Decentering Power and Privilege in Real Life: From Parenting to Policy

In this episode of Eyes on Whiteness, we’re exploring what it means to decenter power and privilege—especially in times of overwhelm, urgency, or fear.

Maureen invites you into a vulnerable, provocative reflection on how systems like white supremacy and patriarchy teach us to equate control with care—and how that shaping shows up in everyday leadership roles: parenting, teaching, activism, art, nonprofit work, and more.

Through honest storytelling and critical inquiry, this episode offers tangible ways to notice our defaults, practice grace instead of guilt, and choose connection over domination. Whether you’re a teacher managing a classroom, an organizer building coalitions, a parent navigating your child’s truth, or a leader holding responsibility in institutions—this episode is for you.

We ask:

• What gets silenced when we stay in charge?
• How do our “shoulds” shape our reactions?
• What does it look like to transmute power—not perform it?

This is not about getting it right.
 It’s about returning to a practice rooted in courage, humility, and care.

This Week’s Reflection Questions:

• Where am I centering my own comfort or worldview—and how might that be limiting the truth I’m willing to hear?
• Whose voices or truths have I intentionally or unintentionally silenced—and what structures make that silencing easy to ignore?
• What would it look like to lead with deep listening and shared power—even when overwhelm tells me to default to control?

Transcript

Episode 5:Decentering Power and Privilege in Real Life: From Parenting to Policy

This is Eyes on Whiteness—a podcast that illuminates the insidious and ignorant ways of whiteness, regardless of intent.

This space is held to practice the work of transmuting white supremacy and patriarchy, because these constructs are pervasive and ever-present—for all of us.

I’m Maureen Benson, a white woman doing my best to be a principled accomplice for racial justice in these apocalyptic times.

Welcome to the show

Welcome back to Eyes on Whiteness. This is a space for the practice of transmuting white supremacy and patriarchy—from the inside out.

I’m Maureen, your host, and this week, I want to invite us to a very real conversation about what it means to decenter power and privilege.

We say we want equity. We train for it, fund it, post about it. But in moments of overwhelm, who do we center? Whose voices get quieted? And why?

If you’re here, it means you’re committed to doing more than reacting. You’re here to reflect, to realign, to practice.

Before we begin, I invite you to take a moment with me to ground. Let your shoulders drop. Unclench your jaw. Take a breath that belongs just to you. You don’t have to fix anything right now. You don’t have to perform. This is your moment to return to yourself.

Let your inhale remind you of your aliveness. Let your exhale root you in this moment. Let this breath be a boundary between the noise out there—and the clarity you’re seeking in here.

This Week’s Reflection: Decentering Power and Privilege

Let’s get honest.

Decentering power and privilege is not a gentle invitation to disappear, despite what anti-DEI proponents will try to tell you. It’s a radical call to interrogate what we center—and why. In times of crisis or overwhelm, many of us default to what we’ve been taught to value: control, certainty, authority. These aren’t neutral—they are shaped by white supremacy, patriarchy, and capitalism.

When things get hard, it makes total sense that we reach for what feels familiar. Our “shoulds” take over. We say, “I should be in charge.” “I should know the answer.” “I should speak now.”

What if we stopped "shoulding" ourselves? What if truth can’t live where domination thrives? 

This isn’t about silence or erasure. It’s about redirecting power—not abandoning it.

Every time we default to control, we trade away a piece of trust. Every time we speed past discomfort, we lose something we didn’t even pause to name.

Whether you’re parenting, teaching, organizing, or leading inside an institution—we’ve all been shaped by systems that confuse control for care. Systems that reward certainty and punish pause. Systems that taught us early on: keep it moving, keep it clean, keep it in control.

But control is not care. Performance is not presence.

This week, as you hear these reflections across different roles and identities, I invite you to notice:
 Where do you feel a sense of recognition?
 Where does something land a little too close to home?
 Where might your own defaults mirror what I’m naming in another space?

This is not about judgment. It’s about pattern recognition. It’s about noticing how these systems show up in all of us—and choosing, moment by moment, to practice something different.

Let’s explore how this shows up in different spaces of where we hold varying degrees of power and privilege—everyday spaces where we are called to choose between control and collective care.

Parents– Parenting can be an act of deep care—and deep control.

A lot of us were taught that being a “good” parent means being the one in charge. We inherited frameworks rooted in white supremacy, patriarchy, and capitalism—whether we realized it or not. These systems teach us that children must be managed. That adults must always be right. That control equals love. That compliance equals safety.

We internalize these lessons early:

• “Because I said so.”
• “Don’t talk back.”
• “That’s not how we do things in this family.”
• “If you're under MY roof... you do it MY way.”

We call it structure, responsibility, discipline—but what we’re often replicating is dominance disguised as care. As bell hooks taught me... we’re repeating systems that taught us love must come with conditions.

And in moments of crisis, when we feel overwhelmed or scared, we can easily return to those defaults. Which may be out of alignment with our intentions for how we parent. We can grasp for control not because we’re cruel—but because we’re afraid. Because we think control will keep our children safe. Because we’re trying to do what’s “right,” even if we never had a model for what else is possible.

But what if parenting wasn’t about always being the authority? What if it was about being in relationship—real, reciprocal relationship—with your child?

Decentering power and privilege in parenting might look like:

• Listening more than explaining.
• Saying, “I was wrong,” and meaning it.
• Letting your child express anger or dissent without punishment.
• Allowing their identities, curiosities, or politics to challenge your own.
• Replacing “how do I fix this?” with “what do they need to feel seen and heard right now?”

It might mean pausing when your instinct is to react. Asking yourself:

• Whose comfort am I protecting right now—mine or theirs?
• What narrative about being ‘a good parent’ is influencing my reaction?
• Am I acting from love—or from scarcity or fear?

And maybe most radically—it might mean admitting that your children are not extensions of you. They are sovereign beings with their own truths. Decentering means creating space for those truths, even (and especially) when they challenge your own.

This is about unlearning the lie that parenting has to mean control—and embracing the possibility that it can mean liberation, for both of you.

So when the fear rises. When the script starts playing in your head. When the old pattern tries to take over—pause. Breathe. You can return to yourself.

And remember, every pause is a chance to realign with your values…with grace and compassion for yourself and your actions. 

Teachers Teaching is often framed as control: classroom management, lesson plans, standardized outcomes. We are trained—explicitly or implicitly—to “run a tight ship.” To make sure no one falls behind. To keep everything moving. These expectations didn’t come from nowhere. They’re the result of systems built to value compliance over curiosity, output over inquiry, authority over relationship.

White supremacy and patriarchy shape so much of how we’re taught to teach:

• The belief that there is one right answer.
• The normalization of certain language and behaviors as “academic” or “appropriate.”..which translates to professional down the line.
• The assumption that knowledge flows in one direction—from teacher to student.
• The reward for control, silence, and obedience as indicators of success.

When we default to these norms—especially in moments of overwhelm—we replicate harm. We silence brilliance. We flatten lived experience. We train students to conform rather than to question.

As educator Zaretta Hammond puts it:

“Microassaults involve misusing power and privilege in subtle ways to marginalize students and create different outcomes based on race or class. In the classroom, a microassault might look like giving a more severe punishment to a student of color than his White classmate who was engaged in the same behavior. Or it might look like overemphasizing military-like behavior management strategies for students of color.”

These aren’t just missteps—they are moments where our internalized systems show up in practice. And unless we’re vigilant, they continue to shape whose voices are heard, whose knowledge is valued, and whose humanity is affirmed.

Decentering power and privilege in the classroom begins by recognizing these defaults—and actively choosing differently.

It might look like:

• Holding space when a student critiques the material—even if it derails your lesson.
• Noticing who gets called on, who gets disciplined, who gets praised—and why.
• Revisiting whose knowledge and histories are centered in your curriculum.
• Listening deeply when a student’s identity challenges your assumptions—and choosing curiosity over defensiveness.
• Making room for different kinds of participation, beyond the “norms” shaped by whiteness and neurotypicality.

And it might also mean reckoning with moments when your instinct is to restore control. To protect your authority. To push forward because “there’s so much to cover.”

In those moments, ask:

• What am I centering right now—control or connection?
• Whose learning am I prioritizing—and whose am I overlooking?
• What might emerge if I paused instead of pushed?

Let’s be clear: you are not a bad teacher for having these instincts. You’re human. You’ve been trained in a system designed for efficiency, not equity. But once we see it—we get to choose differently.  You can ALWAYS return to who you choose to be, not who you have been trained to be.  And each choice is a chance to move toward the classroom you’ve always longed for.

Artists and Storytellers

Art is a tool of resistance—and it can also be a tool of erasure. As artists and storytellers, we hold the power to shape narratives. To decide what’s visible and what remains hidden. And with that power comes responsibility.

But when we’re afraid—of not getting published, not going viral, not getting funded—we default. To the polished. The palatable. The familiar. These fears are not irrational. They’re conditioned. White supremacy, patriarchy, and capitalism teach us to protect the audience’s comfort over the creator’s truth. Especially when that truth disrupts the dominant narrative.

Maybe you soften the edge of a story rooted in rage. Maybe you leave out the queer or disabled or Black or immigrant lens because someone told you it wouldn’t “land.” Maybe you internalize the message that your voice is too much, too angry, too raw.

When we default in these moments—especially in overwhelm or scarcity—we replicate the very systems we’re trying to unmake. We tell partial truths. We make ourselves small. And we pass on the myth that liberation must come with a filter.

Transmuting looks like holding the fear, and still telling the story. Like honoring the ache in your gut when something feels watered down—and choosing to tell it anyway. Like…

• Choosing to tell the story in its rawness, not just its palatability.
• It might mean letting art be a ritual, not a product.
• Letting discomfort guide the revision process—not erase it.
  
  
  
• being in right relationship with the people whose stories you carry.
• Prioritizing complexity over clarity when clarity serves comfort, not truth.
  
  
  
• Uplifting hyper-local narratives even if they don’t “scale” or “sell.”
  
  
  

And it might also mean noticing when your instinct is to dilute, simplify, or self-censor.
 In those moments, ask:

• What am I afraid to say—and who taught me to fear it?
  
  
  
• What audience am I centering—and why?
  
  
  
• Am I protecting my platform or practicing my purpose?

This isn’t about being fearless. It’s about being honest about fear—and refusing to let it run the show.

Decentering power in your art might start with a single question: What am I afraid to say—and what would happen if I said it anyway?

You’re not alone in that question. And you’re not failing if you’re still wrestling with it. Keep returning.

Mission Driven Leaders

If you’re leading inside a mission-driven organization, I know the pressure you’re under. To perform. To prove impact. To stay ahead of funders, board members, stakeholders. To deliver the numbers, the outcomes, the optics of “equity.”

And here’s the thing—it’s not because you don’t care. You do. But the systems around you reward speed, control, and certainty. So even the best intentions get shaped by the same logic we say we’re working against.

The grant is due next week. The board wants a clean narrative. There’s no time to pause. So we push the community engagement meeting into a checkbox. We draft the proposal before hearing a single story. We launch a strategic plan, then offer “feedback” windows after the decisions are already made.

We say we’re about equity—but then a staff member raises concern, and instead of curiosity, they get silence. Or worse, they’re labeled “negative,” “disruptive,” “off-mission.”

That’s not just organizational culture—that’s power and privilege doing what it always does. Centering itself. Protecting itself.

And there’s a line I hear all the time in these spaces: We don’t have time.

That phrase is more than just scheduling—it’s a signal. That we’re defaulting. That we’re choosing efficiency over relationship. That the pace has outstripped the purpose.

But here’s the truth: rushed productivity kills relational creativity. It chokes the space for truth-telling. It replaces discernment with deliverables. And it replicates the very systems of white supremacy and patriarchy we claim to interrupt.

Decentering power in these spaces doesn’t mean you abandon your role or expertise. It means you interrupt the idea that leadership means control. It means you choose transformation over transaction.

What does that look like?

It might be:

• Co-building metrics that reflect care, not just compliance.
• Listening when someone names harm, instead of polishing a narrative for your stakeholders.
  
  
  
• Saying, “We need to pause,” even when the deadline looms—because moving forward without alignment will cost more than missing a date.
  
  
  
• Holding a space where staff can breathe, reflect, be honest—even if the honesty is messy.
  
  
  
• Letting go of needing to be the “expert,” and instead, modeling what it looks like to lead through learning.
• Making values-based decisions even when they’re harder to justify to funders.
  
  
  
• Encouraging dissent without punishment.
  
  
  
• Naming when whiteness and hierarchy are shaping the culture—and choosing to interrupt them.
  
  
  

And it might also mean pausing when the pressure says "just move forward."
 In those moments, ask:

• What am I protecting—my authority or our collective clarity?
  
  
  
• Are we rushing because it’s urgent, or because it’s uncomfortable?
  
  
  
• What truth are we avoiding in the name of progress?
• 
  
  
  

And here’s the part that matters: you don’t have to get it right the first time. You just have to keep choosing to return.

Start with one place where the old logic creeps in—we don’t have time—and try a different response. Try: We make the time for what is important. Transmuting white supremacy culture is critical….so we find the time.

That’s how we transmute.

And no, it’s not always easy. It’s vulnerable. Sometimes it means sitting in discomfort, or watching a plan unravel so something more honest can emerge.

This isn’t about shame. It’s about permission. You’re allowed to pause. You’re allowed to not know. You’re allowed to shift the culture inside your org from extraction to care, from hierarchy to shared responsibility.

Transmuting white supremacy and patriarchy inside our orgs isn’t just about who we hire or what training we do—it’s about how we lead when it’s hard. How we respond when the default would be to tighten the grip.

So let this be your reminder: your breath, your pace, your people—they aren’t threats to your mission. They’re what make the mission possible.

Activists and Organizers

If you’re someone who moves through the world with deep conviction—organizing actions, building coalitions, holding line after line—I want to speak directly to you for a minute.

Because when we care this much, when we’re this committed, it’s easy to believe that moving fast means moving right. That we don’t have time to pause. That the cost of slowing down is too high.

But let’s be real: we don’t have time has become a mantra. And in that rush, we sometimes default to behaviors that replicate the very systems we’re trying to dismantle.

We silence dissenting voices because they slow down the plan. We center the people with the clearest talking points instead of those with the deepest lived experience. We call for accountability, but don’t make space for complexity. We confuse clarity with control.

That’s what white supremacy and patriarchy teach us—tighten the grip when it gets uncomfortable. Choose safety. Choose power. Choose certainty.

So maybe it looks like shutting down someone who challenges a tactic we’ve already agreed on. Maybe it sounds like “we already discussed this”—when really, we didn’t. A few loud voices did.

It might look like:

• Inviting in dissent as part of strategy—not a threat to it.
  
  
  
• Rotating leadership roles to avoid power consolidating in the same hands.
  
  
  
• Making space for grief, conflict, repair—not just action.
  
  
  
• Building strategy that includes the perspectives of those not always “movement fluent.”
  
  
  
• Choosing internal culture change with the same rigor as external change.
  
  
  

And it might also mean noticing when you default to silencing complexity.
 In those moments, ask:

• Am I centering control or collective truth?
  
  
  
• Who’s not here—and why?
  
  
  
• Is my urgency about the cause—or about staying in charge?

Sometimes it looks like asking, “Who’s not in the room—and why?” And meaning it. Doing something about it.

Sometimes it’s checking yourself before you speak, and thinking, “Am I centering my voice here because I have something vital to offer—or because I’m uncomfortable not being in control?”

Decentering power in movement spaces is not about abandoning strategy. It’s about aligning it with care. It’s about refusing to sacrifice people in the name of progress.

This is where we practice leadership that’s not rooted in performance, but in presence.

And yes, you’ll mess it up. We all do. But grace lives here, too. This is not about perfection—it’s about choosing to return again and again to the question: Whose truth am I centering—and why?

That’s the work. That’s the invitation.

You might walk with these questions. Breathe with them. Share them with a friend. Sketch them. Journal them. Let them live in you.

Your Reflection Practice This week, I invite you to sit with these questions:

• Where am I centering my own comfort or worldview—and how might that be limiting the truth I’m willing to hear?
• Whose voices or truths have I intentionally or unintentionally silenced—and what structures make that silencing easy to ignore?
• What would it look like to lead with deep listening and shared power—even when overwhelm tells me to default to control?
• What truth have I been avoiding—not because I don’t care, but because it might change everything?

You don’t have to get it “right.” You just have to stay in the practice.

Closing Invitation If these reflections resonate, I invite you into our Transmuting community—a space where we unlearn indoctrination and practice collective care. Where we hold each other in our growth. Where clarity replaces control, and connection interrupts supremacy.

You can learn more about the course at www.cultivatingintersectionalleadership.com. We offer pathways for teams, individuals, and leaders across sectors who are ready to stop performing equity—and start practicing it.

And if this episode stirred something in you, share it. Not for virality—but to build the conversations that matter. With your team. Your family. Your community.

You are not alone in this practice. Let’s keep returning to it—together.

Until next time, take good care.

This episode was created with deep love, and deep thanks to the frameworks and tools within Cultivating Intersectional Leadership, a course I co-created with Diedra Barber.

CIL isn’t just a training. It’s a transformative journey—one that supports individuals and organizations in making the systemic, strategic, and spiritual shifts needed to build something different.
 Something rooted in justice. Something aligned with who we say we want to be.

You're invited to learn more or inquire about participation at:
 🌐 www.cultivatingintersectionalleadership.com
Or visit our podcast site at:
🎧 www.eyesonwhiteness.com

If this episode stirred something in you, share it.
 If you’re holding big questions, write them down.
 And if you’re tired—rest. But don’t quit.

This is a long journey. And we don’t do it alone.

See you next time on Eyes on Whiteness.