“You don’t have to be intentionally trying to cause harm, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not happening.”
Like so many others, I followed author and anti-racism educator Monique Melton on Instagram during the summer of 2020. That was, of course, when the Black Lives Matter movement emerged as an immediate and necessary political movement in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. That summer, millions of white Americans pored over books on race and inequality in an effort to better their understanding of the issues at hand, pundits opined about police violence against the Black community, and others took to the streets during marches and demonstrations to make their voices heard.
But now, nearly three years later, where do we stand? Are we any closer to achieving an equitable nation, or at least to honestly confronting the unjust structures America was built on? Now, at the tail end of Black History Month, I wanted to catch up with Melton — the founder of the Shine Bright School — to learn her feelings on the state of race in America. We talked about the recent backlash against Black history being taught in schools, the simple concrete step you can take to make change today, and why she “despises” the term “ally.”
Katie Couric: Can you tell us your background and how you got involved in anti-racism advocacy?
Monique Melton: So, I’m Monique Melton and I am a whole human being. That’s what I tell everyone first and foremost, always and forever. And the work that I do is to pursue Black liberation by reclaiming my own humanity and also via the Shine Bright School, which I founded. We have an online learning community for folks who are committed to doing this work for liberation from the inside out. We also have a podcast, and I’m writing another book. I’m also a speaker, and I do consulting with brands on committing to anti-racism within the workplace. I’m married to my high school sweetheart, and we have two beautiful children. We met in weightlifting class and we say that we’ve been spotting each other ever since. We moved from the states, and now we live in Spain.
What brought you to Spain?
I came here in 2019 and just fell in love. And as a Black woman raising Black children, I wanted to move to a place where our nervous systems could settle down quite a bit. Somewhere we wouldn’t have to be so hyper-vigilant about things that no one should have to be vigilant about: the violence and the racism, but also the school shootings.
Is there a palpable difference in the way you feel there?
There’s certainly racism here, but there’s a particular type of racial violence in the United States that’s very unique to the United States, and it has a lot to do with access to lethal weapons. And that, combined with the refusal to acknowledge racism or to repair the harm, is just a really violent concoction. Here, if my child is having a rough day at school, I don’t have to worry about them calling the police to escort them out in handcuffs because maybe they had a meltdown or took an extra carton of milk. But the United States is so punitive and so violent that even the smallest infraction could be deadly for our children. That’s terrifying.
What motivated you to do this kind of anti-racism work?
I grew up in St. Louis, a very segregated city, and up until the fifth grade, I was in predominantly Black schools. My neighborhood was really diverse, but in middle school, we moved school districts. My parents wanted us to have a different quality of education, and my new school was primarily white. That was probably the first time that I can recall consistently experiencing blatant racism daily. I was the only Black kid on my bus, and every single day, there were white kids teasing, taunting, antagonizing me.
Then I went to a primarily white high school, my college was primarily white, and even after college, I found myself in a lot of predominantly white institutions. But it wasn’t until I became a mom and Mike Brown was murdered in St. Louis that I remember feeling this terrifying sense of awareness that I’d never had before: That could be my kid. My son could be a hashtag. I’ve always been Black, and I’ve always been aware of racism, but it wasn’t until becoming a mom that the terror hit in such a deeply personal, physical way.
So what did you want to focus on, after that happened?
So I have this naive belief that perhaps white people are doing all this racist stuff because they don’t know better. And if they knew better, then they would do better. So I focus a lot on awareness and teaching people the basics, like how to identify racism and understand the different insidious ways that it shows up. You don’t have to always be blatantly, intentionally going out and trying to cause racial harm, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not happening. But I was met with so much resistance, especially from people who I thought would’ve been by my side, including a friend who was in the room when I gave birth to my daughter.
Instead of championing me, some people were telling me I was being divisive and that I needed to focus on being a Christian and not being Black. I just remember feeling so devastated — like, you’re telling me that I have to pretend that one part of my reality doesn’t exist? But I started creating classes, and my very first was called Unity Over Comfort. For six weeks, I had a guest lecturer teach a whole segment on Black history — it was very comprehensive. Then fast forward to the summer of 2020, with the pandemic, and continued police brutality and violence. George Floyd was murdered, Breonna Taylor, so many people… And there was this combustion — I called it the “pseudo-white awakening.” I went from 17,000 Instagram followers to 225,000 Instagram followers in one week. Everybody all of a sudden was anti-racist or wanted to be. Everybody was like, “I’m an ally, Black Lives Matter.”
But all these concepts require a significant amount of intentional work to actually understand and commit to, which is why we now have what I like to call the “great white apathy.” So many people are far more resistant than before because they got a little taste of what anti-racism could be, but they didn’t stay with it long enough.
Do you think anything has changed as a result of the Black Lives Matter movement? And do you feel that there’s been somewhat of an awakening, where people are more conscious of overt racism and even implicit bias?
No, not in a substantial way. What has changed is there’s been more stripping of reproductive rights, more abuse, and violence against trans folks. The suicide rate among Black men went up, there’s more funding for the police. So actually, in a lot of ways, things have gotten worse.
Do you think that’s a backlash against some of the nascent changes that were happening?
Absolutely. Carol Anderson talks about this in her book White Rage. She documents these distinct times in U.S. history when there was a substantial amount of progress toward liberation, which was met swiftly with white rage and pushback. Now we’re banning books, and there’s so much resistance to the concept of critical race theory. But no kid is learning critical race theory unless they’re in law school.
Let’s talk about that controversy over the AP Black History curriculum: Ron DeSantis spoke out against it and now four other states — Arkansas, North Dakota, Mississippi, and Virginia — are considering banning that curriculum. Is that part of the backlash against some of the progress that’s been made?
100 percent. As Carol Anderson says, white rage comes from this fear that if Black folks have equality or equity, they’re going to do to white folks what y’all have done to us. And that’s not what liberation is. That’s not even close. That’s literally the opposite of liberation. The idea that all of us are able to live freely and fully in our humanity is what we’re working toward — not to have power and dominance and control over another human being, and not to replicate systems of oppression and get revenge.
When politicians say that the AP Black history content has a political agenda, what’s your reaction to that?
Everything is political, including laws that permit me from living in certain neighborhoods and voting where I’m actually supposed to be voting. So long as there are laws that permit such violence against folks, everything is political, and the fact that they’re trying to remove those courses is political. It’s just not pushing the political agenda that they desire. It’s 2023, but these feel like tactics out of a 1950s playbook. White supremacy is not new and it’s not savvy. It’s the same cycle.
When it comes to the concept of Black History Month, shouldn’t Black history be integrated into our core study and understanding of this country?
Absolutely. I think it should be what you’re learning day in, and day out. But it would require such an un-learning, and a complete redesign of the education system — and of the lies that we’re taught in school.
What do you hope liberation will lead to for Black women?
The first thing that comes to mind is healthcare. Health equity means you can go have a baby and not be terrified that you or your baby is gonna die because of medical racism. But also liberation would mean never having to convince anyone that I deserve humanity: I can have access to housing, access to food. We can live in environments where there’s no environmental racism. We can be able to raise our children without them being adultified or targeted by police. We could build wealth to take care of our family, take care of our needs, and take care of our community. We can be in relationships that are healthy and affirming. We could stop seeing the expectation that Black women are supposed to be strong and endure it all. We can say “I need help,” and there will actually be help available and it will not be weaponized against us. We can say “I’m scared,” and people will see that as us being human, and not as a threat.
When we talk about epigenetics and ancestral trauma, we could heal that. We could be creative and not be spending time trying to fight racism. We could be baking cookies and braiding our babies’ hair, not fighting to protect them.
You mentioned that you’ve become skeptical about the notion of “allies.” But for someone white in America who’s reading this, what would you ask them to do, in addition to dealing with themselves? Are there any practical steps people can take to help eradicate racism, or at least pay attention to their own behavior?
Yes, I absolutely despise the word “ally” for many reasons. For one, it’s often a self-imposed title based on…what? Anti-racism is a commitment to action, not an identity. When people call themselves an “ally,” that’s usually a red flag for me. You don’t know what you don’t know.
But what does work is education plus experience. So the more you take what you’re learning and create experiences around it, the more confidence you’ll have. You might not ever feel comfortable, just like changing a diaper is never a fun time, but you learn how to do it and you get it done. For example, calling out a racist comment by a relative or coworker is never going to feel comfortable. However, you can get more confidence by learning how to do it and practicing that. But the other thing that a lot of people really don’t wanna do is to look at your money and start redistributing it into the Black community — redistributing your resources. That’s going to bring up in you a lot of beliefs that you didn’t realize you had. Let’s say you made a thousand dollars this week but you only really need $200 to live off of. Why don’t you redistribute $600?
When you say redistribute, what do you mean?
I mean, take your money and put it into the hands of Black folks. Whether that’s through mutual aid, or through organizations run by Black folks. Because one of the things that we have to repair, because of capitalism and white supremacy, is this individualism when it comes to money. But it’s also the fact that white people have had eight generations to build financial wealth while Black folks were literally enslaved. So you’ve had the advantage of building and earning and passing down money to generations — and it’s time to redistribute that.
I should know what mutual aid means, but can you explain that term?
So basically, let’s say I know a family who needs $500, and I coordinate the aid: My friend Jodi might give $20, Johnny might give $100, and Jodi might ask five of her friends for the money. So we’re collectively working to bring money together to meet needs in our community and putting that money right into the hands of those who need it. It’s a very community-oriented type of care.
And what do people say to that?
Oh, you know, “I worked for everything I have! This is my money and I’ve worked for this.” This brings up the myth around pulling yourself up by your bootstrap — the idea that if you work hard, you’ll get ahead in life. That’s the thing about racism: If I have to acknowledge that you didn’t get things because you’re Black, I have to then acknowledge that I got things cause I’m white, so perhaps I didn’t work for everything I have. Perhaps there are some advantages that I was able to experience and things I didn’t have to deal with.
The idea of wealth redistribution gets a lot of resistance from people.
Oh yeah, because one major component of white supremacy is the hoarding of resources. Look how many people went out and bought all that toilet paper during Covid.
As we close out Black History Month, are you feeling any optimism, in terms of the state of race relations in the United States?
Yes, I’m incredibly hopeful because I literally represent hope: I am alive today because of my ancestors’ hope and fight and resistance. So if anything, I’m hopeful and I’m grateful. And I continue on their legacy by pursuing liberation and living it out in my own life. I’m really inspired by Black people’s commitment to never accepting the status quo. I know I’m descended from people who believe and operate in the truth that liberation is a birthright. I have a community of people who are lovely, supportive, generous, and accountable to each other. And I’m creating this world in which I get to vibrate with these folks all the time. I love it.
