When I was in my mid-twenties I encountered the most blatant display of racism I have ever witnessed, first hand, in my life. I didn’t do anything about it.

It was the fall of 1979. I had moved to the Boston area for a job as a computer programmer and was looking for my first apartment. A starting salary, proximity to the job, and housing affordability all dictated a duplex in the suburbs was my best bet. So one foggy brained Saturday morning, I took a tour with the landlady of such a dwelling. I knew the apartment wasn’t right but sat through her speech anyway. Toward the end, there was a knock at the door. She opened it to a well groomed, polite, young black man wearing a suit, who said he was inquiring about the apartment for rent. The owner brusquely replied that it was no longer available, and shut the door after the man thanked her. Shocked and disgusted, I stood up immediately, told her bluntly I was not interested, and left.

As quickly as I exited, it was not quick enough. The young man’s car was already pulling away. And it was only at that moment, as I watched him leave, that I realized he deserved and, in fact, needed to be informed of what had just happened, and that I had moved too slowly to do it.

There were still actions I could have taken. I could have confronted the owner. I could have memorized the car license plate and reported the incident to the police. I could have called the NAACP, or some other organisation, and given them the address of the apartment. I didn’t do any of these things, mostly because I didn’t think of them at the time. But I should have.

Then, in April of 1989, the story of the Central Park jogger broke. A white, 28 year old, investment banker had been raped and severely beaten one night while jogging in Central Park. For weeks she was in critical condition, her name withheld. It dominated the news as everyone hung on for updates of her status. During that period, I remember picking up the newspaper and seeing an article on the jogger--front page, above the fold, with large, bold-fonted headlines--then turning the pages, reading, until I got to page eight or so. There, below the fold, in a small, five to six inch column, was the story of the black woman. She had been thrown off the roof of a building in New York City. I thought: There it is, in black and white, literally- page one, above the fold, white woman; page eight, below fold, black woman.

It spoke volumes and hit me like a ton of bricks. It doesn’t get any more obvious than this, I thought. Sitting right there, plain as day, for all to see. What could I do? I had to do something. A letter to the editor was the only option. But almost immediately doubts started seeping in. I had never written a letter before, what were the chances of it being published? Could I even write it well? Or would it be clumsy or, worse, come off as some self-gratifying, liberal, arm-chair philosophizing by a white woman? And what could one letter do anyway? I did nothing.

And then, in the mid-90’s, the rash of black church burning’s in the south happened. Yet again I thought, I should do something. Get on a plane and just go down there and volunteer. But where would I go, and who would I contact? Yet again, inertia set in. I had been working as a computer contractor and was in between jobs. My excuse this time was I couldn’t afford to miss a job opportunity. I didn’t go.

Sometime during the 80’s, after reading articles on how whites react when ‘encountering a black on a dark street’, I reflected on my own reaction when in vulnerable situations. Though I had to admit I felt slightly more nervous when encountering a black man than a white, the exercise helped me become more aware and proactive in my own security. I realized my bias was culturally induced, and that the real problem was the situation itself, not the race of the person. White men commited assaults too, I’d seen reports in the newspaper.

I made a rational change. I started making more direct eye contact, and smiling or nodding whenever I passed a black person. At first, I was often met with skepticism or wariness, but over time, the smiles and nods started being returned with increasing frequency. One small step.

My actions since then have, regrettably, been few and far between. How many times have I vowed to attend a funeral, rally or protest, and not done it? Finally, this past December, after Eric Garners unfathomable death at the hands of police, I joined the march in San Francisco, my first ever, to protest police brutality against blacks. With this piece, I offer up my own shortcomings in stepping up to deal with racism.

I don’t know what impact this will have, but I decided I would not succumb to the slippery slope of doubt again. Perhaps by being candid on the ‘whys’ and ‘hows’ of my failings- the lack of presence of mind, fear of being misunderstood, general inertia, etc.- it will help others get past thier own misgivings so we can all finally, honestly, start to ‘rap about race’. With the Charleston church shooting, ongoing excessive police force against blacks, and the ever widening gaps between the races in education, incarceration rates and job opportunities, it is truly time for whites to stand up and say: This is unacceptable. This must change!