(C) Daily Kos
This story was originally published by Daily Kos and is unaltered.
. . . . . . . . . .
I’m Not the Expert on Race. No One Is. [1]
['This Content Is Not Subject To Review Daily Kos Staff Prior To Publication.']
Date: 2025-07-01
I would never wish to be introduced as an “expert on race,” because whenever I hear that, a familiar discomfort creeps in. I have spent years researching, writing, and teaching about the realities of race in America. I’ve lived through the daily negotiations that come with being Black in this country, and my professional life has revolved around the study and history of injustice. Yet the title “expert” never feels quite right. In fact, I reject it—and I believe we all should.
The urge to label someone an “expert on race” is understandable. It’s a way of signaling trust, of seeking guidance, of acknowledging the work that goes into understanding this nation’s deepest wounds. But there is a danger in making anyone the authority on an experience as vast, as painful, and as diverse as race in America.
Race is not a set of facts to be mastered or a box to be checked. It is a lived reality, shaped by history, policy, culture, and the randomness of birth. It determines everything from life expectancy to wealth, from where we live to how we are policed, from whose stories are told to whose pain is recognized. But it does not yield itself to expertise in the traditional sense. No single voice, not even one as researched and experienced as my own, can speak for the full breadth of Black life or the many shades of injustice and resistance it has entailed.
There’s a subtle pressure that comes with being a Black writer who openly wrestles with questions of race and identity. In conversations—at work, in community spaces, or even among friends—there’s an expectation that I should have answers, or that my experience can stand as a lesson for others. Sometimes, just being the person in the room willing to name what’s happening, or to point out what’s being left unsaid, puts you in the role of “race translator,” whether you asked for it or not. I understand the impulse—there’s comfort in having a guide, someone who can make the uncomfortable feel explainable. But each time, I feel the weight of that expectation: as if I’m supposed to have the words to explain centuries of pain, hope, struggle, and survival to a nation desperate to move on.
Sometimes, the label “expert” isn’t even a compliment—it’s a way of mocking or dismissing us. I’ve heard it delivered with a smirk, or followed by silence that makes it clear I’m being put on display, not actually invited to speak. It can be a subtle way to distance, to suggest that race is only my concern, not everyone’s. It’s a way of saying, “That’s your issue—not ours.” The label, meant to confer authority, can just as easily isolate, trivialize, or shut down real conversation. If you’ve ever been introduced as the “race expert” at a meeting, only to have your words ignored or sidestepped, you know the sting that comes with that mock respect.
But here’s the reality: race in America is so pervasive, so woven into the fabric of everyday life, that there is no single narrative to explain it all anyway. No person, no matter how credentialed or seasoned, can hold all the stories, or carry all the wounds, or reflect all the resilience and creativity of Black America—or any community touched by racism, for that matter.
When we call someone an expert on race, we risk turning the work of justice into a spectator sport. We assign the burden of truth-telling, of education, and of emotional labor to a handful of voices while the rest watch from the sidelines. We create the illusion that someone else—someone “official”—is handling the problem, letting us off the hook from the hard work of self-examination and change.
The effect is subtle but insidious. In staff meetings, family gatherings, group chats, or even chance encounters, I’ve seen the room turn—sometimes with a question, sometimes just a glance—waiting for the “Black perspective.” I hear it from friends, colleagues, and acquaintances alike: "What do you think?" "How should we feel about this?" "Does this surprise you?" It’s as if being Black, and willing to talk about it, makes me responsible for contextualizing all of American history on demand. I try to answer honestly, but I also recognize what’s happening: the weight of translation, of soothing guilt, or giving permission to feel outrage or relief, is being shifted onto me—and onto people like me—again and again.
The reality is that race, and racism, shape the lives of every American—regardless of background. To truly confront this country’s legacy, we must abandon the idea that it is the sole province of scholars, activists, or those most directly impacted. We must recognize that the work of acknowledgement belongs to everyone: in schools, in workplaces, in homes, in politics, and in our most private thoughts.
I am proud of the research I have done and the stories I have shared. My family history, my career, and my daily life give me a perspective that is both personal and hard-won. I can talk about my own journey—about my family’s migration, about the schools where I was both seen and unseen, about the ways policing and poverty shaped my neighborhood, and about the teachers who quietly told the truth when the curriculum did not. I can share what it felt like to be the only Black person in a meeting, or the unspoken code-switching that comes with survival. But my experience is just that—my own. It is one thread in a tapestry of millions. I cannot speak for every Black family torn apart by policy, every student made invisible by curriculum, or every protester demanding to be heard. What I can do is offer what I have seen, learned, and survived, and invite others to do the same.
This is the heart of the matter. The myth of the race expert is, in part, a byproduct of America’s need to outsource uncomfortable conversations. But true progress requires that we all step up. It means listening—to each other, to history, and to the voices too often left out. It means questioning our own assumptions, confronting our biases, and being willing to be wrong and to grow. It means moving past the search for easy answers or single saviors and embracing the messier, more democratic work of building understanding together.
I’ve seen real transformation happen when people share stories honestly—not just the polished, public ones, but the stories that don’t always have neat endings. When a white colleague confides their confusion, or a student admits their anger at learning the truth too late, that’s when something real starts. Those conversations are hard, but they’re also where change lives.
It is not enough to wait for the “experts” to tell us what to do. If you care about justice, you have to be a participant, not a spectator. That means reading, listening, making mistakes, apologizing, trying again. It means letting go of the fantasy that someone else can do the work for you.
So no, I am not the expert on race. And neither is anyone else. That is not a failing, but a fact—and an opportunity. If we are to finally address the truths this country has long tried to bury, it will not be because a few “experts” led the way, but because all of us chose to do the work. The answers we need are not in the possession of any one person; they are found in the hard, ongoing work of collective listening, learning, and action.
Let’s stop waiting for the expert to arrive. Let’s become the witnesses and the change-makers ourselves. Each of us is responsible. Each of us is called. The truth is out there—but only if we are willing to claim it, share it, and carry it forward together.
[END]
---
[1] Url:
https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2025/7/1/2331131/-I-m-Not-the-Expert-on-Race-No-One-Is?pm_campaign=front_page&pm_source=more_community&pm_medium=web
Published and (C) by Daily Kos
Content appears here under this condition or license: Site content may be used for any purpose without permission unless otherwise specified.
via Magical.Fish Gopher News Feeds:
gopher://magical.fish/1/feeds/news/dailykos/
