There’s a recurring moment I’ve witnessed — in progressive spaces, policy discussions, even among those who call themselves allies. It’s this quiet, confused heartbreak in the eyes of well-meaning white folks when they confront the idea that whiteness itself — not individual acts of racism, not Trump, not the South — but *whiteness* is the root of the problem.
Frankly, their shock baffles me.
How, in 2025, is it still so hard to grasp that whiteness — the identity, the construct, the system — is not a side effect, not an accident, not a byproduct, but the *problem*?
This isn’t just ignorance. It’s a deliberate, almost reflexive denial. A fog that clouds reason, empathy, and basic logic. A mental block so deep and persistent that it operates like an addiction. Whiteness is a drug — one that has seeped into the American consciousness and rewired it.
Let’s be clear: whiteness isn’t about skin color or melanin. It’s about the systems whiteness built and continues to control. It’s about power — who gets safety during a traffic stop, whose name gets a callback on a resume, who gets the benefit of the doubt, and who gets the boot on their neck.
Whiteness is the lens through which institutions define “normal.” It rewrites history, erases harm, flattens cultures, and perpetuates the myth that we’re all starting from the same line in the race. It’s the cozy assumption that the world is fair and that inequities faced by people of color are just unfortunate outliers.
And when whiteness is called out, it defends itself viciously. The allergic reaction of “Not all white people.” The “I don’t see color” deflection. The guilt-laden tears that still, somehow, center whiteness.
This is why I say: whiteness is a powerful drug.
It numbs empathy. It distorts reality. It convinces people they are neutral while they’re swimming in unearned advantages. It reframes equity as a loss for white people instead of a long-overdue gain for everyone else. It teaches white Americans that whiteness isn’t a system — it’s just “how things are.”
If you’re white and reading this, I’m asking you to sit with this discomfort. Don’t explain it away. Don’t rush to say, “But I’m one of the good ones.” That’s the drug talking. That’s the indoctrination.
This isn’t about you being “evil.” It’s about you participating — knowingly or unknowingly — in a structure that is. A structure built for you. A structure that persists because even progressive white people can’t, or won’t, fully see it.
The work isn’t just about being kind or reading books or posting black squares. It’s about reckoning with whiteness. Naming it. Divesting from it.
Because until white people do that — until you understand that whiteness is the problem — nothing changes. Not really.
And that’s what baffles me most of all.
Tasha Young is the founder and executive director of the Good Policy Institute, Host of Elevation Nation on Black Westchester Platforms & Principle, P31 Partners
Tasha Young’s piece is a wake-up call that makes the impact of whiteness impossible to ignore. By describing whiteness as a “drug,” she powerfully highlights how deeply it can numb empathy and warp our sense of reality. Think about everyday moments—like feeling at ease during a traffic stop or being quickly trusted in a retail store—and recognize those are not universal experiences. Young calls on white readers to confront the jarring truth that this system grants them advantages most people of color simply don’t have. It’s not a matter of individual goodness or badness, but a reminder of how institutional structures—hiring practices, educational opportunities, policing—are built around whiteness as the default. Young’s words challenge all of us to step out of any comfort zone that says, “I’m one of the good ones,” and instead commit to dismantling the very framework that normalizes these inequalities. It’s difficult work, but as she makes clear, it’s the only real path to genuine progress.
My goodness gracious. Thank you my dear sister. We are in it completely and absolutely together.
Great work