The Blind Can See: The Fake Obliviousness of Whiteness and Black Life
My experience with COVID-19 and racism.
“She just acted like my life didn’t matter.”
I repeated this phrase over and over again for about a week, sometimes through hot, angry tears, and other times through disbelief and shock. I couldn’t believe what I had been subjected to. On May 1, my former roommate casually told me that she and her boyfriend had tested positive for COVID-19…in early April. She said it as if it were a small thing, something barely worth mentioning. Maybe that’s why she waited three weeks to tell me.
And before you ask, yes, yes she is.
I hadn’t seen or heard a word from her since March 24. She had brought her boyfriend over that day, which I was extremely anxious about given how quickly the COVID-19 pandemic was escalating. She texted me randomly on May 1: “Hey girlie, haven’t checked on you in a minute. How’s it going?”
Between that day in March and May 1, my asthma had gotten worse. Every night, I was having coughing fits that induced vomiting. In between coughs, I would wheeze and continuously experienced shortness of breath. I started using my nebulizer about three to four times a day.
One night in late April, I almost went to the emergency room because nothing that I was doing helped, and I was still gasping for air. With no fever and no known exposure to COVID-19, my doctor repeatedly said that allergy season and the insane amounts of pollen in Mississippi set off my asthma. She also told me that my symptoms weren’t contagious, so I had no reason to be tested for COVID-19 because, as far as I knew, I was not exposed to anyone who was diagnosed with the virus. I continued my nebulizer and inhaler use, took anti-allergy medications, and avoided trigger foods.
I responded back to her text several hours later asking how she was.
She texted back that she and her boyfriend had COVID-19: “He went to the hospital and is so much better now….it’s been over two weeks, so I’m pretty sure I didn’t expose you to it.” She went on, “I’m sure I caught it too, but there’s been research on different blood types. What blood type are you?” She texted this so casually, feigning obliviousness.
What the hell do blood types have to do with getting coronavirus? I froze and just stared at the text message with my mouth wide open in disbelief. I was in utter shock and just confused. And pissed. And all other sorts of emotions.
It’s no secret that COVID-19 has disproportionately affected African Americans more than any other demographic, and Mississippi is no exception. Mississippi Today reported in early April that African Americans accounted for over 50 percent of COVID-19 cases, and 72 percent of the deaths. Black Americans, especially Black women, represent a high percentage of essential workers and are more likely to be exposed. I read a quote once, “When America catches a cold, Black people catch the flu.”
I had done everything I could to avoid getting sick, yet, I was still exposed. I texted her back calmly and explained that I should have been notified and that my whole family was exposed and jeopardized.
Her response: “Neither of us presented until early April. I didn’t tell you, because you never said you had any symptoms, so I didn’t want to create the placebo effect.”
Placebo effect? I’m not stupid. Automatically, the decision for my family’s health was ripped away. I felt helpless.
She continued with her empty explanation: “The fact that you’re saying this to me is very insulting. I’m sorry that you’re upset, but I don’t feel bad for not saying anything…I understand your frustration, but I don’t appreciate the implication that I have somehow willingly endangered you or your family.”
But she did endanger me and my family.
“Not only that, but you haven’t engaged with me to check on me or him. So to the best of my knowledge and based on the information presented by his physicians. You were not at risk of exposure, from him or I.”
Early April. That definitely falls in the timeline during which they were in my living space before they started showing symptoms. I scrolled on Facebook and saw where her boyfriend’s mom told the whole world on Facebook of his hospitalization and medical advice to quarantine. He was hospitalized for a few days just one week after they were in the apartment. I most definitely could have been exposed. She’s blaming this on me. I just started internally screaming. I never responded to her message.
White women often portray a sense of innocence and blind ignorance when it comes to matters of Black life — which can be deadly. Even the well-meaning white women who are “allies” do it. My former roommate used to be a close friend. She had a front-row seat to the racism I experienced while doing racial reconciliation work at the University of Mississippi and fighting to dismantle Confederate iconography. She had attended several diversity training sessions with me as a co-worker. She had asked my opinion on several racial issues and had attended several of the peer discussions and training sessions that I conducted as a student leader. She’s not oblivious.
My high-risk Black family was exposed to COVID-19, and my former roommate willingly made a decision to not inform me. She took our lives into her hands.
I’m 22 years old — born and raised in Mississippi and now a graduate of the University of Mississippi. By this point in my life, racism doesn’t surprise me anymore. But it does hurt me. And what happened hurt me. I was heartbroken and betrayed. I had never experienced a blatant disregard for my life by someone who I called friend. I played myself on this one.
The next morning, I called my emergency doctor and spoke with several other health professionals, and they all agreed that I should have been notified and that I was exposed. Since I am high risk, they recommended I be tested within 24 hours and start isolation. They all expressed complete disbelief. I read the text messages to the nurse on the phone and asked for her opinion. “I don’t mean to be harsh,” she said in a sweet, Southern voice. Then her tone changed to something deeper and serious: “She could have killed you. She literally could have killed you.” I started crying.
I was supposed to take my senior pictures that day. I hysterically called my mom, and she rushed me to my hometown to be tested to avoid insurance hassle. After the nurse stuck the swab all the way up my nose, I sat in the back seat of my mom’s car and cried. And I kept repeating, “She just acted like my life didn’t matter. Like she had no regard for my life at all.”
She acted like my life didn’t matter.
My results came back a few days later — negative. Yet, I didn’t feel much better. I was grateful to be alive and for my family’s good health, but I still felt like a victim of a violent trauma. I felt like my life didn’t matter. One of the most exciting parts of my life, celebrating a successful undergraduate career, was marred by the threat that I might have lost my life to a deadly pandemic that has already claimed the lives of over 100,000 Americans.
My roommate “apologized” a few days later but tried to justify her inaction by saying that the doctors suggested that they tell as few people as possible to avoid hysteria. She also claimed the Mississippi State Health Department told her that I didn’t have to be notified because I wasn’t exposed. I called the health department myself. They said I did have exposure, and I should have been notified.
The week after graduation, I packed up all my stuff, broke my lease, and left.
That’s the thing about whiteness. It doesn’t care about friendships or emotions and vulnerable moments shared. Whiteness will smile in your face, yet it will slap you. Whiteness will collect your tears — the other tears that whiteness has caused — then try to draw blood. Whiteness will tell you about its racist parents, but say “Oh no honey, they love you.” Whiteness will say, “I love you”, yet almost kill you.
What a privilege it must be to be sick with a deadly virus that is killing thousands, disproportionately affecting Black people, but refuse to consider how it would affect your Black roommate. What a privilege it must be to walk away from this situation unscathed and know that you will always be believed. This situation wasn’t a moment of ignorance or stress-induced forgetfulness. This moment was a result of my roommate blatantly ignoring and refusing the consequences for her actions. It was a moment of violence and racism.
My therapist told me that I am still in fight or flight mode. I know. I’m a Black woman from Mississippi. Fight or flight is normal for me. Lately, I’ve been feeling like I have to fight or flight a lot. I am physically OK now. Emotionally, I’m not. And there’s no remedy to it.
I know that there will be another incident where whiteness acts like my life doesn’t matter, and I will keep fighting and recovering and repeat the cycle all over again. Until then, I just want whiteness to be held accountable for its actions.
I just don’t want whiteness to take my life into its hands. But that’s how whiteness is. It will always keep coming back, with a smile and a hug, yet it will still try to drown me.