My dear white friend, Let’s talk about White allyship and racism
I recently watched a video of a white lawyer speaking about the experiences of Black women. He was discussing the historical roots of what has become known as the Strong Black Woman stereotype and the ways in which its legacy continues to shape the treatment of Black women today.
He spoke about slavery, about Black women being subjected to forced labour, sexual violence, the separation of mothers from their children, and the extraordinary suffering they were expected to endure. He explained how that forced endurance became distorted into a belief that Black women were somehow naturally stronger, more resilient, more capable of tolerating pain, and therefore less deserving of protection, compassion and support.
He then connected that history with the present day. The Black woman in the workplace who is expected to manage more with fewer resources. The woman whose concerns are dismissed, whose frustration is interpreted as aggression, whose objections are described as insubordination, or whose professional judgement is questioned because of her supposedly difficult tone.
As I listened, I found myself completely gripped by what he was saying. Not because the message was new. Black women have been describing these experiences, challenging these assumptions and documenting these inequalities for generations. We have spoken about them in our workplaces, communities, through research, professional organisations, books and public conversations.
And yet, here was a white man speaking about them with such conviction. Someone who did not personally carry the racialised experience he was describing, but who had clearly been moved by what he had learned.
[Watch for yourself: the white man speaking about racism: does this move you?]
And here is the thing, my dear white friend. As I listened, something happened inside me.
I felt a glimmer of gratitude. Relief, perhaps. Hope. A sense of wonder. Almost a feeling of being believed. But the more I listened, the more I became aware that my response was not nearly as straightforward as those feelings might suggest. Alongside the gratitude, there was irritation and resentment. And I began to question why.
My dear white friend, why should I feel grateful to a white man for publicly acknowledging something Black women have been explaining for generations? Why should his willingness to speak feel so significant? Why should hearing someone recognise these injustices generate such a powerful emotional response?
Perhaps it was because his voice represented something that is often missing from these conversations: the willingness of those who do not directly experience racism to speak about it, to recognise it, to challenge it, and to say publicly what they may already know privately.
So often, the responsibility for explaining racism, identifying its consequences, challenging its manifestations and persuading others of its existence continues to rest with those experiencing it. And when someone else steps forward, particularly someone whose social and professional position may afford them greater influence, there can be an unexpected sense of relief.
For a moment, someone else is carrying some of that responsibility. I cannot tell you what that means. A moment of calm, a feeling that perhaps I can breathe again. Someone else is saying, in effect, I hear you. I believe you. And I am prepared to say so publicly. Even as I write this, my dear white friend, I find myself moved to tears.
But why should being believed feel like such a gift when it should never have been something we had to struggle to receive?
That question stays with me. And then another, more uncomfortable thought emerges. This is difficult to unpick, but here I was, listening to a white man describing the brutality of slavery and the treatment of Black women within systems historically dominated by White men.
I was conscious of the extraordinary power white men had exercised over the lives, bodies, freedom and humanity of enslaved Black women. Of course, this lawyer was not responsible for those historical atrocities. I know that. He was, in fact, speaking against their continuing legacy. But, my dear white friend, if I am honest, his identity also brought that history of racialised and gendered power into the room for me.
Part of me welcomed his voice, of course I did. But another part resisted the idea that I should feel grateful simply because a white man had chosen to speak.
I did not want my appreciation of his intervention to become another story in which a white man occupies the centre, while Black women’s experiences become the background against which his courage is celebrated. I did not want the experiences of Black women to acquire greater legitimacy simply because a White man had acknowledged them. Yet neither did I want to dismiss the significance of what he was doing.
This was not a rejection of white allyship, nor was it an unqualified celebration of it. It was something much more complicated.
I was grateful that he was speaking, and irritated that his speaking felt exceptional.
Perhaps you can understand that contradiction, my dear white friend. Perhaps you have experienced something similar in another context: the relief of finally being understood, mixed with frustration that understanding had taken so long to arrive, and perhaps even an expectation that you should be grateful.
There was something else about this particular lawyer that mattered. He explained that he had been deeply moved by a presentation delivered by two Black women lawyers, Sherry D. Soanes and Sacred B. Huff. He acknowledged their work and the way they had connected the historical experiences of enslaved Black women with the assumptions and prejudices that continue to influence contemporary workplaces.
I found myself returning to what had happened. He had listened to these women, learned from them, been emotionally moved by what they shared, and subsequently chosen to speak publicly about it. That sequence interested me because it suggested something more than simply agreeing with a message.
My dear white friend, what does it mean to be moved by someone else’s experience? And perhaps more importantly, what happens afterwards?
This is something I have been exploring through my Six Stages Framework, particularly the relationship between awareness, emotional engagement, understanding and action. Because there is a difference between knowing that racism exists, understanding how it operates, being emotionally affected by its consequences, and accepting some responsibility for challenging it.
Let me remind you briefly of my thinking. At Stage +1, Emerging Awareness, we may begin noticing experiences or inequalities we previously overlooked. At Stage +2, Discomfort & Awakening, what we are learning may begin to unsettle us, challenging our assumptions about what we have accepted as normal. By Stage +3, Developing Understanding, we begin connecting individual experiences with wider patterns of discrimination.
But understanding alone does not necessarily change anything. There is a difference between being emotionally moved and becoming sufficiently activated to do something about what we have learned.
At Stage +4, Engaged & Reflective, we examine our own responses, assumptions and responsibilities more actively. At Stage +5, Systems Thinker & Advocate, we recognise that individual goodwill is insufficient if organisational practices and structures continue to reproduce inequality. And Stage +6, Transformational Leader, invites us to consider how we might create environments in which equity becomes embedded in the ways people are treated, heard, supported and valued.
I am not suggesting that we can place this lawyer at a particular stage simply because he made a video. One public intervention cannot tell us the full story of someone’s beliefs, behaviours or sustained commitment. But his account offers something worth reflecting upon. He had allowed what he learned from Black women to influence how he used his own professional voice.
He did not have to remain silent. And my dear white friend, neither do you.
What interests me is not simply whether you agree that racism is wrong. It is what happens when that agreement begins to influence your behaviour.
What happens after you believe someone?
Do you offer sympathy and tell them privately how terrible their experience must have been? Do you reassure yourself that you would never behave in such a discriminatory way? Or do you begin asking what you can do with the understanding you now possess?
Because believing someone should not be the end of the conversation. It should be the beginning of responsibility. And what we do, and how we rise to that responsibility, matters.
This is where the lawyer’s message becomes particularly important. He was highlighting how apparently ordinary workplace language can conceal or reproduce racialised assumptions. Words such as aggressive, pushy, difficult or not a team player may appear entirely neutral when considered in isolation. But what happens when those descriptions are repeatedly applied to Black women who question unfair treatment, express disagreement or assert their professional judgement?
I have to be honest, my dear white friend. I have heard those words used to describe me more than once.
And I wonder how often others have heard such descriptions without questioning them. How often is the same behaviour interpreted as confidence in one colleague and aggression in another? How often do people recognise the possibility of bias but choose not to challenge it?
This is not about assuming that every criticism of a Black woman is discriminatory. It is about being sufficiently aware, reflective and informed to recognise when bias may be influencing how behaviour is interpreted. And it is about being prepared to examine those possibilities even when doing so creates discomfort.
But I want to return to another question that emerged as I listened.
Do people listen differently when a white man speaks about racism?
I cannot answer that question for everyone who watched the video. But I wonder whether some people who question the experiences of Black women might find themselves more willing to consider those same experiences when they are described by a white male professional.
Might the lawyer’s race, gender and professional status confer a credibility that Black women are too often required to fight to establish? And if so, what does that tell us about the way authority is constructed, recognised and distributed?
This is one of the uncomfortable realities of privilege. It operates not only through access to opportunities, resources or positions of authority, but also through assumptions about whose accounts are credible, whose expertise is valued and whose experiences require further evidence before they are accepted.
Yet there is another complication. If we celebrate the white man who speaks about racism more enthusiastically than the Black women whose experiences and expertise informed his understanding, are we not at risk of reproducing the very hierarchy of credibility we are trying to challenge?
The lawyer’s acknowledgement of Sherry D. Soanes and Sacred B. Huff was therefore important. He recognised where his learning had come from. He was not presenting himself as the discoverer of their suffering.
And perhaps that is part of what meaningful allyship should involve. Not speaking over those who have been marginalised, but helping ensure their voices are heard. Not becoming the centre of the story, but using whatever influence we possess to challenge the conditions that have kept others at its margins. Not rescuing, but recognising responsibility (and even our part in it) .
As I reflected on my own response, I realised that I could welcome his intervention while questioning why I welcomed it so intensely. I could appreciate his willingness to speak while remaining conscious of the historical power associated with White male authority. I could experience something resembling the relief of being believed while resisting the suggestion that my experiences, or those of other Black women, required his endorsement to become legitimate.
These feelings did not cancel one another out. They coexisted.
And perhaps that is something we do not always make enough space for when discussing racism and allyship. The emotional landscape is rarely simple. We can experience gratitude and anger simultaneously. We can welcome solidarity while questioning the inequalities that make solidarity necessary. We can recognise someone’s contribution without placing them on a pedestal.
Through the Six Stages Framework, I am increasingly interested in these moments of internal reflection. The feelings we notice, the assumptions we question, the discomfort we tolerate and the choices we make can all contribute to how we understand our own position and responsibilities. Our emotional experiences are rarely straightforward, and the psychological states we occupy do not necessarily follow a neat developmental progression. We can feel hopeful, irritated and uncertain, while simultaneously experiencing something that moves us towards action.
The question is what we do with those responses.
So, my dear white friend, I want you to consider what happens inside you when a Black colleague describes an experience of racism. Do you become defensive? Do you immediately search for alternative explanations or wonder whether they have misunderstood the situation? Does your discomfort prevent you from listening openly or taking their experience seriously, particularly when it challenges your understanding of someone or something you trust?
And when you recognise that something may be wrong, what do you do? Do you wait until the meeting has ended before expressing your support? Do you remain silent because challenging a colleague or senior leader might be uncomfortable? Or are you prepared to use your voice in the spaces where it may make a difference?
I am not asking you to become a saviour. God only knows that is the last thing I am asking for. I am not asking you to speak for me when I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself. And I am certainly not asking you to assume that your words are more valuable than mine.
I am asking you to recognise that there may be circumstances in which your voice is received differently, where your intervention carries influence, and where your silence allows existing assumptions to remain unchallenged. I am asking you to consider what responsibility comes with that possibility.
Because ultimately, the goal cannot be a world in which Black women must wait for white men to confirm what they have experienced before others are prepared to listen. The goal must be to change the conditions that make such confirmation seem necessary. And perhaps that is where genuine transformational leadership begins: not simply in becoming the person who speaks out, but in helping create environments in which others do not have to struggle to be heard.
So yes, I welcomed that lawyer’s voice. I was moved by his willingness to speak when so many remain silent. And I remain grateful for those who listen, learn and choose to act. But perhaps we need many more White men to speak out, so that hearing voices like his no longer surprises or unsettles us.
Beneath my gratitude sits a question I cannot ignore.
Why has silence become so ordinary that hearing a White man speak out against racism can feel extraordinary?
My dear white friend, I do not need you to make my experiences real. They are real whether you acknowledge them or not. But I do need you to recognise that what you choose to do with your understanding matters.
I want you to listen, to question what you have been taught to accept as normal, and to take seriously the experiences that others share with you. And when you recognise injustice, I want you to consider what you are prepared to do about it.
Because the real measure of allyship is not simply that you have heard us, that you are aware, or even that you have spoken.
It is whether your actions are helping to change the conditions in which we have had to fight (for so long) to be heard in the first place.
Yours with hope and expectation,
Dr Shungu Hilda M’gadzah
Founder, Six Stages Framework
Explore the My dear white friend series
The burden of explaining racism
Creating environments in which others feel heard
