Keywords

I asked the editors if I could title my chapter, Let Me White Woman That. To “White woman” something is to have the ascribed ability to take action, often at the expense of others due to a lack of awareness regarding implicit biases and privilege. Internet memes illustrate White “Karens” and “Beckys” attempting to solve problems with organized planning and a passion for enforcing their rules. At their worst, they ask to speak to a manager if food is not delivered fast enough, even during a pandemic (Greig, 2020). As a seasoned therapist, it is easy to telegraph that using a coy title was a reflection of not wanting to write or talk about justice, privilege, diversity, and inclusion, or an expression of my White fragility and guilt (DiAngelo, 2018; Swim & Miller, 1999). Yet, this proposed title aligns with what makes me successful as a program director of a Commission on the Accreditation of Marriage and Family Therapy Education (COAMFTE) accredited master’s degree. When I think about my leadership style, many of my White woman traits come in handy. Spend my summer bossing around a 157-page self-study? Check. Double-checking national exam and curriculum alignment? Check. Nudging, cajoling, and nagging faculty so that rubrics are published in syllabi and collected at the end of each quarter? Check. Often, I ask myself if my White woman processes can live in peace with what is really important to me: being an ally, striving to decolonize the profession, and leading a socially just couples and family therapy program.

This chapter is not specifically about directing a marriage and family therapy (MFT) accredited program or what is necessary to decolonize the profession; rather, this chapter is my story of being a White, cis-female, heterosexual, able-bodied, middle-aged program director. There are excellent articles and texts that have explicated the importance of deconstructing Whiteness in systemic therapy (Baima & Sude, 2020), advocating for intersectionality (Dee Watts-Jones, 2010), contextual and multicultural clinical approaches (Almeida, 2019; D’Arrigo-Patrick, Hoff, Knudson-Martin, & Tuttle, 2017; Falicov, 2014; Hernández, Siegel, & Almeida, 2009; Lebow, 2019; McDowell, 2005; McDowell, Knudson-Martin, & Bermudez, 2019; Parker, 2008), and augmenting social justice-related MFT research (Imber-Black, 2011; Seedall, Holtrop, & Parra-Cardona, 2014). This chapter, steeped in the literature, describes my experiences as an ally and program director who strives to be critically conscious (McDowell & Jeris, 2004). With hope, my words will honor and challenge the profession I have dedicated myself to for over 20 years.

The originators of systemic therapy rejected the medical model (Eppler, 2018) and were the mavericks of psychotherapy (Daneshpour, 2016). As a profession that long considered context but privileged White voices, there has been progress in synthesizing social-political constructs with assessment, conceptualization, and treatment (Almeida, 2019; Falicov, 2014). There is a robust account of training therapists to be mindful of social location (Hardy & Bobes, 2016; Hernandez-Wolfe & McDowell, 2012; McGoldrick et al., 1999; Winston & Piercy, 2010). While many program directors agree that diversity and inclusion are important, issues of justice are overshadowed by the priority given to dominant cultural narratives, including the focus on numeric outcomes, jockeying for economic resources, and other capitalist or categorical pursuits (e.g., reporting benchmarks, graduation rates, and licensure statistics).

While it is possible to have a systemic therapy training program that strives toward justice, we must ask if our structures promote or are barriers to training systemic therapists who embody justice. Is it possible to decolonize the profession while inducting students into an established field? The most pressing question of my career is: How can we enhance the dialogue and action regarding infusing social justice into systemic training programs while maintaining COAMFTE accreditation, high Association of Marriage and Family Therapy Regulatory Boards (AMFTRB) pass rates, and graduating new therapists who are prepared to work in the field? At times, I feel that the two realms—social justice and criteria set by the Department of Education and other regulatory boards—are too far apart for synthesis. But the mavericks of family therapy would eschew this linear thinking and find a way forward, would they not?

Let Me White Woman That

I am really White. My German and English ancestors were early colonizers of the United States. When I was an adolescent, a friend asked if I was wearing white pantyhose when I was not. I grew up in the 1980s in the suburban part of Kansas that borders on the rural. It was a place of vast fields and new shopping malls. I attended a conservative Christian church where, although few would admit to watching the television program “Dallas,” we were informed by the styles and the ethos of the series’ cliques, competition, and glamour. Not having the lavish life shown on television, I was taught that hard work led to fruitful outcomes. The code was clear: If you worked hard enough, you would be fine. “I’m fine” is still my automatic response to a myriad of questions—so much so that when my appendix burst, I told myself that I was fine until colleagues asked me to go to the hospital immediately.

This “I’m fine” attitude combined with the belief that hard work leads to positive outcomes was a barrier to my understanding of oppression and injustice, as it was easy to attribute success and failure to effort and determination or a lack thereof. Growing up, I never considered the unequal structures that support White people’s success (Wise, 2011). In a high school pottery class, I remember the teacher talking about the growing homeless population. He opined that if the poor got jobs, they would not be homeless. No one asked about structural barriers to accessing resources. No one discussed what it would be like to work hard to find a job only to be turned down based on factors beyond one’s control (e.g., skin color, ability to hire someone to vet a resume).

In order to unlearn the effects of racism and become aware of implicit biases, I had to learn about my Whiteness and privilege (Akamatsu, 2008; Combs, 2019; Helms, 2017). It was important to admit that being fine by working hard was due in large part to the invisible structures that supported my success. It was not until the end of my graduate studies that I first heard about White privilege (McIntosh, 1988). A White doctoral student in an adjacent program spoke often about her unearned privilege. In a seminar, she gave a presentation during which she brought in symbols from throughout her life that represented invisible benefits she received on account of being White. She placed a resume at the top of a stack while highlighting that her European name, her suburban address, and her previous degrees elevated her resume to the top. While she was confident in her abilities, she was also aware that a system of power elevated her resume above those who did not share this unearned privilege.

When I examined the fruits of my hard work, I transformed from a linear perspective—hard work leads to payoffs—to acknowledging that I too have benefited from invisible structures and systemic privilege. I acknowledged that my Whiteness afforded me opportunities for positive outcomes even when I did not work hard. There have been grades that were higher than deserved, likely because I am nice, I try, and most importantly, I am White, heterosexual, cis-female, temporarily able-bodied, middle class, and born in the United States. My experiences are echoed in Baima and Sude’s (2020) study’s findings about what mental health professionals need to know about Whiteness. Like the participants, I had to work to become aware, transformed, and move through uncomfortable feelings about race and ethnicity.

My first full-time academic job was in northern New Jersey, which was a more racially and ethnically diverse environment than I had experienced previously. I was a young scholar, not yet 30. I remember feeling like a fledgling when a student twice my age told me to get off my high horse because she did not agree with my recommendation. Although my age positioned me to feel less powerful, I had ascribed power as a White person and an assistant professor. I started to understand that power was multilayered and dynamic, changing in situations and throughout my development.

I taught students from across social locations and I made mistakes. For example, I was a reader for a Black student’s dissertation, and after a heated conversation, which I had interpreted as having rude elements, the student talked with me about cultural communication styles (Sue, 2015). I was able to shift my perspective from an embedded belief that productive conversations are quiet and polite to realizing that there are multiple forms of respectful, collaborative, and productive expression. I am now able to name that it was not my Black student’s responsibility to teach me (Watson, 2016), and I am grateful that she did.

Early in my career, I transitioned from New Jersey to the Pacific Northwest to teach in a counselor educator program, which stands on settled land belonging to First Nation communities, including the Duwamish tribe. I returned to classrooms that were mostly White and female. I felt the loss of vibrant and diverse conversations with multiple perspectives. I received criticism from faculty and students who did not appreciate my stance that understanding diversity starts with self-reflection (Akamatsu, 2008; Baima & Sude, 2020; Combs, 2019; Helms, 2017). Meanwhile, I connected with many students from underrepresented backgrounds who found it refreshing that I considered issues of justice.

Six years later, I moved to a university across town to return to teaching systemic therapy. I worked alongside a Black male director who had a rich professional history but less knowledge of accreditation standards. I quickly found myself feeling my “let me White woman that” tendencies as we worked to achieve accreditation. I became intimately familiar with revised standards, and I felt like the new kid eschewing the established procedures to modernize and Whitewash the program. I feared that my changes would be interpreted as microaggressions (Sue, 2015). Just before our program achieved accreditation, the former director retired, and I was appointed to his position. Now, with even more ascribed power, I had to increase how I intentionally connect with students, staff, and faculty.

Womanist Leadership

One surprise that came with being director is that my students viewed me as a director trope instead of who I am. They saw in me a hologram of their previous experiences of people in power, which were likely shaped by patriarchal experiences. In their minds, I was aloof, intimidating, and unapproachable. I wanted to say, “Last week—before I became the director—you saw me as caring and relatable.” I heard that students did not want to meet with me because I was busy; my interpretation of their rationale was that they were scared of me. I had full daily agendas, but I never asked a student to wait more than a few days for a requested appointment. When meeting with students from minoritized backgrounds, they were understandably surprised when I took their concerns seriously. In my 5 years of being a director, I have tried to listen intently and make as many decisions as possible collaboratively, even if it took more time and energy than making choices superficially or unilaterally. For example, a White male student wanted to switch supervision groups. Our groups are closed, but another student was willing to change. Before allowing the transfer, I asked both groups, the entire cohort, to meet and discuss the ramifications. When students wondered aloud why this was not an easy choice, I asked them to contemplate the power structures and justice issues underneath the seemingly simple decision.

My core values of humility, curiosity, perseverance, and taking a nonanxious and not-knowing stance are critical to my womanist leadership. When situations are fraught, I often ask myself what I could have done differently. If my White woman heritage is to be a fixer without having the power of male privilege, then I am left to center myself as the target for what needs to be changed. Self-reflection is a humble practice, and there are times when I realize that I am not the epicenter of the problem. My marriage and family therapy training encourages me to be curious and ask questions, especially when anxiety is high. When students, staff, and faculty share concerns with me—which can be about solvable problems, situations that I do not have the power to change, or issues that they themselves need to work through to promote their professional development—I channel Bowen’s ideas about taking a nonanxious stance (Bowen, 1978) and root myself in visions of empowerment of self and others. I navigate being relational while at times having to toe the party line. All the while, I remain aware of the larger systems that can impede change and justice.

Barriers to Just Leadership

The prevalent structure that affects my directorship is COAMFTE. There are many standards and key elements in COAMFTE’s version 12 that address diversity and antidiscrimination. These requirements are important, yet they are only a small part of what is needed to decolonize the profession. Accreditation is a classification system, a Western concept of determining fit and value. While it may be impossible for marriage and family therapy educators to eschew accreditation, work is needed to enhance how social justice is woven into training programs. The world of achievement, correct punctuation, and checking boxes is the dominant and demanding voice in my professional life, and I find that my passion for social justice often takes a back seat as I maintain my program’s accreditation.

When I entered the realm of accreditation, I thought naively that the process would dovetail with MFT’s strength-based, contextually focused, collaborative ethos. I attended expensive accreditation seminars, during which I read my student learning outcomes aloud to a working group with a representative who indicated that my program’s objectives were acceptable. However, the official critique rebuffed our outcomes and indicated that my program did not utilize the authorized, yet unpublished template. Our self-study was determined to be insufficient. After hiring a consultant and resubmitting our application without making substantive changes to the program, we achieved accreditation.

This process raised questions about justice since it required significant economic resources and submission to the dominant narrative. I wondered if a program director must be an insider or know insiders in order to speak the official language and be accredited. I worried that this process was one example of how the dominant culture protects the dominant culture. I heard from supportive others who have been through the process successfully, “Here is what they want, because they won’t tell you what they really want.” Other program directors commiserated with me when our program’s review feedback exceeded the expectations listed. We opined about the amount of busy work it took to remain accredited. And we joked that programs are held to a higher standard than COAMFTE itself, as the commission does not publish outcome data to verify that graduates from accredited programs are better therapists than graduates from healthy but nonaccredited programs.

Through these conversations, I gained deeper empathy for people on the margins and an enhanced understanding of systemic privilege (e.g., having the economic resources, access to other directors in position of power). Although I am wary of the potential for accreditation to inhibit social justice progress, I am not calling for COAMFTE to be dismantled, as there is a place for quality assurance. However, this control should not supersede a vision of inclusive, diverse education that prioritizes marginalized voices.

At the time my program sought initial accreditation, I was a tenured associate professor. Thus, I had fewer responsibilities than a junior academic (e.g., less pressure to publish and fewer new course preparations). As a White academic, I did not have additional duties required of faculty from minoritized backgrounds, such as mentoring students of color and being appointed the unofficial diversity representative on university committees (DeWelde & Stepnick, 2015). While the profession must have faculty from diverse backgrounds in positions of power, we first have to consider how COAMFTE requirements that consume time, energy, and other resources affect minoritized faculty members’ professional development, given the unequal and unwritten expectations placed on them (Chun & Evans, 2014; DeWelde & Stepnick, 2015). I desire to hire a full-time faculty member from a minoritized background to codirect the program (i.e., divide the workload so that a faculty person of color is not overburdened with administration, regular faculty expectations, and the emotional energy of being a faculty of color). Regrettably, my advocacy for a tenure-track line has yet to be successful. Meanwhile, I appreciate the grassroots efforts that program directors have made toward mentoring junior faculty, and my work is to help memorialize these mechanisms of support within official structures. And, it is imperative for me to continue to connect with existing resources that support inclusion of diverse therapists and future leaders (e.g., AAMFT’s Minority Fellowship Program, Counselors of Color Regional Network).

Building Just Connections

Collaborating, mentoring, and co-teaching build connections among faculty from diverse social locations. Creating a strong rapport is important to facilitating justice-oriented faculty meetings, where there are often differences. I am grateful for core and adjunct faculty who embrace dedicating faculty meetings to discussing justice, even if we are at different points in our cultural attunement journeys and we do not always agree. For example, in one meeting, we discussed preferred terms and definitions. For instance, do we refer to “students of color,” “minoritized students,” or “underrepresented students”? We did not reach a consensus. Likewise, there was a significant discussion when some faculty members advocated for prioritizing the needs of Black and Brown people, which Asian American faculty experienced as marginalization of themselves and their communities.

Moreover, we do not agree on being called by our first names versus formal titles. Preston (2016) used queer theory to explore how students should address their professors. Preston began their career by being on a first name basis with students as an act to ameliorate hierarchy. However, they transitioned to being called by their professional title to increase the transparency of classroom power dynamics. For now, with the encouragement of my faculty from Latinx and Black backgrounds, I have chosen to go by Dr. Eppler. However, I know that going by my title has an effect on how students relate to me as an “unapproachable” director.

As program director, I seek to ensure that all faculty have a voice and are heard by one another. As a White person, I monitor how much space I take up in conversations to break the cultural pattern of privileging White voices. At times, my silence may come across as an act of White guilt (DiAngelo, 2018). It has been difficult for me to navigate the balance of leading and listening. My commitment is to be overt about naming that I do not want to dominate the conversation. I am mindful that to be able to say, “I do not want to dominate the conversation” reminds me of my privilege. Hence, I have increased active listening and sitting with the discomfort of not having easy answers and immediate solutions.

In my own journey of being mentored, I have been fortunate to work with and learn from faculty from minoritized backgrounds. One of the best professional experiences of my career was co-teaching with a Latinx academic. I witnessed how she brought conversations about diversity to life by talking about her embodied experiences, which contrasts with the more cognitive understanding I have about oppression, racism, and injustice. Chun and Evans (2014) advocated that universities need to allot additional resources to bolster knowledge and skills related to diversity and inclusion. When my colleague and I co-taught, we each received half credit toward our teaching loads, although it was not half the work (i.e., both instructors were present for all class sessions, we both graded all assignments). Similarly, when hiring mentors of color to support White faculty to develop cultural humility, I have been successful in securing small stipends. However, additional funds are needed to build collaborative and transformative experiences. It is becoming increasingly challenging to secure funds for this critical work.

I value reciprocal relationships, and my team has taught me much about being a director and working with people across social locations. Faculty have given me excellent advice when working with students from underrepresented backgrounds. Specifically, faculty from minoritized backgrounds suggested that I need to give students of color clear and concrete directions. While I value being transparent, my systems training guides me toward the ethereal, and my natural tendency is to think of empowerment in terms of leaving space for others’ creativity. I now understand how this can be difficult for those who are coming into a system that is foreign to them. I continue to struggle to balance being appropriately direct with not wanting to indoctrinate students into the status quo. I am learning to be clear while leaving room for new voices who will transform the profession. To do so, I paradoxically step back and provide mentoring from a culturally humble position.

Believing in the power of mentoring, I prioritize supporting my faculty. However, given my privilege, I hold potential to further the dominant narrative. To mediate this risk, I ask that all faculty uphold a dedication to diversity by using gender-inclusive language, assigning readings by underrepresented and minoritized authors, and taking a stance of curiosity and compassion when differences arise. To enhance justice in my program, I demonstrate the importance of taking a growth mindset, showing by example that it is critical to learn and grow from mistakes, especially when there are missteps related to internalized racism. I consider equality, equity, and how actions affect the entire system. It is important for me to listen to faculty and trust their expertise. I give my faculty a wide berth so that they may have both autonomy and support. When students complain, I talk directly with faculty and listen to their perspectives.

Even when I employ the mechanisms listed above, challenging situations arise. For example, an instructor from a marginalized background taught a pre-practicum class utilizing a strength-based and critically conscious lens. One of their goals was to assist students from minoritized backgrounds in liberating themselves from oppressive structures by encouraging them to trust their inner voices and push back against being acculturated into a White profession. While this was imperative for students of color to hear, students from the dominant culture internalized these messages of empowerment through their privileged lenses. Subsequent faculty noted that White students were not utilizing instructor feedback. When asked about this, White students cited the pre-practicum instructor’s recommendations to trust their intuition and be wary of oppressive voices. White students could not distinguish structural oppression from professional judgments made by a diverse faculty team. Before offering the next course, I met with the instructor. I had several constructs swirling in my thoughts: How could I empower the instructor to teach from their knowledge and experience (e.g., critical consciousness) while differentiating between how minoritized and dominant culture students receive the information? Were there parts of my White privilege that wanted to suppress the critical conscious focus of their class? What was best for all students (equality), and especially students of color who needed to hear empowering messages (equity)? What were structural barriers that influenced the situation (e.g., students scoring minoritized faculty lower on teaching evaluations could influence the decision to evaluate only strengths)?

To facilitate growth-oriented conversations, my job is to ask questions, listen to multiple perspectives, and dismantle the effects of my Whiteness by creating space for diverse voices. However, I believe that too much openness is detrimental to a healthy system. Thus, I determined that boundaries were needed for our learning community. My essential teaching practices are that faculty must bring their whole socially located selves into the classroom while supporting the development of students through respect and trauma-informed care. I encourage instructors to teach to transgress (Hooks, 1994) from a place of love (Hooks, 2018). Students, especially students who have experienced marginalization, have faced significant hurdles on the path to graduate school. They may be scarred or wounded. In contrast, students from the dominant culture may not have learned about power and privilege yet. A clinical training program must honor all students’ pasts and futures.

In my program, instructors must utilize a growth mindset, wherein students are held responsible for their development. I recognized that many incoming students had yet to study liberation, inclusion, and social location. Thus, I moved our multicultural course to the first quarter of the program. This sets the program’s positionality and sets a trajectory for students to be held accountable for recognizing their privilege. A lack of growth in cultural humility is grounds for remediation. I lament that faculty of color must endure students’ inevitable pitfalls on the journey to becoming aware of themselves as cultural beings and attuned therapists (e.g., experiencing microaggressions before students develop multicultural awareness and skills).

I often tell my students that couples and family therapists are a people of tough and transformative conversations. We may not exit conversations in agreement, but each person needs to be seen and understood fully as a whole being. Conversations can be difficult, especially when students bring their backgrounds, passions, and beliefs into discussions. I remind myself and my faculty that students are in the program because they want to learn, grow, and be challenged.

Conclusion

It is important for me to talk with students and faculty about our current place in the history of MFT. I want them to celebrate how we have been the mavericks of mental health. And I want them to grieve our history of conceptualizing clients through a White gaze, which has been a disservice and harmful to clients from diverse backgrounds. I affirm that I—that we—are on a never-ending journey of cultural learning. I acknowledge my privilege and I articulate a commitment to eradicating White fragility by talking about social locations in the program, in classes, and in the larger couples and family therapy community. My conversation about justice and dismantling White privilege will be a continued dialogue.

I am grateful for my training and career as a couples and family therapist while acknowledging that I have been a White voice in a predominately White profession (Baima & Sude, 2020). I see my life’s work as exploring, witnessing, and cultivating resilience and justice. I love when my faculty, staff, and students have significant “Aha!” moments related to multicultural growth. I have seen underrepresented students find their voices and thrive. And there have been challenging situations in which we could not comprehend or overcome the visible and invisible effects of racism and bias.

Becoming a systemic therapist and being a program director have heightened my sense of empathy for the marginalized, affirmed my commitment to see strengths in all, and cultivated my passion for justice. Being a couples and family therapist has made me a better ally, and my passion for social justice is enlivened because I see the world through a systemic lens. I would be a different leader if I were not also a licensed marriage and family therapist. Although the two jobs are distinct, I am able to draw on my training as I confront the challenges and joys of directing a just clinical training program.