I'm Still Here

I'm Still Here Plot Summary

Introduction

Austin Channing Brown's journey through white America begins with her name—a deliberate choice by her parents to help her navigate a society where race determines opportunity. As a Black woman with a name that confounds expectations, Brown's experiences reveal the exhausting reality of existing in spaces not designed for her. From childhood library cards to job interviews, she constantly faces the assumption that someone named "Austin Brown" must be a white man, creating moments of disconnect when people encounter her "in all her melanin glory." This memoir traces Brown's evolution from a young girl struggling to understand her identity to a confident woman challenging the systems that perpetuate racial injustice. Her narrative weaves through pivotal moments—discovering Black community in Cleveland, finding spiritual home in a Black church, confronting institutional racism in professional settings, and ultimately embracing her anger as a creative force for change. Through candid, often painful reflections, Brown illuminates how whiteness operates in American society, particularly within Christian organizations that claim to value diversity. Her story is not about condemning white people but about rejecting the assumption that whiteness represents the epitome of goodness, holiness, and being—while embracing what it means to love her Black femaleness in a world not made for her.

Chapter 1: Finding Black Identity in a White World

Growing up with the name "Austin" taught Brown early lessons about racial expectations in America. When she questioned her mother about this unusual choice, the answer was revealing: "We knew that anyone who saw it before meeting you would assume you are a white man. One day you will have to apply for jobs. We just wanted to make sure you could make it to the interview." This strategy worked almost too well—throughout her life, Brown would receive emails addressed to "Mr. Austin Brown," surprise hiring committees who expected a white man, and face the unspoken question: "Are we sure she will be a good fit?" Despite attending predominantly white schools, Brown's home was unmistakably a Black family's space—filled with posters of Alvin Ailey dancers, books by Black authors, and the sounds of Luther Vandross on Saturday mornings. Her parents worked hard to instill pride in her Blackness, but their influence couldn't extend beyond their home's walls. At school, the cultural references that filled her household were absent, and discussions about race remained superficial, limited to celebrating figures like Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King Jr. without questioning systemic issues. When Brown was ten, her parents divorced, and summer visits to her mother in Cleveland introduced her to an entirely Black neighborhood—a culture shock both "glorious and terrifying." Initially, she struggled to fit in, unfamiliar with the music, dances, and social codes. Other Black children called her "Oreo" and commented that she "talked white." The experience was so draining that she sometimes pretended to be sick, hiding away from social interactions. "I was too white for Black people," she recalls, "and too Black for white people." Salvation came through friendship. A neighborhood girl named Tiffani became Brown's cultural bridge, teaching her about music, dances, Ebonics, and pop culture. More importantly, Tiffani showed Brown that "Black is beautiful whether it looked nerdy like me or cool like her." Through this friendship, Brown learned that embracing Blackness didn't require conforming to any single model—it was "expansive" and diverse. The experience freed her from seeking white affirmation and showed her "another way of speaking, of thinking, of being." This journey toward cultural identity deepened when Brown's father remarried and their family began attending a Black church in Toledo. There, she encountered a Jesus who "saw the poor and sick and hurting," who had "bigger plans for me than keeping me a virgin," and who "loved and reveled in our Blackness." The Black church offered Brown her greatest sense of belonging, where congregants referred to each other as family and where even struggles were contextualized within a community of support and hope. Though she wouldn't learn about Black liberation theology until adulthood, Brown had already encountered its essence in this spiritual home where Jesus cared about both souls and social conditions.

Chapter 2: Learning to Navigate Institutional Whiteness

Brown's Catholic high school was predominantly white but had enough students of color to form a visible presence. While she doesn't recall major racial incidents, certain moments revealed the complications beneath the surface harmony. One particularly illuminating experience came in Ms. Phillips's religion class, when the teacher made a startling confession to the students: she had been deliberately separating Black students in her seating charts out of an unconscious fear they would be disruptive together. "I have never ever wondered if any of my white students were going to be disruptive," Ms. Phillips admitted. "I've never been nervous to find two white girls sitting next to one another." This revelation made Brown intensely self-conscious. Though she appreciated the teacher's honesty, it forced her to confront the reality that even teachers she respected might be judging her through a racial lens. The experience pushed her to assert greater agency over her education. For book reports and history papers, she deliberately chose Black authors and Black history topics, sometimes at the cost of her grades. "I could choose the better grade or I could choose to affirm Blackness," she explains, a dilemma many students of color face in predominantly white institutions. A rare bright spot came in Mr. Slivinski's freshman English class, where Brown encountered a curriculum that intentionally incorporated diverse perspectives. During a poetry unit, the class read Paul Laurence Dunbar's "We Wear the Mask," which resonated deeply with Brown's experience of code-switching in white spaces. Though reluctant to speak up in class—unsure if her white classmates had "earned the right" to understand her vulnerability—she appreciated that Mr. Slivinski didn't force her to become the classroom's racial spokesperson. By senior year, Brown had grown more attuned to the limitations of her school's "racial harmony." When a white classmate complained about not being accepted to the University of Michigan, blaming affirmative action and claiming "Black people took my spot," Brown was furious. The comment revealed how, despite years in a diverse environment, many white students still felt entitled to opportunities based solely on their whiteness. This sense of entitlement wasn't created by the school, but neither had the environment effectively challenged it. The lessons of these high school experiences—questioning surface-level unity, asserting her identity through academic choices, finding allies in thoughtful teachers, and recognizing entitled whiteness—prepared Brown for navigating increasingly complex institutions. She was developing a critical consciousness that would serve her throughout college and beyond, where the stakes of institutional whiteness would only grow higher.

Chapter 3: Confronting Racism in Professional Spaces

Brown entered the professional world believing herself prepared for racial challenges—"the white culture whisperer," as she ironically calls her younger self. "I was fearless. I thought any future encounters of racism would rear their ugly heads like purple dragons, and I had no doubt in my ability to slay racist nonsense wherever I found it." Reality proved far more insidious. Rather than obvious monsters, she encountered a system she describes as "more like a poison... that seeps into your mind, drip by drip, until it makes you wonder if your perception of reality is true." The workplace culture of white-led organizations, particularly Christian nonprofits, created countless daily indignities. Brown details a typical workday's microaggressions: being repeatedly asked if she needs help finding the outreach center while white colleagues walk unbothered; having white coworkers reach to touch her hair without permission; being called to her supervisor's office after making someone "uncomfortable" by pulling away from unwanted touching; having her tone policed when she tries to explain her perspective; being scrutinized for wearing headphones at her desk though white colleagues do the same without comment. Particularly revealing was a frank conversation with her organization's board when Brown proposed a new racial diversity training program. The treasurer questioned why assimilation wasn't the goal: "Don't we want to bring in people of diverse backgrounds and then become one unified organization?" This comment confirmed what many staff of color had suspected—that the organization wanted racial diversity without diversity of thought or culture. Brown observes, "It's so easy to believe the pretty pictures on the website filled with racial diversity... The role of a bridge builder sounds appealing until it becomes clear how often that bridge is your broken back." Beyond daily slights, Brown witnessed systemic inequities: white colleagues receiving praise for their gifts while women of color were told only about their "potential"; white employees who performed poorly being repositioned while people of color were told to improve or leave; committees promising to diversify leadership but ultimately appointing white men. To survive, Black women developed "life hacks"—having others review emails for tone, keeping folders of positive feedback as insurance against criticism, finding cohorts of supportive colleagues, and joining secret social media groups to process experiences. Most painfully, Brown describes how white Christian organizations weaponized spirituality against employees of color. When concerns were raised about workplace conditions, the question became "Are you sure God has really called you...here?"—shifting responsibility from institutional change to individual spiritual discernment. Even prayers could become tools of assimilation: "They are no longer about my circumstances but about me. They ask not that I would be understood but that I would find it within myself to give more grace... These prayers aren't for me. The prayers are that I would become who they want me to be. 'Lord, make this Black person just like us.'" This testimony of workplace racism illuminates how institutions preserve whiteness not through overt discrimination but through subtler mechanisms—tone policing, cultural assumptions, spiritual manipulation, and the constant expectation that people of color should be grateful for their inclusion. The professional world became a space where Brown had to repeatedly affirm to herself: "We are not tokens. We are valuable in the fullness of our humanity."

Chapter 4: Embracing Anger as a Creative Force

"I have become very intimate with anger," Brown confesses, echoing James Baldwin's observation that "to be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious, is to be in a rage almost all the time." The sources of this anger are manifold: organizations where no one in leadership looks like her; a body constantly judged differently than white colleagues'; being treated as interchangeable with other Black women; media depictions that demean Black female bodies; and persistent racial disparities in wages, housing, healthcare, and treatment by law enforcement. Yet as a Black woman, Brown found few acceptable outlets for this anger. "Because I am a Black person, my anger is considered dangerous, explosive, and unwarranted. Because I am a woman, my anger supposedly reveals an emotional problem... Because I am a Christian, my anger is dismissed as a character flaw." These constraints led her to suppress her rage, attempting instead to communicate through "pain, disappointment, sadness"—emotions she thought might receive a more sympathetic hearing from white audiences. Brown envied what she called "that Black girl"—the one who "snaps her gum... claps out every word when angry... rolls her eyes and you feel it in your bones." She admired historical figures like Zora Neale Hurston, Nina Simone, and Angela Davis who seemed unafraid to express their righteous indignation. Instead, she found herself "wearing the mask that grins and lies," as Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote, hiding her true feelings beneath a composed exterior. "I tried to be the wise, patient teacher... But ultimately, these were attempts at self-restriction. I left my humanity at the door." Salvation came through the writings of Audre Lorde, particularly her essay "The Uses of Anger," which reframed anger not as destructive but as "a powerful source of energy serving progress and change." This perspective liberated Brown: "Anger is not inherently destructive. My anger can be a force for good. My anger can be creative and imaginative, seeing a better world that doesn't yet exist." Rather than trying to become someone else, Brown learned to channel her specific talents toward expressing truth. "I am not Zora, but I can decide not to measure my effectiveness in the ebbs and flows of white affirmation. I am not Nina, but I can defend Black dignity through writing and preaching. I am not Angela, but I am learning to speak truth to power in ways that are equally invitational and challenging." This redirection of anger into creative expression—writing, speaking, connecting with others who shared her feelings—gave Brown "the courage to say hard things and to write like Black lives are on the line." Brown finds biblical precedent for this approach in Jesus himself, who expressed righteous anger in the Temple: overturning tables, driving out corrupt officials, and creating space for the marginalized. "I imagine the next day's newspapers called Jesus's anger destructive. But I think those without power would've said that his anger led to freedom—the freedom of belonging, the freedom of healing, and the freedom of participating as full members in God's house." In embracing her anger as a creative, motivating force, Brown reclaims not just her full humanity but also a spirituality that acknowledges the legitimacy of righteous indignation in the face of injustice.

Chapter 5: The Church, Race, and Reconciliation

The term "racial reconciliation" has become a buzzword in Christian circles, but Brown argues that it has been drained of its transformative power. Churches often mistake superficial diversity efforts—multicultural congregations, ethnic celebrations, or occasional pulpit exchanges—for the deep work of reconciliation. These approaches can create "beautiful moments of harmony and goodwill, but since they don't change the underlying power structure at the organization, it would be misleading to call them acts of reconciliation." True reconciliation, according to Brown, is inherently revolutionary and political because it demands justice. Drawing on theologians Curtiss DeYoung and Allan Boesak, she explains that reconciliation "chooses sides, and the side is always justice." This understanding challenges white churches that "consider power their birthright rather than their curse" and prefer performative harmony that doesn't threaten existing hierarchies. When organizations focus merely on diversity numbers—how many Black faces are in the photo or at the table—without empowering people of color to influence content, direction, and vision, "whatever diversity is included is still essentially white—it just adds people of color like sprinkles on top. The cake is still vanilla." Another misconception is that reconciliation is primarily about dialogue—conferences, lectures, or moving sermons. While conversation is important, Brown argues that "dialogue is productive toward reconciliation only when it leads to action—when it inverts power and pursues justice for those who are most marginalized." Too often, the parameters of these discussions benefit whiteness through tone policing and demands that white comfort be prioritized over painful truths. Dialogue becomes "a stall tactic, allowing white people to believe they've done something heroic when the real work is yet to come." When white institutions resist deeper change, it's often because they "are motivated by a deep need to believe in their own goodness." They want affirmation for including people of color rather than confronting how power remains concentrated in white hands. Brown is clear: "Reconciliation is not about white feelings. It's about diverting power and attention to the oppressed, toward the powerless." This understanding of reconciliation aligns with Brown's theological perspective. She points to 2 Corinthians 5:17-19, which describes how Christ reconciled humanity to God by taking on flesh, experiencing human suffering, and bridging the divine-human divide through sacrifice. "Reconciliation is ministry that belongs to Jesus," she writes, modeling a self-giving love that inverts power for the sake of relationship. In this light, reconciliation requires not just good intentions but "imagination... looking beyond what is to what could be." Perhaps most liberating for Brown is the realization that "Jesus doesn't need all white people to get onboard before justice and reconciliation can be achieved." Throughout American history, racial progress has never depended on universal white agreement but rather on "the transformed—the people of color confronting past and present to imagine a new future, and the handful of white people willing to release indifference and join the struggle." This understanding frees Brown to speak truth without the burden of changing everyone's mind, focusing instead on those already open to transformation.

Chapter 6: Standing in the Shadow of Hope

In her final reflections, Brown confronts the question of hope in a society where racial justice remains elusive. Christians often speak of love as the solution to racial division, but Brown has found such talk "largely inconsequential" when divorced from concrete action. "I am not interested in a love that refuses to see systems and structures of injustice, preferring to ask itself only about personal intentions," she writes. Instead, she demands "a love that is troubled by injustice... that has no tolerance for hate, no excuses for racist decisions, no contentment in the status quo." Yet expecting this kind of transformative love for her Black female body has led Brown to "invite hopelessness to my doorstep." She recounts the many deaths of hope she has experienced: "I hoped that friend would get it, but hope died. I hoped that person would be an ally for life, but hope died. I hoped that my organization really desired change, but hope died... I hoped things would be better for my children, but hope died." These repeated disappointments have taught her "not to fear the death of hope" but to recognize how "the death of hope gives way to a sadness that heals, to anger that inspires, to a wisdom that empowers me the next time I get to work." Brown finds herself unable to place her hope in white institutions or individuals, politicians or pastors, or even herself. "The longer this list gets, the more elusive hope becomes," she acknowledges. "And so, instead of waiting for the bright sunshine, I have learned to rest in the shadow of hope." Drawing inspiration from Ta-Nehisi Coates's observation that enslaved African Americans persisted despite having no realistic expectation of freedom in their lifetimes, Brown embraces a vision of struggle not guaranteed to succeed but necessary nonetheless. This "shadow of hope" means "working in the dark, not knowing if anything I do will ever make a difference. It is speaking anyway, writing anyway, loving anyway. It is enduring disappointment and then getting back to work." Brown refuses to surrender her demands for justice simply because success isn't assured. She stands instead in the legacy of her ancestors who persisted against overwhelming odds, claiming her "birthright" to demand a better world even when that world seems impossibly distant. "When the sun happens to shine, I bask in the rays," Brown concludes. "But I know I cannot stay there. That is not my place to stand. So I abide in the shadows, and let hope have its day and its death. It is my duty to live anyway." This stance—neither naive optimism nor paralyzing despair—represents a hard-won wisdom about sustaining the long struggle for justice. It acknowledges both the painful reality of racism's persistence and the moral imperative to resist it, regardless of outcome. In the shadow of hope, Brown finds not comfort but purpose, not certainty but commitment, not triumph but the dignity of the struggle itself.

Summary

Austin Channing Brown's journey illuminates the exhausting reality of existing as a Black woman in spaces designed for whiteness, while offering a powerful vision of resistance and self-affirmation. From childhood experiences of cultural disconnect to professional environments that demanded her assimilation, Brown consistently refused to sacrifice her full humanity on the altar of white comfort. Her story reveals how institutions—particularly Christian ones—maintain racial hierarchies not just through overt discrimination but through subtle mechanisms that police Black expression, dismiss Black concerns, and demand Black gratitude for minimal inclusion. What emerges from Brown's testimony is not a simple roadmap to racial harmony but a more challenging invitation to genuine transformation. She rejects superficial reconciliation that preserves existing power structures in favor of justice that redistributes power and creates space for marginalized voices. For those committed to racial justice, Brown offers neither easy answers nor guaranteed success, but something more honest: the commitment to persist in demanding a better world even when hope repeatedly dies. Her "shadow of hope" represents a spiritual discipline for the long struggle—acknowledging both the painful reality of racism's persistence and the moral imperative to resist it, regardless of outcome. It is a stance that finds strength not in naive optimism but in the dignity of the struggle itself, drawing on the legacy of generations who persisted against overwhelming odds.

About Author

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Austin Channing Brown

Austin Channing Brown is a media producer, author, and speaker providing inspired leadership on racial justice in America. She is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness and the Executive Producer of The Next Question: A Web Series Imagining How Expansive Racial Justice Can Be. Her workshops are incisive, fun, disarming, and transformative. By using an intentional mix of humor, pop-culture, story-telling, and audience engagement, she awakens people to the current realities of systemic racism and the everyday actions which make it possible. Whether she is being interviewed, lecturing, preaching or leading a workshop, Austin is sure to evoke thought, feeling and action as she celebrates Blackness and the possibility of justice in our organizations, teams and communities.

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