I Am Amy Cooper

I’ve never called the police because I felt intimidated by a Black man while he was birdwatching.

But I’ve had friends who told racist jokes, and instead of pointing out our privilege, I’ve forced smiles.

I’ve never shot a Black man while he was out jogging.

But sometimes I feel my heart rate increase when I see him.

I’ve never held my knee down on a Black man’s throat while he begged me for air.

But when I hear reports of shootings, I never wonder if it happened in a “white neighborhood.”

I’m not racist.

But.

I haven’t watched the video of Amy Cooper calling the police to report that she felt threatened by Christian Cooper when he asked her to leash her dog. I don’t believe that video evidence should be a requirement when it comes to believing Black stories.

I’ve read her quotes. I’ve seen people describe her voice. How she weaponized her whiteness when speaking to the 911 dispatcher so that they knew there was an African American man making her fear for her life. And when I read this, I understood the nuance the writers were trying to convey, because inherent in this interaction was white privilege-- the knowledge that she, a white person, could say a Black man meant her harm, and that someone would come with a burning cross.

I know the voice. White women learn this early. It’s a stereotype, a trope, an archetypal representation of white womanhood. When helplessness is instilled, learned, and enforced by the patriarchy, women learn ways to get what they want. One of these ways is by outright manipulation: bat your eyelashes, clasp your hands, push your boobs together, swivel back and forth. The Pose.

And then raise the pitch of your voice a little bit. Make it sound cute. Make it sound weak. Make it sound scared. Make yourself sound small so they know you need saving.

“I’m going to tell them there’s an African American man threatening my life.”

There is outrage surrounding Amy Cooper because what she did is reprehensible and because it is dangerous. As people have been quick to point out, Emmett Till was lynched in 1955 because Carolyn Bryant said he raped her when he didn’t. But Carolyn used the voice, and so did Amy. The difference was that Christian had a cameraphone, and Emmett didn’t.

As white people, we are very good at showing outrage in quick bursts. We denounce, we get mad, and we get quiet until the next Amy Cooper shows her tail in the next viral video or until we decide a burning Target is more important than a dead man.

But as is becoming increasingly clear, we have to do and be better. And that starts with understanding that Amy Cooper is Carolyn Bryant is me.

Amy Cooper is dangerous and the privilege that made her dangerous is the same privilege all white Americans have. It’s our heritage. It’s our history. America was never about equality, it was about the preservation of white male supremacy. And until we reckon with that, we will still be killing Black people as they watch birds and go for runs and write checks, because we will still believe that their Blackness is a threat.

Amy Cooper is Carolyn Bryant is me is you. And it’s time we start using our voices for something better.