"White Presenting" and what it means

Reflections on identity based support

By: Lex Enrico Santi, LCSW, MFA -- A Key Therapy PLLC

My experience in higher education and activism spans the past three decades. In the late 90s, I was part of a somewhat radical group of students in my undergraduate years who led and taught a course called "Making Connections." One of the key ideas we emphasized was that there is no hierarchy of oppression—an understanding that different forms of discrimination and marginalization are interconnected rather than ranked in importance.

That early work in “Making Connections” laid the foundation for how I understand identity: as layered, complex, and always evolving. We challenged binary thinking and encouraged students to explore the intersections of race, class, gender, and sexuality in both personal and systemic ways. I carried these values with me into every professional and academic space I entered. So when I found myself later in life—now with a clinical license, years of experience, and a lifetime of personal identity development—questioned not for my approach or skills, but for the way I physically presented, the disconnect was deeply personal. The language of identity and oppression that had once empowered me now seemed to be used as a gatekeeping tool, and it struck at something far deeper than professional critique.

When I arrived at Cornell and began working in a race-conscious therapy group, I encountered an experience that was both jarring and unnerving. A graduate student, after working together in the group for a semester, stated that they no longer wanted to participate if I remained because I was "white presenting." This moment hit me in a way I had not expected. Suddenly, my racial identity, my authenticity as a Cuban man, and even the way I carried myself seemed to be up for debate. I wondered: Did I not trill my r’s enough? Did my identity fail some unspoken litmus test of Latinidad? Was I deemed unqualified to run an identity-based group simply because of the way I looked?

The term "white presenting" refers to individuals of marginalized backgrounds who have physical features or cultural signifiers that allow them to pass as white in certain contexts. This designation has gained prominence in activism over the last decade, especially in racial justice movements where identity politics play a crucial role in representation, power dynamics, and belonging. While the concept aims to highlight privilege within marginalized groups, it has also created internal fractures, as people like myself—who deeply identify with their cultural and ethnic roots—find their lived experiences questioned or invalidated based on appearance alone.

This phenomenon is explored in Maurice Mitchell’s essay Building Resilient Organizations: Toward Joy and Durable Power in a Time of Crisis, which outlines the contradictions within modern activism and the tensions between identity, leadership, and the larger movement for justice. Mitchell discusses how identity can be both an important political tool and a mechanism for exclusion, creating a cycle of internal conflict that weakens collective power. His work helped me process my own experiences and led me to reflect on the challenges of doing activist work while also holding a complex identity that does not fit neatly into dominant narratives of race and privilege.

The struggle I faced was not an isolated incident but rather a culmination of interactions that ultimately led me to step away from leading identity-based groups as a therapist. While I fully embrace the vast and diverse diaspora of Latin identity and am deeply proud of my heritage, I also came to a realization—what mattered most in that space was not my comfort, but theirs. If the students felt that their healing and safety required a therapist with a different presentation, then that, above all else, was the most important aspect of the work.

As José Martí once said, "Our wine is bitter, but it is our wine." This speaks to the deep complexity of Cuban identity—an identity shaped by resilience, struggle, and an unwavering sense of self. I have lived through my own experiences of marginalization and discrimination. I have shared my story openly, believing that vulnerability and authenticity should be enough. And yet, when I was told that students did not want to continue for another semester because of my racial presentation, I was left questioning everything. I had facilitated this work for an entire semester, dedicated to the process, and suddenly, it was over.

In response, I turned to what I love and find additional relief in—writing. Writing has always been a form of processing, healing, and resistance for me. It was through this passion that I created Write it OUT, the therapy group at Cornell, and Thesis Therapy for graduate students. These spaces became outlets for exploration, self-discovery, and mindfulness.

Mindfulness has taught me that identity is not solely defined by external validation or rejection. As Thich Nhat Hanh once said, "The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it." My work, my writing, and my mindfulness practice have shown me that ego, while deeply human, is not the ultimate measure of worth. I have learned to sit with discomfort, to hold contradictions, and to embrace the ever-evolving journey of what it means to be both seen and unseen.

This experience left me with lingering questions about racial identity, presentation, and the assumptions that come with both. It made me think about the complexities of being a white-presenting Latin man and how that intersects with conversations about race, privilege, and authenticity in social justice spaces. Over the past decade, activism has increasingly relied on visible markers of identity as determinants of authority and legitimacy in conversations about oppression. This has led to meaningful shifts in power and representation but has also created challenges for those whose identities are complex, intersectional, or do not fit within binary racial frameworks.

Maurice Mitchell’s article helped me see that these struggles are not isolated to my personal experience, but rather part of a larger crisis in social justice movements—one that has led to divisions, disillusionment, and burnout. His analysis of neoliberal identity, maximalism, and the rejection of leadership resonated deeply with me, offering a framework to understand the shifts I have witnessed over the last decade. As I process this further, I plan to write a second blog post reflecting on my reaction to his work, exploring the ways in which movements can balance accountability with inclusivity, strategy with identity, and resilience with joy.

How do we navigate identity when our lived experiences and external perceptions don’t always align? And how can we hold space for these conversations while acknowledging the real impacts they have on those seeking support and healing?

These are questions I continue to sit with, and they shape the way I approach my work in therapy, activism, and education. My hope is that by sharing my story, others who have felt similarly unseen or questioned in their identities can find solidarity, reflection, and a space to discuss these complexities openly.