What if whiteness isn’t something possessed, but something performed—an anxious choreography of refusal, projection, and idealization? What if its power lies not in strength, but in its compulsive need to survive critique, to erase debt, to never owe? This essay does not ask whether whiteness is real—it asks how it defends itself, and what that defense costs everyone else. Beneath its smooth gestures of tolerance and knowledge lies something more brittle, more volatile: a structure that cannot bear asymmetry, and will do anything to avoid gratitude. What happens when we name that structure—not as identity, but as symptom? What opens when we read whiteness not morally, but psychoanalytically—not to accuse, but to unmask? You may feel disoriented. That’s the point. Keep going. The rupture is the threshold.
