for a while as I get to know my second child, I find myself missing the weekly ritual of writing this letter, and then reading all of your fascinating, funny, thoughtful (and only occasionally infuriating) responses.
But if there’s one thing that gives me solace about this newsletter going away, it’s the understanding that while race is interesting, racism is very, very boring. And maybe there’s not all that much left for me to say about it.
We have talked about “Karens” on Code Switch — the proverbial white women who call the police on children selling lemonade, and women going grocery shopping, and men looking at birds. But for every Karen caught on video, there are a thousand people whose lives are so successfully segregated that they will never have to confront anyone. There is no one to confront.
So what, then, is the story? People lived their lives. They didn’t know. They didn’t have to know. Nothing happened. Nothing had to happen.
In this newsletter, I’ve spent years writing about the type of racism that makes headlines. Now that it’s ending, maybe I’ll have more time to think about the kind of racism that doesn’t make for much of a story. The kind that is slow and patient and faceless. I could write a small story every day for a lifetime about a person who got less than what they deserved, and could never prove why, and never had anyone to blame. I could write a small story every day for a lifetime about a person who always got more than they deserved, and never questioned why, and in fact never noticed at all. But who would read that?
Fam, I’m so grateful to have shared this space with you for so long. I’ll miss it immensely. Your emails have made me more compassionate and more hopeful, even in the midst of some difficult, hope-poor times. So while you won’t be getting this newsletter again, know that I will continue to be up late at night, perseverating. And as I do, I’ll be thinking of you.
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