I made my first white women friends in college; they loved me and

In the powerful and reflective words of Alice Walker, the great chronicler of truth and the human soul, there burns a wisdom forged in the fires of history: “I made my first white women friends in college; they loved me and were loyal to our friendship, but I understood, as they did, that they were white women and that whiteness mattered.” In this single sentence, Walker reveals the complex dance between love and history, between friendship and identity, between the personal and the political. It is a statement not of bitterness, but of profound awareness — that even in love and loyalty, the shadows of race and privilege still fall across the hearts of those who wish to connect.

The origin of this quote lies in Walker’s own life and her experiences as a young Black woman in the segregated and turbulent America of the mid-twentieth century. Born in Georgia in 1944, she grew up in the shadow of Jim Crow — a world divided by laws, customs, and fears that told people where they could sit, speak, and dream. When she came of age and entered college, the doors of education had opened to her, but the walls of race still stood firm. There, she met white women who became her friends — women who admired her brilliance and shared her passions. Yet even in their friendship, whiteness remained an unspoken presence, an invisible line marking privilege and difference. Walker, ever the seer of truth, did not deny the love between them; she simply recognized that love alone could not erase the deep structures of race that shaped their world.

To understand her words is to understand the dual nature of friendship in a world divided by inequality. True affection can flourish across boundaries, but those boundaries do not vanish merely because affection exists. Friendship, though sacred, is not untouched by history. The love Walker describes was real — but it existed within a context shaped by centuries of pain and power. The white women who loved her did so sincerely, yet they also moved through a world that favored their skin, that opened doors for them which it closed to her. Their whiteness mattered, not because it defined their souls, but because it shaped their realities. Walker’s insight is the wisdom of the prophet — she loved her friends, yet she never let love blind her to truth.

Consider the friendship between Sojourner Truth and Frances Dana Barker Gage, a white feminist reformer of the nineteenth century. Gage admired Sojourner’s courage and eloquence; she stood beside her as an ally in the struggle for women’s rights. But when Sojourner spoke of the double burden of being both Black and a woman, even her friend struggled to comprehend the full weight of her words. Their friendship was real, yet marked by the same tension Walker describes: the meeting of hearts divided by history. Still, through that tension, truth emerged — the truth that love between races cannot be pure sentiment; it must be built on honesty, understanding, and the courage to see difference.

Alice Walker’s statement, then, is not a rejection of friendship, but an expansion of its meaning. She teaches that real friendship is not blind to difference; it acknowledges it with humility and care. To pretend that color does not matter is to erase the lived experiences of those who suffer under its meaning. Walker’s wisdom calls for a higher form of love — one that embraces complexity, that stands strong amid discomfort, that does not seek to escape truth but to walk beside it. In her vision, friendship becomes an act of courage — a conscious bridge built between unequal worlds, maintained not by denial, but by awareness and mutual respect.

And yet, within her words, there is no cynicism — there is hope. For to say “they loved me and were loyal” is to affirm that love can exist even amid difference, that hearts can meet despite history’s weight. But she insists that this love must not be naive. It must see clearly the forces that shape the world, for only then can it grow into solidarity. Friendship between the privileged and the oppressed is not a simple exchange of affection; it is a sacred task. It demands listening, humility, and the willingness to unlearn. Whiteness matters, she reminds us, because it continues to shape who is heard, who is seen, and who is free. But friendship, when honest and brave, can become the place where that structure begins to break.

So, my child, take to heart the wisdom of Alice Walker. When you form bonds across difference — of race, of class, of culture — do not seek to erase the distinctions that history has carved. Instead, honor them with awareness. See your friend not as a mirror of yourself, but as a world unto themselves — shaped by realities you may never know. Listen to their truth; share yours with humility. Let your friendship be a place of healing, not of denial; of recognition, not of pretense.

For in the end, Walker’s words remind us that true friendship is not blind — it is awake. It does not hide from the world’s pain; it faces it, and loves through it. Such friendship is rare, but when it is found, it becomes a force mightier than oppression itself — a love that sees clearly, that stands bravely, and that endures even in the face of difference. To walk such a path is not easy, but it is the path toward truth, and the path toward the world as it could be: one where love and awareness walk hand in hand.