I am light-haired and blue-eyed. I was raised in a middle class Methodist family. I am a cisgender woman. I am heterosexual and able-bodied, liberal and vegetarian. I am also racist.
I am racist not because I consider my skin color superior or feel threatened to protect the “real” America. I am racist because I am a white. I am racist because I have not known my life without the system of privilege working in my favor. I am racist because I have benefited from this system without even realizing it. I am racist because most of the choices we make are unconscious. I am racist because I have perceived the white man and the black man who sit begging for change on the street corner differently. I am racist because I have mixed up the first names of my Latino students and I have chosen not to call my Hmong students’ parents at home because I assume they do not speak English. I am racist because the past is more than history. I am racist because it is the first step in recognizing my responsibility to help make change in our terrible, beautiful world.
But before I talk more about my racism, as a result to my upbringing, my obliviousness, my assumptions and my actions, I must first claim my whiteness, which was invisible to me for a large part of my life, and still can be far too often. The anti-racist writer Tim Wise defines whiteness in his memoir White Like Me:
“typically of European descent, who by virtue of skin color or perhaps national origin and culture are able to be perceived as ‘white,’ as members of the dominant racial group in the Western world. (xii)
Wise goes on to explain how modern science has completely obliterated any notion of genetically distinct races. So that leaves race as a product of society. But Wise’s definition stops here, and I am unaccustomed, like so many others who see themselves as white, to know how to describe my whiteness beyond this point. It is something synonymous with words like default, normal, and mainstream. How can I begin to see race as something socially constructed?
1 Innocence
“Cause we got the best deal, the music without the burden”
At eight years old I was frustrated. I could not whip the dish towel with as much snap as my mom (see image - original painting of Mom). Still can’t. She can wind the worn terry cloth into a tight coil and somehow, with a flick of the wrist, unwind the most powerful little kick in the butt. This is how she kept me, as a second grader, interested in drying the dishes. Not by whipping me, but making it a game. That and the soulful music she would blast to fill our second floor apartment.
During such chores, she would tell me we were listening to some of the same music that she did when she was pregnant with me. She recalled how I would drum my fingers along the inside of her belly to mimic its cadence. She said I had always been musical, with rhythm, which was a high compliment from her. She would rave about BB King and Luther Allison, as the blues guitar serenaded us scrubbing pots and pans. Maybe a little bit of Patsy Cline would sneak in too, along with Asleep at the Wheel, her papa’s favorite (see photo of my grandpa playing the piano).
My mother equated rhythm and musicality with race. She would tell me, we must have a little black in us. You know, my grandfather had real nappy hair. One of his grandparents could have been a slave. We were listening to Asleep at the Wheel’s “Ain’t Nobody Here Except us Chickens,” and I felt proud. Yes, I wanted to be musical! And I would carry this idea of my innate “black” rhythm with me all the way to college where I first enrolled as a music major. Also, an eight-year-old I also liked her comment about our inherent blackness because it meant we could never be racist, which was a word I had heard my mom use on occasion. She would say it under her breath to describe my dad who kept a faded, bible-thin Nazi flag folded in between two volumes on our bookshelf.
***
I remember exactly two picture books from my childhood book collection with non-white protagonists. First, Ezra Jack Keats’s The Snowy Day, in which a black boy named Peter explores the first snowfall in his neighborhood. Second, Bill Martin Jr. and John Archambault’s Knots on a Counting Rope, in which a Navaho Indian boy hears the tale of his birth from his grandfather and learns about the strength he will need as a blind person. As a child, I wasn’t concerned with the authors of these books, but looking back now, I discover both were written by white authors. More than some authenticity is lost.
In the fourth and fifth grade my friends and I would dress up as Spice Girls. At sleepovers, I was Sporty Spice, my best friend was Ginger Spice (even after Geri Halliwell had left the group) and the only one of us with platinum blond hair and wide blue eyes was Baby Spice. No one ever wanted to be Scary Spice, so it usually fell to the girl at the sleepover with the ugliest hair.
***
Not too long ago I stumbled upon the movie Bamboozled, Spike Lee’s 2000 satirical film about a modern minstrel TV show with black actors in blackface. In the movie, Damon Wayans play an Ivy-League graduated television writer who purposefully pitches the idea to get himself fired. He finds two black performers, literally off of the street to cast, and the idea backfires: the network’s white producer makes the project his top priority. Throughout the movie, the two performers routinely put on blackface as part of their costumes. For one of them, it is not easy as he begins to recognize its oppressive significance. But the TV show explodes in popularity, yet ends with its own violent price.
In one of the scenes of the TV show in the movie, the blackface performers steal chickens from a chicken house but are caught by the white farmer. It wasn’t until I finished watching the movie that I realized the scene reminded me of a documentary I had watched in college, Ethnic Notions. This 1987 film examines anti-Black stereotypes from the history of America’s pop culture. Common images, among many others, include Little Black Sambo, Mammy, and blackface minstrels. I realized I had seen this chicken thief trope before. According to Michael Quinion’s World Wide Words Newsletter from March 15, 2014 the expression Nobody here but us chickens comes from a 1909 magazine from Oshkosh, Wisconsin and was used as a racist joke:
“A farmer, on hearing a noise in his chicken house, called out “who’s there?” to which came the reply, ‘Nobody here but us chickens, massa.’ Another version appeared in Everybody’s Magazine the previous year with the punchline, ‘Deed, sah, day ain’t nobody hyah ’ceptin’ us chickens.’”
To learn to be white in America is to learn how to plead innocence. As a second grader I had sung along as the chicken thief while cleaning up the kitchen with my mom. There we were, a white mother and her white daughter, surely innocent of racism, cleaning the kitchen, and participating in the system of privilege in more ways than one.
2 Ghetto
“‘Cause oppression is oppression is oppression, man.”
--M. K. Asante, the voice of the personified ghetto
Most of the choices we make are unconscious. My fourth grade year I moved from my hometown of Eau Claire, WI, to Madison, WI, to live with my mom. She had gotten a job at the UW hospital and we lived in Middleton, a small suburb on Madison’s near west side. In fifth grade I met Christina. We were neighbors so we would walk home, both schlepping our instruments, hers was a violin and mine a saxophone. A friendship emerged. Christina was goofy and outspoken. We didn’t have class together, but I could see how she could be entertaining. We mostly joked about other kids in the 5th grade as we walked home the few blocks to bank of apartment complexes. My mother says I came home calling “the ghetto,” even though most of the kids there looked like me, and our apartment complex had a pool.
***
Among whites, “ghetto” is now an adjective to describe something makeshift or shabby. I remember during one of my teacher education classes a peer called her lesson plan’s homemade “Go Fish” cards “ghetto” because they were sloppy and she had made them in a hurry. Like me, she was a young white student teacher with surely the best intentions, yet this term had so easily slipped into her vernacular unchecked.
In M. K. Asante’s It’s Bigger than Hip Hop: The Rise of the Post-Hip-Hop Generation there’s a chapter in which the ghetto is personified and speaks frankly in its own voice “to set the record straight” (33). The ghetto goes on to describe the history of its name which began in 1611 to mean “a walled-off and gated section in cities where Jews were confined...placed under strict regulations, forced to live together, and put on curfews” (34-35). The word became widely used in the 1930s with the onset of World War Two when Hitler took power and confined Jews in a similar way, except “unlike the previous ghettos of Europe, these...were impoverished, overcrowded, and disease-plagued areas enclosed by stone or brick wall, wooden fences and barbed wire. And, if Jews tried to leave, the penalty was death” (35). Unfortunately the places labeled the ghettos today in the U.S. are quite similar in their living conditions, segregation and institutionally sanctioned discrimination.
In the interview, the ghetto goes on to describe how Andrew Johnson took away the Civil War reparations of land belonging to people of color and how the end of slavery but with no economic supports landed people of color worse off than before, which was then exacerbated by industrialization when people of color weren’t allowed to join unions, and then the depression hit, to which the ghetto comments, “I haven’t even got to the worse part yet” (39).
***
As fall faded to winter Christina began inviting me over after our walk home. We’d eat a snack, watch TV, and watch the other kids play outside from the window. I don’t remember much, but I do remember leaving to trudge back through a series of parking lots to get home before my mom did. One day, my mom asked me to get Christina’s mom’s phone number. I did, and she called her mom within the next couple of days. Once my mom found out that Christina and I had been hanging out unsupervised, my mom forbid me from continuing to go to Christina’s after school.
I pitched the biggest fit, which was not uncommon for me, even at that age. I was a spoiled child, an only child, but also a child who was having trouble making friends at a new school. This was my second year in Middleton and one of the few times I had actually been invited over to someone else’s house. My mom forbade me to invite over anyone. We were still unpacking. Boxes lined the rooms and hallways because we traveled back to Eau Claire almost every weekend. I remember having to tell Christina I couldn’t come to her house anymore, and slowly, the times we would walk home together grew far and in between. So instead, I began walking home with a girl named Maura who lived in a royal blue house in the residential neighborhood one block before the bank of apartment complexes began. Maura’s father was an architect, and had designed their house, and her mom stayed at home. Maura had a terrible speech impediment and somehow always had leftover food stuck to her hair or her face. I felt more like her babysitter than her best friend. Maura drooled. And even my mom made fun of her, which I didn’t see the as discrimination, which paralleled her discrimination of Christina: When are you hanging out with Ma-wa today?
Christina is black. In the fifth grade, I hadn’t noticed that my mother’s end to our friendship might have been unintentionally due to Christina’s race and also class. Maura’s family was affluent, white and safe.
***
Federal housing projects were developed under FDR but people of color were denied mortgages and loans. In Asante’s interview, the ghetto defines redlining, a term used by activists in the 1960s, to describe how the Federal Housing Administration outlined certain neighborhoods with different colors--white neighborhoods were outlined in blue, working class neighborhoods in yellow, and “black neighborhoods were outlined in bloodred ink...these redlined areas were me” (40). The ghetto describes how factories and corporations relocated overseas, which prevented people of color from relying on factory work. The ghetto concludes, “You can’t pull yourself up by the bootstraps if you don’t have any damn shoes” (52).
***
To learn to be white is to learn how to feel you have something to protect. I don’t blame my mother for the choices she made that prevented me from forming a true friendship with Christina. But I do recognize she was acting on her own assumptions and her fear and her shame. We were in an unfamiliar place and she was working many hours. I was a latchkey kid, which I knew she wasn’t proud of. I know she wasn’t happy. She wanted to keep me safe. My mother had explained to me before, when we visited family in Texas a few years prior, that having been raised in the South had shaped her a certain way. She explained to me how racism was alive there in a way I couldn’t know having grown up in Wisconsin.
My freshman year of college I would meet a girl from Middleton who knew Christina. They were good friends and had both played in State Honors Orchestra together the previous summer. Flash forward to now, seven year later: Christina is now a graduate student in the nursing program at Rush University in Chicago.
3 Ancestry
“...for realizing we’re African
For all my cousin back home, the strength of Mommy’s backbone
...the pain of not reflecting the range of our complexions
For rubber pellet scars on Auntie Elna’s back, I march
...for Mauritius, St. Helena; my blood is a million stories
...for surviving through every lie they put into us now”
In 2003 when I was a sophomore in high school my paternal grandmother self-published a 180-page genealogy of her and my grandfather’s ancestries. It’s the thickness of a phonebook also includes family photos, recipes, songs, even sheet music, and letters my grandmother wrote to my father and his siblings when they were toddlers. The genealogies include over 208 surnames tracing our heritage all the way back to 911 A.D. in Normandy, France. My grandmother included a page called “Illustrious Connections” which extends our familial connections to include William the Conqueror's great-great grandfather Herbastus de Crepon of 10th century Normandy, France to Charlemagne (see image), Henry IV of England, and Margaret Queen of Scots. I do not know the first thing about the serious rules of genealogy, such as when to claim such connections as significant, but I do know, without a doubt, many of my ancestors most likely owned servants and slaves.
Today, while I flip skeptically through this humongous self-bound record, I can also feel comfort as I settle into my place in the world. At the beginning of the book, my grandmother lists our more direct family members by profession, and the longest list by far, are my relatives who have chosen a career teaching. I fit right in.
To learn to be white is to unlearn how you are automatically lucky. My grandmother writes in the book’s introduction, “Genealogy is like a series of jigsaw puzzles, each with thousands of pieces scattered all over the world. If you’re lucky, you occasionally find a piece that fits. It is not possible to ever really complete a genealogy.” I wonder if it crossed my grandmother’s mind how privileged she was to find as much of our history as she did. Did she consider the millions of Americans who were stolen from their heritage and who are now left with tracing their genealogy back to the vastness of a continent? When I first picked up my copy, I did not see a doorstop marker of our white privilege. Now, I see pages and pages of names representing lifetimes built on a system of invisible advantage. I also see a record that helps explain who I am proud to be today: a teacher, a daughter, a granddaughter. It is difficult to see all these reminders at once. My past is more than history.
In “White Privilege and Male Privilege,” Peggy McIntosh describes 46 unearned and otherwise unacknowledged advantages she holds in her everyday life as a white American, which includes the ability to trace her ancestry back multiple generations. She describes how “as a white person, I realize I had been taught about racism as something that puts others at a disadvantage, but had been taught not to see one of its corollary aspects, white privilege, which puts me at an advantage” (91). My grandmother, who considers herself a second-class citizen due to her perceived Irish-ness (what I call her Celtophilia, as we have very few direct ancestors from Ireland) does not realize how lucky we are. What we have been taught to ignore are the exponential numbers, and still growing, of lifetimes destroyed due to the system from which our luck derives. Our past is more than history.
4 School
“But I don't rap about guns ‘cause I wasn't forced into the projects
See I was put in the position where I could chose my options
Blessed with the privilege that my parents could send me to college”
Most of the choices we make are unconscious. But some are based in logic that stem from our beliefs and values that are rooted in systems of privilege. I remember back to that same year I had received my grandmother’s genealogy book for Christmas. In 10th grade English class we had begun the year in September reading Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, and continued on to Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, Ernest J. Gaines’s A Lesson before Dying and writings by Frederick Douglas. That February, otherwise known as Black History Month, I remember making the remark to my friends leaving English one day, in complaint of teacher’s selection of books, More like Black History Year. Why do we only read things by black people? At that time, even a balance of white and black authors and struck me as overemphasizing the African American experience. I knew it was important to include books by black authors, but why only black authors? At sixteen, I wondered, how were these books relevant to me, just as I had why my 99% white high school put on The Wiz as the school musical. No black actors or musicians had been cast. Who knows if there were even any in the audience?
***
In my classroom now I show students clips from Chris Rock’s 2009 documentary Good Hair while we’re reading Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun, and I’m sure I have some kids who are asking the same thing--how is this relevant to me? To understand Hansberry’s symbolism of Beneatha’s decision to wear her hair au natural, Good Hair is particularly useful for a white audience. In the film Chris Rock focuses on the issue of how black women have perceived and styled their hair to fit the white definition of beauty. I like showing the students the segment on hair relaxer and how strong of a chemical it can be. Chris Rock dips a Pepsi can into a concentrated beaker of relaxer and within minutes, it dissolves the can into a metallic slice of porous cheese.
***
In Manitowoc, WI, during my first year of teaching advanced Freshman English in November of 2012, I gave Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye as a choice novel for our coming of age unit. Students could choose Morrison or they could choose Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. The purpose of the unit was to see how societal pressures involving race, class and gender influenced an individual’s coming of age, so the story of poor Pecola Breedlove, a black eleven-year-old from the south in the 1940s, who prays for blue eyes so she will be loved, allowed students to explore the intersections of Pecola’s race, class and gender. Two years into the future, when I would ask about teaching the book at Memorial, I would be told that the book was reserved primarily for seniors who took AP Literature, but had been challenged by a number of parents and wasn’t currently recommended to use in class. In Manitowoc, I taught the book without a single parental concern or question.
This school in Manitowoc was where I experienced many firsts. It was the first time I had someone suck her teeth at me, a sharp noise yet one I would not have detected if the same student hadn’t stopped to tell me what she was doing and why. Later in the year, I would be invited to and attend my first quinceañera. And yet another first in Manitowoc: Once for our weekly staff development, a police officer came in to explain to us the racial makeup of the area gangs and their symbols. He also explained gang activity was a reality here and how many kids joined because they wanted a family, something to belong to. But here in Eau Claire, I have heard very few professionals in the schools mention gangs, or when I do, it’s coded with the euphemism “gang-like activity,” which seems to ignore yet another reality altogether.
5 Guilt
“Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Half-devil and half-child.”
The history of whiteness would not exist without the history of blackness. The history of whiteness would not exist without power over blackness and the belief that this power is somehow benevolent. I remember reading Kipling’s poem for the first time in an A.P. European History class in high school. I was so confused because I insisted the poem was satirical, ironic, and anything but candid. I thought then that “burden” was synonymous with “guilt” and I sat petrified as my teacher explained that Kipling used the poem to convince America to go to war and violently colonize the Philippines. Was this the same Kipling who I adored as a child, who wrote my beloved Jungle Book?
***
During my first few years of college my dad had moved from Eau Claire to the Minneapolis, but we were rarely speaking at this point. One thing led to another and after a nasty break-up and a house foreclosure, my dad found himself living as a professional Occupier during the 2012-13 movement. He has stories of getting bit by a brown recluse while snuggling down in a donated sleeping bag while busing to a protest in D.C. He claims to have a birthday card signed by fellow occupier Neil Young. He says he helped a black woman build a house in St. Paul where he then squatted for three months and a half months before getting arrested. All of these details seem to paint my father as a social justice activist and an epic storyteller, but alas, he is only the latter of the two.
After Occupy ended, my dad claims to have run with the Latin Kings in south Minneapolis. He claims to have shared space in shelters with people of all backgrounds, all languages, and all colors, which he describes as all disgusting and all filthy. He is quick to point out to me that no matter how and where he lives now, he is the same father who took me to Disney World for my ninth birthday. He reminds me that after the break-up with my could-have-been stepmom, he will never give another Jewish or Russian person a chance. He tells me all this when I begin to visit him more regularly during the summer of 2013.
That Christmas I drive up to the shelter in St. Paul and wait. This is the address he has given me. I go inside and ask for him at the desk, but they say he hasn’t checked in for days and remind me that the shelter’s services are only available to men who are clean of drugs and alcohol.
After an hour, my dad (see image of my original painting below) shows up in the parking lot. We drive to Barnes and Noble. I let him buy me a cocoa, and he tells me how he’s been talking with the VA. He might be able to get an apartment and a job soon with his veteran’s benefits or disability.
That Easter, my mom and I drive up to meet him at his new apartment. He’s looking healthier, still smoking Camels, but sticking to a strict diet. He unwraps the Chromebook I’ve given him and it doesn’t take long when I get back home that he’s spamming me with Neo-Nazi articles, mostly written in German. He slips in other stuff, cute videos of cats and nostalgic memories from my childhood. Strangely enough, I know he loves me.
My mom and I visit again the next summer and he talks about the shootings, how the white killers are justified, and if he had a gun, he would join them. I stir the courage to tell him he can’t talk that way in front me. He says his counselor at the VA is putting him through serious sensitivity training before he can start a work therapy job.
But the spamming doesn’t stop, and I raise up my barriers. I block myself from him, still believing that this overt racism is all just his act. He is playing crazy so he can stay on disability. But the truth, like it has always been with him, is only what I choose to believe. I know he loves me, in his own way, but it’s taken years for me to find that strand among his racist comments, his lying, and his poor choices. My mom still comments when she sees him in me, in my argumentativeness, my stubbornness, sometimes my sarcastic sense of humor. I wonder, do I ever overcompensate, trying to undo some of his racist actions and beliefs, with my own over-intellectualized views of social justice?
***
In Allan G. Johnson’s essay “Shame, Guilt, and Responsibility” he describes how white males can work towards taking more responsibility for their patriarchal privilege. While this article is more focused on issues of gender oppression, I feel some of Johnson’s arguments are helpful to those reflecting on their white privilege and our habits of following the path of least resistance. Johnson describes how one of the biggest barriers for males in taking responsibility for their patriarchal privilege is “their reluctance to expose themselves to the ocean of guilt and shame they believe awaits them if they acknowledge that privilege exists” (41). Just as males do not want to let go of a system that puts them at an advantage, whites are fearful of the loss of this power and the associated negative feelings. Unfortunately, Johnson describes how those who are most aware of their privilege are often the individuals who choose to feel the most guilty. But shame and guilt are not productive emotions. Our first step as the privileged is to recognize we are all participants regardless of our history, income, gender, ability, or intent.
6 Anagnorisis
“I said I'm gonna be me so please be who you are
But as I'm blessed with the privilege, they're still left with the scars”
The history of whiteness would not exist without the history of blackness. We cannot ignore privilege’s central rule of the ability to hold power over non-whiteness. There is a binary here. This is the binary and mindset we must recognize and upset. In his new 2015 book, Between the World and Me, Ta-Nehisi Coates refers to whiteness as “the belief in being white,” a concept of which he extends from James Baldwin. I struggled with this as I read, just I struggled with Malcolm X’s use of the term “the white devil” when I read his autobiography. The term white is more loaded than just a description of European descent or even ‘the dominant racial group in the Western World” because according to these limited descriptions, race is still only something we see superficially. Coates challenges us to see race as an invisible social construct, drawing on James Baldwin’s 1984 essay “On Being White and Other Lies” in The Cross of Redemption:
“Because they think they are white, they do not dare confront the ravage and the lie of their history... Because they think they are white, they believe, as even no child believes, in the dream of safety.” (137)
Rather than just accepting it, ignoring it, or criticizing it, we need to fully examine it as white individuals who have benefit from this privilege. I feel our best bet in dismantling this system is to increase personal awareness of white privilege and entitlement, so then as individuals we can seek change in small ways in our everyday lives. Let our work begin.
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