Navigating Whiteness in Social Justice: From Call-Out Culture to Intra-White Tensions

Reflections on Race, Privilege, and Allyship in Complex Times

Introduction: Setting the Stage

It was a whirlwind moment. One day, I felt fully aligned with a cause I believed in, supporting voices that called out harmful behavior within our communities. The next day, I found myself on the receiving end of that very same call-out culture — my intentions misunderstood, my words twisted, and my character questioned. As someone who navigates life from an intersectional identity, the experience left me feeling both exposed and deeply introspective. How had I arrived here, and what did this mean for the justice I sought to serve?

[Edit based on reader feedback for clarity and understanding:]
I recently received feedback highlighting the critique that white women weaponize boundaries. This feedback is important, and I want to acknowledge it openly. Historically, boundaries have been used by those with privilege—including white women like myself—to avoid accountability and maintain comfort, often at the expense of people of color (DiAngelo, 2018). This is a painful truth that needs to be recognized. At the same time, I also want to share my own experience: I set boundaries not only for self-preservation but, more importantly, to protect others because of the impact my invisible marginalized identities have on my interactions. For someone who lives as a system, where a nervous system pushed too far can cause a dissociative episode, boundaries are a necessary tool for both personal safety and, more crucially, for the well-being of those around me. Dissociation can be traumatizing to witness, and I set boundaries to prevent reaching that point, balancing my need for connection with self-protection.

Call-out culture — the practice of publicly naming and shaming individuals or groups for perceived wrongdoings — has become a prevalent tool for accountability within contemporary social justice movements. When this practice intensifies, it often evolves into cancel culture, where individuals or entities are ostracized and stripped of their platforms or support. But where do we draw the line between accountability and retribution? As someone with intersecting identities, I have found myself caught in the crosshairs of these practices, both as a participant and a target. Yet, I have also encountered hostility from other White allies who, in their efforts to demonstrate their commitment to anti-racism, have rejected or criticized me in ways that felt exclusionary and performative.

In this essay, I reflect on my experiences and lessons learned, drawing on the wisdom of Black feminist thought leaders like adrienne maree brown, bell hooks, Audre Lorde, and others, to explore the complexities of call-out and cancel culture. I will also address the intra-White tensions that arise in these spaces, where even among White allies, there can be a struggle for moral high ground. Through this exploration, I aim to discover a path that balances accountability with compassion and creates space for healing, transformation, and justice.

Defining Call-Out and Cancel Culture

Call-Out Culture: Call-out culture, in its simplest form, is a practice of publicly identifying and denouncing behavior perceived as harmful, oppressive, or unjust. It is often employed as a way to demand accountability from those who wield power or privilege. However, adrienne maree brown suggests an alternative approach: “calling in” rather than calling out. She describes calling in as a way to engage in meaningful dialogue and foster understanding while holding people accountable (brown, 2019). This approach shifts the focus from public shaming to private, compassionate engagement that seeks transformation rather than punishment.

Cancel Culture: Cancel culture takes this practice a step further, often withdrawing support entirely from individuals, brands, or organizations deemed harmful or problematic. This can range from public condemnation on social media to the loss of professional opportunities. While cancel culture is seen by some as a necessary tool for holding powerful figures accountable, it can also create a culture of fear and silence, especially for those who hold marginalized identities. When nuanced understanding is sacrificed for punitive measures, the risk of replicating the same exclusionary practices we aim to dismantle increases.

Intersectional Challenges: Navigating these cultures from an intersectional perspective adds layers of complexity. As someone who embodies multiple marginalized identities, I have felt both empowered to call out injustice and vulnerable to being called out or canceled. The nuances of race, gender, neurodivergence, and other intersecting identities create unique challenges in these environments. Black feminist scholars like Kimberlé Crenshaw emphasize the importance of understanding how these identities intersect to shape our experiences with social justice practices (Crenshaw, 1989).

Understanding Intra-White Tensions in Social Justice

Navigating social justice spaces as a White person committed to allyship is complex, especially when facing hostility from other White people. In these spaces, White people often wrestle with their own internal conflicts about privilege, guilt, and responsibility, which can manifest in different ways — from overzealous attempts to prove one’s commitment to defensiveness when called into question.

I have often encountered what feels like performative allyship — a kind of competition among White people to prove who is the "most woke" or "least problematic." In these environments, I have been called out, criticized, or dismissed by other White people in ways that felt less about genuine accountability and more about signaling their own virtue.

One particularly painful example was when I was denied the opportunity to speak on stage by myself, solely because I am White. Ironically, the decision came from a White man who held his own intersectional identity as a gay person. He argued that allowing me to speak alone would look bad for diversity efforts. In trying to create a more inclusive space, he effectively excluded me because of my race, without regard for my own intersectional identity, the content of what I had to say, or the values I aimed to represent. This experience left me feeling disempowered and erased, wondering whether diversity efforts had become more about optics than genuine inclusion.

In another instance, I found myself labeled as a "colonizer" by a White woman who, in the same sentence, told me to read White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo. I remember feeling a mix of confusion and frustration. I had already read the book, and, ironically, it was those very ideas that sparked my reflections in this essay. Her comment seemed to reduce the complexities of anti-racist work to a simplistic binary of "good" versus "bad" allies, using the language of anti-racism more to assert her own moral high ground than to engage in meaningful dialogue. The irony was not lost on me, considering my own ancestral Indigenous roots.

In another instance, I tried to engage in a discussion about racial justice, presuming competence and respect for everyone involved. However, I was quickly accused by other White people of being naive, out of touch, or, even more harshly, in a state of spiritual psychosis (a clear example of Sanism) — a perpetuator of harm. This made me feel isolated and misunderstood, not by people of color, but by those who shared my racial identity and claimed to share my commitment to justice.

These experiences forced me to confront the uncomfortable reality that even within social justice spaces, where we are all ostensibly working toward the same goals, there can be hostility and exclusion based on perceived hierarchies of identity. I realized that some of the hostility I encountered from other White allies was likely a projection of their own insecurities, guilt, or desire to appear “better” or more enlightened in their anti-racist work. Robin DiAngelo’s concept of White fragility comes to mind here, where defensiveness and discomfort can lead to behaviors that shut down meaningful engagement (DiAngelo, 2018). I found myself caught in the crossfire of these projections, feeling both hurt and confused about my place in the conversation.

Lessons from Black Feminist Thought Leaders

Adrienne Maree Brown: In her book, We Will Not Cancel Us, adrienne maree brown advocates for transformative justice, which focuses on creating conditions for healing and growth rather than punishment. She urges us to "call in" rather than "call out" when possible, to engage in direct, compassionate conversations that address harm without shaming or ostracizing (brown, 2019). This practice encourages a culture where people feel safe to make mistakes and learn from them, rather than being cast out for imperfection.

Bell Hooks: Bell hooks offers a powerful critique of call-out culture, suggesting that a justice movement rooted in love and empathy is more transformative than one rooted in shame or retribution. In All About Love, hooks reminds us that love is the foundation for any real change, and without love, our efforts for justice can become punitive and disconnected from the humanity we seek to affirm (hooks, 2000). For hooks, the challenge is to create communities where accountability does not rely on punishment but is instead embedded in mutual care and support.

Audre Lorde: Audre Lorde's famous assertion that "the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house" speaks directly to the limitations of call-out and cancel culture (Lorde, 1984). Lorde challenges us to examine whether our methods of holding each other accountable are perpetuating the very systems of oppression we aim to dismantle. She invites us to think critically about how we engage with each other in our movements and to consider whether our practices are rooted in care or coercion.

Kimberlé Crenshaw: Crenshaw’s work on intersectionality reveals how different identities intersect to shape unique experiences with call-out and cancel culture. Her insights suggest that those at the margins — especially those who belong to multiple marginalized groups — may experience these practices differently, sometimes being more susceptible to harsh scrutiny or exclusion (Crenshaw, 1989). Understanding these nuances is critical in developing a more compassionate and just approach to accountability.

Additional Voices and Perspectives

Scholars like Angela Davis remind us that social justice should always aim for collective liberation rather than individual punishment. Davis speaks to the need for community accountability that builds connections and fosters understanding rather than alienation (Davis, 2016). Mariame Kaba emphasizes a transformative justice approach that moves away from punitive measures, advocating for community-based processes that address the root causes of harm while fostering healing and growth (Kaba, 2021). Ruth Wilson Gilmore's abolitionist framework critiques the carceral logic often mirrored in call-out culture, urging us to focus on collective resilience over punishment (Gilmore, 2007). Patrisse Cullors calls for spaces of accountability that are compassionate and centered on transformation rather than public humiliation (Cullors, 2018). Charlene Carruthers emphasizes solidarity, care, and intersectionality, challenging exclusionary dynamics within social justice movements (Carruthers, 2018). Tricia Hersey, founder of The Nap Ministry, adds that rest and care are essential to building sustainable movements that resist the oppressive systems we seek to dismantle (Hersey, 2022). Together, these voices call for a more holistic, compassionate approach to justice, one that balances accountability with empathy and fosters true collective liberation.

Lessons Learned and Moving Forward

Through my experiences, I have learned that accountability does not have to mean punishment. Inspired by adrienne maree brown, I am drawn to the idea of "calling in" — creating space for dialogue, reflection, and repair rather than just exclusion. This approach resonates with me because it acknowledges the humanity in all of us, recognizing that we are all capable of harm but also capable of growth.

However, my journey has also taught me about the limits of curiosity and empathy, especially when these efforts are met with hostility or resistance. There have been times when I approached conversations with genuine curiosity, hoping to understand why someone thought or felt a certain way. I asked questions to open a dialogue, only to be met with hostility and told that my role was to stay silent. This experience reminded me that curiosity can be a powerful tool, but it isn’t always enough to bridge gaps when the other party is not open to dialogue or views my engagement as patronizing or unwelcome.

In those moments, I have learned to balance my desire for connection with the need to protect my own well-being. When faced with hostility, I have tried to invite deeper understanding through one-on-one discussions, but when those offers were rejected or ignored, I recognized the importance of setting and enforcing boundaries. As bell hooks suggests, self-care is a radical act, particularly for those of us whose identities make us vulnerable to harm in these conversations. I set boundaries to protect myself from further harm, and when they were not respected, I chose to disengage — blocking those who refused to honor my limits. This was not an easy decision, but it was necessary for my own well-being.

These experiences have taught me that while I strive to engage with empathy and openness, I must also recognize when a conversation is no longer productive or safe. Setting boundaries is not about avoiding accountability or shutting down dialogue; it is about respecting my own limits and ensuring that I am not subjected to unnecessary harm. As adrienne maree brown and others suggest, there is a balance to be struck between "calling in" and knowing when to step back.

From bell hooks, I have learned that love is a radical act in social justice. If we approach accountability with love, we can create communities where people feel safe to make mistakes and learn from them rather than fear condemnation. This does not mean avoiding difficult conversations or refusing to hold others accountable; rather, it means doing so in a way that is constructive, empathetic, and focused on collective liberation.

Audre Lorde and Kimberlé Crenshaw remind me that justice work must be intersectional and attentive to the complexities of identity. The dynamics of call-out and cancel culture often replicate exclusionary practices and power hierarchies, and we must always question whether these methods are serving our ultimate goals of equality and justice.

Reflecting on these lessons, I have come to understand that navigating call-out and cancel culture as an intersectional person requires a careful balance between engagement and self-preservation. It means being open to dialogue and understanding, but also knowing when to set boundaries and protect myself from harm. It means recognizing that while we strive for compassionate, inclusive justice, there are limits to what we can achieve in certain conversations, and that’s okay.

Conclusion: Toward a Justice That Heals

Navigating the complexities of call-out and cancel culture has taught me that justice is not a straightforward journey; it is a terrain filled with contradictions, discomfort, and profound opportunities for growth. True justice cannot be reduced to the simple acts of naming and shaming; it demands a deeper commitment — one rooted in healing, compassion, and transformation. It requires us to hold each other accountable in ways that do not replicate the very harm we seek to undo, and to see each other not as mere representations of privilege or oppression, but as whole, complex beings capable of both harm and healing.

Moving forward, I am committed to embracing a more nuanced approach to justice — one that recognizes our shared humanity and values growth over punishment, one that builds communities grounded in love, empathy, and mutual accountability. This kind of justice challenges us to be brave enough to "call in" when we could easily "call out," and to remain open to the messiness of real, honest engagement, even when it is uncomfortable or painful.

I owe a deep debt of gratitude to the Black feminist thought leaders who have shaped my understanding and guided me through these challenging terrains. From adrienne maree brown’s vision of transformative justice and "calling in," to bell hooks' insistence that love must be at the center of all justice work, to Audre Lorde’s challenge to dismantle oppressive systems without replicating them, their wisdom has been a beacon, helping me find my way through confusion, frustration, and self-reflection.

I honor their teachings and their courage to speak truths that are often difficult to hear. Their work reminds me that justice rooted in love is not weak or passive; it is fiercely demanding, asking us to look beyond the surface of our interactions and to confront the deeper structures of exclusion and harm. Kimberlé Crenshaw’s work on intersectionality further deepens my understanding of the complex ways our identities intersect and shape our experiences, urging me to hold space for the multiplicities within each of us.

To move toward a justice that heals, we must be willing to challenge our own discomfort, to recognize when we are replicating the systems of power we seek to dismantle, and to lean into the hard work of unlearning, listening, and growing. It is not easy, but it is necessary. For it is only through this balanced approach — one that blends accountability with empathy, "calling out" with "calling in," and critique with care — that we can create the conditions for real, transformative change.

I believe in a justice that is expansive enough to hold our collective wounds and our shared aspirations for liberation. A justice that dares to imagine new ways of being together, beyond the limitations of shame and exclusion, and toward a future where all of us can thrive. With deep respect for the wisdom and guidance of those who have helped me learn these lessons, I commit to this vision of justice — a vision where we walk this path together, guided by compassion, courage, and the relentless pursuit of a world where all are free. This is the justice I seek, and the justice I hope to build with others who are willing to walk this path.

References:

• brown, A. M. (2019). We Will Not Cancel Us: And Other Dreams of Transformative Justice. AK Press.

• Carruthers, C. (2018). Unapologetic: A Black, Queer, and Feminist Mandate for Radical Movements. Beacon Press.

• Crenshaw, K. (1989). Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex: A Black Feminist Critique of Antidiscrimination Doctrine, Feminist Theory, and Antiracist Politics. University of Chicago Legal Forum.

• Cullors, P. (2018). When They Call You a Terrorist: A Black Lives Matter Memoir. St. Martin's Press.

• Davis, A. (2016). Freedom Is a Constant Struggle: Ferguson, Palestine, and the Foundations of a Movement. Haymarket Books.

• DiAngelo, R. (2018). White Fragility: Why It's So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism. Beacon Press.

• Gilmore, R. W. (2007). Golden Gulag: Prisons, Surplus, Crisis, and Opposition in Globalizing California. University of California Press.

• Hersey, T. (2022). Rest is Resistance: A Manifesto. Little, Brown Spark.

• hooks, b. (2000). All About Love: New Visions. William Morrow.

• Kaba, M. (2021). We Do This 'Til We Free Us: Abolitionist Organizing and Transforming Justice. Haymarket Books.

• Lorde, A. (1984). Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches. Crossing Press.