To be (a Karen) or not to be? That’s the humbling question for Tacoma Karens like me

My name is Karen and I’m a recovering #Karen.

For those of you not familiar, #Karen is a popular meme on social media used to describe a white, middle class woman who uses her privilege to get what she wants, often at the expense of others.

The name is now shorthand for the white woman who wants to “speak to the manager,” or who calls for security or the police knowing, or maybe not caring, that a call could result in the harm or deaths of people of color.

For most of my life I’ve skated through with the most basic of names, and now I’ve become vilified for it. Or rather my name has come to represent the white people who have skated through their lives without noticing how people around them suffered from oppressions big and small.

COVID-19 and the Black Lives Matter movement have brought us all to a moment when we’ve been forced to stop and smell the racism; both significant phenomenons have shined a light on the problematic Karens of the world, a spotlight long overdue.

When Amy Cooper, a white woman in Central Park, called the police on a Black man just because he asked her to put her dog on a leash, she demonstrated the racist and entitled qualities of a “Karen.”

The white women who held up signs demanding haircuts during the peak of COVID were also called Karens. Footage of Karens acting like asses appear on the internet every day. Look up #Karenstrikesagain or #Karensgonekaren.

Twitter these days is like an Alfred Hitchcock movie, but instead of birds, there are swarms of Karens, a name that can be used for almost every part of speech, i.e., “Don’t Karen me, Karen.” “Get in your Karen SUV and drive away.” “Look at that group of Karens.”

I almost wasn’t named Karen. I know this because my parents argued over my name long after I was born. My dad fought to name me Mavis, claiming the name was both strong and unique.

“But a child’s name shouldn’t rhyme,” my mom insisted, and she had a point. Had our last name been Smith or Jones, Mavis would have been a fine name, but our last name was Davis, so my mom believed she had spared me a great indignity.

Karen isn’t a family name. Mom said she simply saw it on the name tag of “a very nice waitress at Denny’s.” Oh, if only a Julie or a Patty had brought my mother her Grand Slam breakfast, I wouldn’t be caught in this meme mess.

Still, I’m glad the Karen meme exists. The type of behavior it describes deserves a name and if that name is #Karen, so be it. But because it’s almost become synonymous with racism, I’ve strongly considered changing it; admittedly, my Twitter handle now reads KD Irwin.

That discomfort I feel every time I scroll through social media and see another monstrous Karen Karening is nothing compared to the trauma Karens have been inflicting for centuries, and that’s where the real focus belongs.

But if the name Karen becomes just another blistering label, another way to vilify and stereotype, we’ve lost a great opportunity to raise consciousness. The Karen meme must be a mirror for me and every other white person, male or female, to recognize their own entitlement and white fragility.

I have seen signs of hope, literal ones. At one Black Lives Matter protest a few women stood under a sign that read, “Karens against Karens.” Count me in that group, please.

Of course, I’d like to think that deep down, maybe I’m a Mavis after all. Did you hear that, Dad? You may have won an argument with Mom. (Just one. Don’t get giddy.)

The name Karen now belongs to someone I never want to be. Maybe it’s time to utter the words my dear ol’ Dad longed to hear: “Hello, my name is Mavis Davis, and I’m here to rid the world of Karens, starting with myself.”

Karen Irwin is a News Tribune editorial writer and former reader columnist. Reach her at karen.irwin@thenewstribune.com