Vachon Imagined

It’s not just a matter of race.

Racism doesn’t arise entirely from the complexities of skin color. It comes from the mind, from the heart—or more accurately, from our perception of life itself. Those perceptions often get wrapped in what we call facts. Yet one thing I learned working within the legal system is that facts do not always settle a case, and the tools we use to determine them are not always reliable.

So we return to something deeper.

We return to the place where meaning is formed before it has a name. Before thought hardens into certainty. Before judgment becomes belief.

I’ve experienced racism in my life as a white woman.

Not simply as a white woman married to a Black man, or someone who dated Black men before him, but as a person who has been looked at and instantly understood through someone else’s assumptions.

Years ago, I was helping at a bodybuilding competition, presenting awards and crowning winners. It was a privilege. Unlike many spectators, I knew what stood behind every physique on that stage: the sacrifice, the discipline, the hunger, the self-doubt, the exhaustion. I knew what it took to stand beneath those lights.

When it came time to crown one of the winners, a Black woman who had beautiful extensions in her hair, I struggled to secure the crown properly. As her family and friends cheered, I heard someone remark, “That white girl doesn’t know about extensions.”

The comment was small, but recognizable. An assumption made from the color of my skin.

I heard it.

And then I let it pass through me.

Because in that moment, the story wasn’t about me.

It was about a woman who had worked relentlessly to earn her place in the spotlight. A moment she may never experience again. Amid the excitement, pressure, and confusion, I simply leaned in and whispered, “We’ll figure this out. Help me get it placed.”

And we did.

The crown settled.

The cheers continued.

And all that noise we call racism disappeared.

Not because anyone argued about it. Not because anyone won a debate. Not because someone was proven right or wrong.

It disappeared because two human beings met each other beyond their assumptions.

We often believe that talking more about racism will eliminate it. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn’t.

What dissolved the tension that day was something much older and much stronger than ideology.

Gentleness.

Real power.

Not the kind that gains itself by diminishing others. Not the kind that needs to be right, superior, or victorious.

Real power knows itself already.

And because it knows itself, it can meet what is frightened, defensive, wounded, or powerless with love, strength, and courage.

That is where perception changes.

That is where the heart changes.

And perhaps that is where racism ends—not in winning over another person, but in seeing them clearly enough that there is no battle left to fight.