For White Folks: How To Be An Ally (Part 2)

Part 1 of this series (Ohmygosh! Is it going to be a series?) was intended to cultivate the ground, as it were. To turn the brain-earth so that the air and the light could warm and brighten it. To let the mind breathe and prepare for the next set of ideas. Part 1b clarified some questions about how I see the issue of European-American self-identity. And the reason I'm linking to these here is that, despite the fact that you could easily scroll down and find them, I would strongly suggest that you read them before you read the rest of this, if you haven't already done so. What I write now will build on my earlier statements in ways that won't make as much sense without having read them first.

Also, before I proceed, I'd like to make a couple of points about the word "ally," which derives from the Latin for alligare meaning "to bind to." First of all, Ally Work has a quote on their masthead I've seen attributed elsewhere to a First Nation woman: "If you have come to help me, please go home. But if you have come because your liberation is somehow bound with mine, then we may work together." So, for me, being an ally is not about saving somebody else. It's about saving myself (I closed with this point in Part 1, but it was not always caught). I see my liberation as indelibly bound with that of every other human on the face of this planet. All the oppressed and even, God/dess help us, the oppressors (who, let's face it, are in the stranglehold of their own insanity, even if they do ride around on chartered jets). Nobody's free (as we used to say back in the sixties) until we're all free. This is not a platitude to me. This is a reality. And I want to be free. Not that I think I'm necessarily gonna get there in my lifetime. And I realize it's not a sprint, it's a marathon. But I'm going for it. With others. By myself. Whatever. Like the Steve McQueen character in "Papillon."

The second point I'd like to make about the word "ally" is that it isn't a one-way street. There is no such thing as a one-sided coin and there are some states-of-being that require more than an individual. You can't be "married" (in the truest sense of the word) by yourself, for example. You can't be a one-person "team." And allies are individuals or groups or nations bound together through mutual interests--such as survival. The two (or more) parties don't have to be equally powered to be allies. But there has to be mutual respect predicated on the basis of mutual need on some level. Crocodiles don't eat the birds that live on what they pick out of the crocodile's teeth. There's a reason for that. Maybe they're smarter than most humans.

In any case, European-Americans who imagine that they are or present themselves as "allies," seeing themselves as "helpers" need to go back to Part 1 and Part 1b to review. People of color don't need "help." They need "allies." Just as all other humans--including Europeans and European-Americans--do. People of color know things I don't know. They have experienced things I have not experienced and developed a culture that is very particularly their own. They have benefitted from a long and rich history that has not similarly imbued me with their perspectives. They have ties to each other that could teach me how to better form alliances. They have the spiritual depth and wisdom of people who have suffered and thrive anyway. I need them. So I approach with great respect for what they bring to the table. I ask to be taught and I honor that teaching. I stand corrected when appropriate and do not see myself as reduced by the correction. I need allies and I need to be an ally. Not just for people of color, but for all the manifestations of life on Earth. And crashing a people of color think tank wearing a "Free Africa!" t-shirt will not increase the likelihood of that happening. With me so far?

Under the right circumstances, people of color have always welcomed allies who look like me, when those allies operate in the manner in which I have been discussing. I just purchased a poster of W.E.B. DuBois for my new office bearing a quote from his work as a sociologist (genuflect): "There can be no perfect democracy curtailed by color, race, or poverty. But with all, we accomplish all, even peace." His statement was not an academic one. In fact, he tried to recognize the contributions of John Brown by placing a tablet on the grounds of historically Black Storer College in Harper's Ferry, Virginia, in 1932. Brown, a European-American executed in 1859 for leading a band of 21 men, including several of his own sons to occupy the arsenal in Harper's Ferry in the attempt to kick off a "war of emancipation," was deemed "too militant" by the Storer College officials.

Just before the NAACP Convention this year, however, Julian Bond and NAACP President Bruce Gordon followed their predecessor's example and dedicated in Harper's Ferry a new tablet, having the same design and layout of the original and including the same language: "With him, fought seven slaves and sons of slaves. Over his crucified corpse marched 200,000 Black soldiers and 4,000,000 freedmen singing 'John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave, but his soul goes marching on!" DuBois, Bond, and Gordon joined those earlier African-Americans in acknowledging Brown as an ally.

Now, obviously, I am hardly calling on "White" folks to die for "the cause" in the interests of being deemed "allies." I am beginning with Brown to remind us that he and his family and many others in the history of the United States were, in fact, boldly and unapologetically allies with their brothers and sisters of color--and accepted by many as such. An earlier post of mine on William Lloyd Garrison describes another of them. But there were enough European-Americans who less spectacularly allied themselves with people of color for a range of reasons (business, love, or logic) that laws were enacted to punish those errant "White" folks and deter others from casually following in their footsteps.

Still, whether it was a bi-racial couple marrying and moving West, European-Americans collecting money to buy Africans and African-Americans for the express purpose of setting them free, or entire families of European-Americans committing themselves for decades to harboring fugitives as part of the Underground Railroad (an activity that could be worthy of death), people who looked--and thought--like me have always existed. Socialization teaching that skin tone and heritage determines worth didn't take for everyone. So the idea that "well, that's just the way it was back then" is no more true than that racism is a thing of the past now. It has always been a choice for people who look like me to develop whatever attitude they please toward the socially-constructed, political notion of "race." And it still is, regardless of how pervasive institutionalized oppression in the name of racism remains.

Having said all that, let me tell some stories about what being an ally has sometimes looked like in my own life.

Back when I was in middle school in northern Illinois in the late 1950's and early 1960's, we used to plug in the juke box and dance in the cafeteria after lunch. Now, I wasn't supposed to dance at all, being that dancing was an activity of the devil and all, but I just couldn't help myself. I love to dance. Always have. So when one of the African-American students went to Baltimore and brought back "The Continental," a very smooth dance similar to "The Electric Slide" today, characterized by a small group all facing the same direction and executing the same moves in lock-step precision, I was instantly hooked. As quickly as I could master it, I was on the floor with the "Black" kids (and one other tiny "White" girl wearing harlequin glasses), honestly oblivious for some reason to the fact that others might not understand.

It didn't take long before Dupree, one of the African-American boys--short and high yella--asked me to hand-dance or jitterbug or whatever we were calling it at the time to "Stagger Lee" or "Alley Oop" and I said yes without hesitation. Clearly, he had great nerve and he could really dance, unlike the "White" boys who tended to let the girls dance with each other. So I enjoyed it, in spite of the fact that we did not speak to each other while dancing and did not fraternize at any other time inside or outside of school.

Still, my best friend (a Colonel's daughter who had pink shag carpeting in her bedroom) soon mentioned with obvious discomfort that "people are talking about you because you dance with negroes during lunch." I didn't even answer her because I had not considered this, did not understand why they were talking about me, and didn't intend to quit dancing with whomever I wanted regardless. Heck! I wasn't supposed to be dancing in the first place. I might as well have a good partner. Besides, it's not like we were going steady or something. Anyway, my point is that an ally actively participates in the creation of a world wherein they and their allies co-exist as equals without apology. If the other students saw me as "above" Dupree, he apparently did not, even in 1959. Nor did I. We were partners. Allies. Modeling for everyone in sight a new world of social acceptance. Ready or not.

In the interest of trying to keep this focused and not write some kind of magnum opus, I'm going to jump ahead now to an incident a couple of decades later, when I walked up to a photo processing counter in a discount store to pick up the pictures I had brought in for developing. A tall African-American man was standing at the counter already, waiting for a salesperson to appear. The minute I approached, a "White" woman came out of nowhere and directed her attention immediately to me. "May I help you?" she asked brightly.

"Well," I replied, nodding in the man's direction, "he was here first."

"Oh, I'm sure it would only take me a minute to take care of you," she countered, still smiling, never taking her eyes off me.

"You don't understand," I said pointedly, "HE...was here first..."

At which point she finally turned to him as if noticing him for the first time and, without missing a hitch or changing her tone, she simply went on, "Oh! Well, in that case, may I help you?"

The man's eyes caught mine for only a second. Eyeball to eyeball, we stood, complete strangers, never to see other or have anything else to do with each other ever again, to my knowledge. But recognizing and acknowledging each other. I didn't do what I did to make a point or to be "kind" or because I was trying to be "politically correct" (this was long before the PC movement). I did it the same way I would have done it for anyone else who was there first, because it was the right thing to do. There was no "gratitude" in his eyes. There was no "patronizing" in mine. We were allies, that's all. Allies rise to the occasion at hand--as needful--and require nothing but the knowledge that they are acting appropriately as a healthy and responsible human and a member of the greater human race.

Sometime years later, I was going over my mail in the departmental office of whichever school was employing me at the time, when I overheard the "White" department secretary telling another "White" woman an anecdote about being in traffic behind a car that was being driven in a way she was apparently attributing to some stereotypical characteristic of its driver's subculture. I wasn't paying very close attention, but clearly caught the "you know how they do" and the rolling of the eyes. And while I can't positively identify the group to which she was referring, there's a certain tone of voice and set of facial expressions many "White" folks are quick to use when speaking of other racial and ethnic groups.

I was caught in a dilemma. First of all, I couldn't be absolutely sure what she had meant. Secondly, as the department secretary, she could have made my life difficult as an adjunct--from not getting my copied exams on time to not getting subsequent teaching appointments. So I certainly did not want to step in uninvited with a political statement that might affect my well-being, even my income. And lastly, I was in a hurry. I left the office bustling off to wherever I was due, but with my thoughts in an uproar.

"I can't fix everything," I reasoned. "There's no point in my shooting myself in the foot when I'm not even sure what she meant."

But it was no good. I walked back to the office, poked my head in the door, and said calmly to the secretary in front of the other woman, who was still present, "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't talk like that in front of me again. I don't feel the same way you do about people of other groups and it makes me very uncomfortable to hear stereotypes used in that way."

"Oh," she responded, "you mean what I said about the driver?"

"Yes," I agreed.

"Okay," she replied. And I went off down the hall again.

Allies are allies even when their allies are not present. Or when in the presence of others who may not be allies. That is to say, some European-Americans speak great political rhetoric around people of color when other European-Americans--particularly those who might not agree with them--are not present. But it's not lost on the people of color when they hear a "White" person back-pedal, however subtly, when another "Whitey" happens by. I was offered an excellent position once to join an Afri-centric social service agency once they had been able over a period of nearly a year to ascertain that I was what they called "consistent" in all venues. And I never knew I was being observed.

Over the years, I have mentored students of color as graduates and undergraduates, I have reached out to African-Americans in locations we share regularly and where they might be the only person of color, I have taught and trained and read and participated in settings calculated to raise my own and other's consciousness about "race," and I have sought myriads of opportunities to make tiny connections and infinitessimal differences. Supporting a new organization of African-American students by remembering to participate in their events. Reminding a Puerto Rican mother by the pool that it's okay for her son to play outside, even if it means he'll get "darker" ("Have you looked at the stars in the entertainment field lately?") Giving a young European-American woman a safe place to discuss her concerns that her bi-cultural lifestyle is somehow not appropriate. Learning our shared history and casually telling the truth of it whenever possible. Listening. Appreciating. Growing.

There is also something not to do. European-Americans who want to be allies for people of color don't be "down." That is to say, they don't try to "act" Black or "be" Black or impress Black folks, really, in any way (which is very difficult to do, in any case, given the state of affairs between the "races" in this country just now). European-Americans who want to be allies for people of color just "be." And then, eventually, they may find themselves being invited to "get in where you fit in."

It was my son who first modeled this for me back in 1993. He was sixteen at the time and playing spades across the street with a table of young African-American men at a family barbeque to which we'd been invited--slapping cards, talking smack, and generally just part of the milieu. But he was winning. The other men were drinking alcohol and, as the afternoon went on, I became edgy that Eli was going to wind up with a problem of some sort.

Following him back home at one point, I expressed my concern, only to have him "straighten" me. "I know what I'm doing, Mom," he said as if he was reassuring a child. "Look at my clothes. I'm wearing a Metallica t-shirt and Jenko jeans. Am I trying to be something I'm not? No. If I was trying to 'be Black' or prove something to these guys, they'd have already taught me a lesson. But I'm just being who I am and they can respect that." And he was right.

So there is much a European-American can do as an ally for people of color, but not until the "inside work" is done. The "inside work" (in Part 1 and Part 1b) is "ally work" (if there is such a thing). Some people who look like me come to me urgent with their "need" to "help," to "make a difference," "now." But that's not how it is. If you're not willing, ready, and able to change the universe inside you, then how would you expect to make a difference in the greater society? If you won't even listen to yourself, who would listen to you? And besides, since being an ally is a two (or more) member job, then why would a person of color be willing to trust you before you've at least made a dent in your own personal racial renaissance? You can't be an ally without another ally on the other side of the stream to help you build your bridge and you must prepare yourself with sacred diligence to be worthy of the name.

Just A Quickie Mention...

I'm working on a post that should be up by noon today, but want to steer you in the direction of a post by Eric on his frustration about holding African-Americans responsible for reflecting the overall culture in the U.S. as if it was all about them. Maybe I've just missed it, but the discussions involving Bill Cosby and Juan Williams, et al, always seems to revolve around whether or not they're right, rather than why their comments focus only on Black folks to the exclusion of the broader consideration. Go, Eric!

For White Folks: How To Be An Ally (Part 1b)

In view of the fact that I won't be able to post Part 2 of How To Be An Ally until Saturday (sigh), I thought it might be a good idea to post this little addendum to Part 1. In response to my statement (not very well explained, I'm afraid) that I don't tell people I'm "White," Yami McMoots over at Green Gabbro raised some important points:

"The shop clerk who doesn’t follow me around the store, the cop who lets me off with just a warning, and other notional tools of white supremacy are not responding to my ethnic identity as a North-European-Mutt-American (which is also a social construct), but to my race; they could care less about my self-identification.

"There are two ways to get them to not respond to me as White: engage in racial drag; or wave the wand of magic anti-racist enlightenment every time I meet someone new. Not practical answers. Since my assigned race influences my life whether I want it to or not, I don’t think it makes any sense to run around telling people 'oh, I’m not White, I’m Euro-American'.

"I doubt Changeseeker would deny that the way one is racially categorized has significant impacts on one’s experience in society, regardless of one’s personal level of antiracism/internalized white supremacy/etc., or that she thinks we can change the way we are identified by others (though obviously she’s welcome to correct me on this) - I think we just have different concepts of identity. She appears to see identity statements as claims about the speaker’s desire or affinity, while I usually interpret them as claims about the speaker’s interactions with the world, including the way other people respond. These aren’t mutually exclusive metaphors, and neither of us is wrong, but when there’s significant tension between personal desire and social response the distinction becomes important.

"If identity is a claim about my interactions with the world, saying that I’m not White is a lie, and all kinds of un-PC as it means I am denying my own privilege. If identity is a statement of desire and affinity, saying that I’m not White is a perfectly sensible and progressive statement whose truth value cannot be determined without a detailed, intimate examination of my antiracist commitments. Conclusion: when making statements about racial identity, it is important to be clear about what 'identity' actually means."

And this was my response:

What I was getting at in the paragraph you cite (and you are so right that I needed to be clearer about what I mean by identity) is that I am calling for a paradigm shift by reminding us that “race” is a socially-constructed, political notion while privilege is a system of practices. I can seek to reject privilege when it is apparent to me. (I will address this idea in Part 2.) What I was shooting for here, though, was to suggest that in order for privilege to be apparent to me so that I can reject it, I have to be able to recognize it as a response to a socially-constructed, political notion based on no actual deserved quality. Whiteness perceives itself as deserving. European-American individuals, on the other hand, have no basis upon which to perceive themselves as any more deserving than any other ethnic group on the planet.

Now, obviously, I know that daily practice at every level in U.S. society privileges European-Americans as “White” with or without their conscious awareness, admission, or acknowledgment, let alone any embarrassment or guilt. And yes, the first step is an ever-increasing awareness of this functional reality.

But this functional reality is based on (according to the famous UNESCO study reported in the early 1950's) a “social myth.” The realization of “race” as a myth in no way mitigates the damage done by its perpetuation as a concept. It just makes it that much more unconscionable or even heinous, while being totally ridiculous. How can a person think they deserve privilege because of their skin tone? If there was any sense to this, I would lose privilege in direct proportion to the sun tan I’ve been getting.

I don’t tell people “I’m not White”--for exactly the reason you brought up, Yami. It’s not immediately understandable as a statement given where most people in the U.S. (on all sides of the issue) reside. What I do is tell people that “Whiteness” is a meaningless social construction devised for the purpose of exploiting people of color for the enrichment of people that look like me. (Again, I might have and probably do have African heritage–as many people who look like me do–but I still get the benefit of “White” privilege, as long as I don’t tell people “I’m Black.”)

There is no need to abandon group identity. Each of us belongs to many groups and group identity is short hand (a code) for understanding another individual’s experience, reality, and/or self-determined claim. The difficulty has never been “difference” per se. The difficulty is the fact that we declare difference and then socially impose an entirely arbitrary hierarchy on it (men over women, “White” people over people of color, etc.). Then, those who find themselves privileged by this hierarchy begin to imagine that they are indeed better than those “beneath” them on the ladder. And therein lies the problem.

When I use the term “people that look like me,” I am challenging listeners to remember that they can’t make simple sense of “racial” difference without my complicity. So I don’t say: “I’m not White.” I just choose not to identify myself using that term, but rather create a series of teachable moments related to “race.”

I know that most European-Americans are not prepared to do this at this time. Nevertheless, what I was nudging them towards in my post was the possibility of considering that their “race” is a “social myth” deserving no privilege and that keeping that idea foremost in their minds at all times will move mountains in their psyches, as well as their own and others' lives.

Generation Her

Blackamazon took the varnish off the woodwork over at her blog with this post. It's her response as a young woman of color to all the "data" and analysis on how Generation Me lies, cheats, and doesn't care about anything. She folds race, class, and gender into a most ferocious pudding and the comments thread (featuring primarily a dialogue between BitchLab and Blackamazon) just keeps the party going. Sometimes, I border on hopefulness...

Feeding The Soul

One of the many sources I tap more or less regularly in an attempt to broaden my perspective is SeeingBlack.com. This week, they ran an article by William Jelani Cobb entitled "The Devil and Dave Chappelle". It typifies the combination of culture, politics, and analysis that always deepens my understanding of African-American reality. The piece is so righteous, I felt as if I'd been to church. For real.

Kiri Davis: "A Girl Like Me"

This afternoon, I watched a 7-minute film entitled "A Girl Like Me". It was directed by Kiri Davis, a teenaged filmmaker, and won the diversity award at the 6th Annual Media That Matters Film Festival. I would challenge anyone who thinks racism is just a matter of language to watch this film. It's a very powerful use of seven minutes and Davis deserves to have our attention.

If I'd been making the rounds of my usual blogs this week, I would have seen Nubian's post on "A Girl Like Me" and watched the film last Monday. Ah, well. Better late than never I guess. In any case, do watch the film and read Nubian's thoughts about it, as well. This is a must-not-miss.

Required Reading For Beginner Allies

After Granny posted this on the defensiveness of White folks in discussions about racism, Professor Zero reposted some of it with clarification of her own, creating a context for a truly interesting thread of comments involving Toasted Suzy, the G Bitch, and the Professor here. Definitely worth reading, especially if you're a European-American trying to learn how to learn about the dynamics of the socially-constructed, political notion of race and how it positions us all in a racially-obsessive and oppressive society.

Tagged With The Book List

To clear the brain palate, as it were, before plunging into How To Become An Ally (Part 2), I'm going to post my answers to a series of book questions with which I was recently "tagged" by Professor Zero. Please keep in mind that I've been a book person since I was a tiny girl and I would probably answer these questions differently every day for the rest of my life, depending on my mindset at the moment. Anyway, understanding all this and giving myself permission to just create "a" list, not, for goodness' sake, "the" list, here goes:

(1) One book that changed your life? Killing the Angel in the House by Virginia Wolfe

The idea that a woman would have to kill some part of her socialization to be her full-tilt self was somewhat shocking, but very meaningful to me coming when it did in my thirties. I don't think that I would have considered going to college/grad school (dragging my poor children through the ordeal) had I not read this book.
(2) One book you have read more than once? That Hideous Strength by C. S. Lewis

I'm almost embarrassed about this one. Nothing deep here and yet, I swear, I took notes and copied quotes out of it on one read-through. Then one time, I read the whole thing out loud to my daughter. It's kind of a fantasy/myth/science fiction book about the struggle between good and evil. Gosh, I wonder why that fascinates me so?
(3) One book you would want on a desert island? Memory of Fire by Eduardo Galleano (I know, I know--this is really three books, but it's a trilogy and everybody knows that's really one big, fat book in three volumes.)

I know I probably should have chosen a survival book, but this is the entire saga of the Americas: history, poetry, mystery, social commentary, you name it, it's here. People don't live by bread alone.
(4) One book that made you laugh? Running With Scissors by Augusten Burroughs

I had a very weird childhood myself, though not nearly as weird as Burroughs. Maybe that's why I laughed so much. If he could live through all that and still be marvelously humorous, then maybe there's hope for all of us.
(5) One book that made you cry? Iron House by Jerome Washington

A beautifully written book about prison and the human spirit. I've read a lot of books about prison and prisoners, but this one seems to capture the deepest, most quintessentially and painfully personal nature of the experience as gauged by the people I've known and the stories they tell.
(6) One book you wish you had written? (I am so over-complicating this question. I have written the book I most wanted to write--as yet unpublished Argggh!--and am working on two others, way too slowly. So I'm not wishing. I'm doing it. Interpreted differently, I can't imagine wishing I had written someone else's book, because to my mind, that would mean being that person. How could I write Presenting Sister Noblues by Hattie Gossett, for example, without being Hattie Gossett? Oh, dear. Oh, dear. What to do? What to do?) So my answer is (drum roll, please): a novel about my father's mother, a beautiful and wild thing who ran off and left her rigid, patriarchal husband and three children in the 1920's and who died after supposedly shooting herself in the chest in Cincinnati at the age of 28. At the time of her death, in the wee hours of the morning on June 2nd, 1932, the only other person present was a police officer who had the hots for her uncontrollable self and whose service revolver killed her.

(7) One book you wish had never been written? Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith

Self explanatory.
(8) One book you are currently reading? Never Drank The Kool-Aid by Toure

There's supposed to be an accent over the "e" in his name. Toure is one of the best writers out there, in my estimation, and judging from the number and range of his awards, I'm hardly the only one who thinks so. I first read his short story collection (which is stunning), but this is a series of in-depth non-fiction pieces about people Toure has interviewed or known, most of which I would never have read about, if not for Toure. Amazing list. Fabulous writer.
(9) One book you've been meaning to read? Why Read Marx Today? by Jonathan Wolfe

This will probably stay on my "should read" list forever, but every time I try to return it, I open it, read a paragraph and think, "I really must read this..." Sigh.
(10) And tag five bloggers to do this, too. This thing has gotten pretty wide, so I'm not sure if my five have already been tagged, but they are: Nubian, Another Conflict Theorist, Piscean Princess, Shannon, and Glenda.

For White Folks: How To Become An Ally (Part 1)

During the past month, while Israel has been busy pounding Lebanon and the U.S. has continued to occupy both Iraq and Afghanistan, I've been watching the castigation of several bloggers of color by "White" folks who purport to be seeking information, but often use a bludgeon of words to ask for it. Now, on the surface, these things would not appear immediately to be connected, but I would argue that, in fact, they are. And in any case, I have experienced them as being current manifestations of the paradigm in which we still find ourselves enmeshed, a paradigm predicated on the idea that "White" is "right." Period. No matter what. A paradigm that, in the end, serves no one well (not even White folks) since it weakens any possible future social stability that might develop otherwise.

While all the ugliness was unfolding against Nubian, among others, there have been some excellent responses. Despite her own struggles, for example, Granny has unleashed several remarkable volleys here and here and here. And Shannon had already drafted a walloping list of frequently asked questions about racism here. So there couldn't possibly be anything left to say, could there? Well, let's see what I can add to the process.

First of all, I'd like to begin by saying that there is no twelve-step program for White folks. More's the pity, really. But there isn't. This means that a European-American can't just read a few pointers or one article or one book or even take one workshop or a whole class and have the matter of "race" down pat. It doesn't work like that. Which is one reason why so many of us wind up with our feet (both of them, shoes and all) half-way down our throats on a regular basis, typically without a clue and without realizing it. I mean, it would seem obvious, wouldn't it, that a person would come to recognize the taste of shoe leather? But apparently this is not the case for many who really, really, really don't want to face reality. And, as I love to say, you can't wake up a person pretending to be asleep.

So if you find yourself arguing with Nubian, Granny, Shannon or me, or any of the other folks who sound like us or any person of color, in general, as a matter or fact, who happens to be making you uncomfortable, I would suggest that you spit out your feet and just shut up until you no longer feel like arguing. It may be a long, slow process, but there will be progress. And believe me, we're not making this up as we go along. If you're scared, say you're scared. But reality is never going to become something different than it is just so you can feel more comfortable--even if you're "White."

Now, this brings us to a second point. I believe that there is a distinct difference between being European-American (an ethnicity) and being "White" (a "racial" category). Most European-Americans don't realize that "race" is a socially-constructed, political notion. It was created as a concept out of thin air by Europeans a few hundred years ago for the express purpose of rationalizing and legitimating the rampant exploitation and even genocide of people of color around the world to make Europe and Europeans rich. And it didn't work because Europeans were the superior group or because God had mandated that Europeans should be in the catbird seat. It worked because enough Europeans were willing to be viciously brutal themselves or to condone the vicious brutality of others who looked like them to make it work. Obviously, this is nothing to be proud of.

Some European-Americans counter their own history by claiming that their ancestors didn't own any slaves, captain any slave ships, or whatever. But the wealth that bankrolled the Industrial Revolution and the establishment of the United States as the richest nation in the world came directly out of the ruinous rampage Europeans visited on people of color for several hundred years. We would not be the nation we are if this had not occurred. Moreover, every social institution in the U.S. was built to benefit European-Americans and has since the beginning to the present continued to be controlled by the group that they were built to benefit. You don't have to know it's there for you. It's not personal. It's a system. And it's working just like it's supposed to.

What I'm attempting to help you see here is that Europeans created the concept of "race," created "Black" people (who were actually Africans or African-Americans) and "White" people (who were actually Europeans or European-Americans) and then an entire system of social "rules" to determine how "Black" people and "White" people should or would be allowed to live their lives. For this reason, I don't call myself "White." I don't choose to identify myself with the socially-constructed, political notion of "Whiteness." I'm not ashamed of my ethnic heritage, per se, or of being myself as a European-American. But, since the category of "White" was created only for the purpose of oppressing people who are not "White," I don't identify myself with it. You could make the same decision, if you wanted to. Not to deny "Whiteness" as a system of privilege and power that is destroying our nation, but simply to disavow your desire to participate in the maintenance of that system while knowing that you are doing so. Which would be a beginning, a move in the direction of becoming an ally.

Having already said that no single presentation is going to be a down-and-dirty moment of truth for anybody, I'm not expecting any European-American reader to slap his or her forehead at this point and exclaim, "I get it!" So, if you just did that, or you find yourself wanting to do that sometime as a result of a single conversation, book, etc., try--hard--to refrain from slapping your head because you'll be fooling yourself. It's not possible to suddenly understand. Baby steps. Baby steps. If you try to prove you're ready to climb the mountain before you can walk, you're gonna fall and nobody is expecting you to climb yet anyway. There is no easier, softer way. Take your time, but remember, mouth shut until you know a little something and that won't be for a long, long time. Capisce?

Am I trying to be rude here or hurt your feelings or something? After all, you're reading this because you want to be an ally for people of color, right? Shouldn't I be a little kinder, a little more thoughtful, perhaps, of your good intentions? The answer is: no. You don't deserve special kindness for making some tiny effort to face reality. It may not be your personal fault that institutionalized oppression in the name of racism against people of color has made sure that people who look like you and I have the most of the best and the least of the worst. But since you have benefitted from birth because of it--whether you realized it or not--you've already gotten all the special treatment you should expect. And given the fact that this system is not going to disappear any time soon, you're going to continue to get benefits anyway, even if you don't want them. (And let's be real about that, shall we? Are you sure you're ready to give up all that privilege when you've never experienced life any other way so far? Hmmm...?)

The fact is that it's almost impossible to make a dent in most "White" people's social armor. We've lived in the ritualized norms of our lives for several hundred years. It was already in place when we were born, so we think and tell ourselves and teach our children and make damn sure people of color know that this system we've got is just, well, natural. It's the way things are. And after all, it's worked pretty well so far, right? And things have changed, haven't they? I mean, we've got a "Black" secretary of state and a "Black" supreme court justice and a few thousand "Black" athletes making serious money. Doesn't that count for something?

Yeah. It counts for a relatively small percentage of African-Americans doing very well and a somewhat larger percentage of African-Americans who have fought their way up-hill to make a decent life for themselves--as long as they play by the rules--while one out of every two African-American children are living in abject poverty. I know, I know, it's not your fault. You sent ten bucks to the United Negro College Fund. And even got passed over for a promotion one time that was ultimately given to an African-American--and you didn't even protest (though you were absolutely certain that you were better qualified)...

So, what am I trying to say here? If the whole mindset of "Whiteness" is so hard to buck, then why try? Right? I mean, African-Americans are already so angry they don't even want to let you ask your questions or touch their hair or anything, right? How are you to change if they won't "help" you? All right. You asked. Just remember that. And here's a little list to help you get started.

(1) Read! Read The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison, Notes of a Native Son by James Baldwin, Coming of Age in Mississippi by Anne Moody, Racist America by Joe Feagin, and White Like Me: Reflections on Race by a Privileged Son by Tim Wise. And after you read all those, start checking out the sites on my blog roll. Then, you read blogs. Not to comment. Not to question. Just to read and learn. And then read the comments and find more blogs to read. All while just in a receiving mode. Believe me, if you really want to learn and you read long enough, you will begin to get a glimmer of understanding. Trying to "state your case" will set you back light years. Trying to "clarify (defend) your perspective" is a giant flag screaming "Whiteness forever!" Don't go to these blogs and tell them I sent you and then act the fool. They know me better than that.

(2) Face the fact that the system and other "White" folks are going to try to keep you operating out of your "Whiteness" and this is going to make it harder for you to become an ally for people of color. European-Americans can be allies. "White" folks are just "White." They can't help it. That's the way it is. If you really want to be an ally, then you're going to have to learn how "White" you already are. You're going to have to allow yourself to begin seeing "Whiteness" for what it is--an ugly, mean-spirited, frightened, greedy, social-construction that borders on some form of insanity. And you're going to have to be vigilent all the time to resist its subtle and not so subtle manifestations. If you're serious about being an ally, though, you'll get the help you need to learn how.

And finally, (3) look African-Americans in the eye without challenge. Even if they don't dress like you or look like they're in the same socio-economic class as you (whether better or worse) or speak exactly the same way you do and even if you get the distinct impression that they don't like you. See them. Recognize them as humans just like you--no better, no worse--with issues and disappointments and intelligence and capabilities and rights, for God's sake! Accept them straight out as people--just like you. And then show some respect. Respect gets respect, you know. And if you're not getting it, you're not giving it, even if you think you are.

Now, if you think this just puts too much of the onus on you--the "White" person--keep in mind that the issue at hand is becoming an ally for people of color. African-Americans don't expect European-Americans to be anything but "White." They've been surviving and even rising above with little outside support for hundreds of years. But that doesn't make it reasonable or just or decent or healthy for European-Americans to leave it like that. Being an ally for people of color is what we need to do for us. And for our nation. And for our world. And for any hope of a future for ourselves or our children. Truly, isn't that worth the effort?

Arundhati Roy on Israel and Palestine

I know I've been hiding out for more than a week now, but I'm finally working on a post--on what European-Americans need to know to be allies of people of color. In the meantime, while you're waiting, you can watch this 10-minute video of Arundhati Roy talking about the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. Then, while it's fresh in your mind, put the current war against Lebanon (and U.S. involvement in it by providing weapons to Israel) into the context of what you've seen in the film.

You might want to particularly note Winston Churchill's historic statements on how he felt about what the Europeans did to people of color as they imperialistically spread their various empires...

More On Lebanon

Professor Zero has written a great post offering more action options and sources of information about what's happening in Lebanon. Very empowering to dribble down the blog court, passing the ball back and forth on our way to the basket. I'm lovin' it. :^)

Four Things We Can Do

I've been moping around because I felt I couldn't do anything about the situation in Lebanon. But thanks to Mccs1977, I found two things we can do and then added a couple more things to the list. We can:

1) read and support our blogger sister, Mana, blogging from Beirut here ;

2) contact and send financial help to a group that can be found here and is coordinating efforts to cover the needs of the refugees who are pouring into Beirut;

3) start reading the press from other countries, such as this article and not just U.S. news media. This will create unity of understanding with our sisters and brothers worldwide rather than seeing ourselves as separate; and

4) get on The Peace Train here. All aboooard!

It is something. It is solidarity. It is peace-making.

Thank you, Mccs1977.

For Lebanon

Glenda has inspired me again to post something outside my usual perimeters. I've been so sad about what's happening in Lebanon. Too sad to post about it really. And not wanting to take on more issues than I already do.

Then Glenda reminded me that sometimes what one wants to say has already been said. And so it becomes more a matter of just giving the voice a space than anything else. So, I'm posting one of Edna St. Vincent Millay's sonnets, published in 1939: "Czecho-Slovakia." It's the way I often feel these days about Iraq and Afghanistan and Lebanon and Gaza and Darfur and the rainforests and the inner cities in the U.S. and...

"If there were balm in Gilead, I would go
To Gilead for your wounds, unhappy land,
Gather you balsam there, and with this hand,
Made deft by pity, cleanse and bind and sew
And drench with healing, that your strength might grow,
(Though love be outlawed, kindness contraband)
And you, O proud and felled, again might stand;
But where to look for balm, I do not know.
The oils and herbs of mercy are so few;
Honour's for sale; allegiance has its price;
The barking of a fox has bought us all;
We save our skins a craven hour or two--
While Peter warms him in the servants' hall
The thorns are platted and the cock crows twice."

I cry for Lebanon and for us all, as we watch and shake our heads and only sigh...

Erase Racism Blog Carnival 3 Is Up

If you've never visited one of the Erase Racism Blog Carnivals, now's your chance to catch one hot off the press. IrrationalPoint's hosting this one here. Now get on over there and enjoy yourself! And don't forget to take a friend.

Fighting For Our Lives

Sometimes, I feel as if we're all headed for hell in a handbasket. Sometimes, I don't see the point of trying anymore. I look around at the pain and the confusion and the alienation and I start to wonder if life on earth is just going to become impossible at some point, given those who seem to have the power to define and the fact that the rest of us don't act as if we have the foggiest clue what to do about it.

I read the news and I feel like crawling under the bed. I look at the lives of the people I know and I wonder if any of them are ever--really--happy. I watch a woman hitting a child across the car seat from her, not once, or in one flurry of slaps, but over and over and over and over--sequence after sequence--as she steers her car around the corner in heavy traffic, oblivious that her violence is being observed by a total stranger in the car creeping along behind her. And I wonder what will become of that child and how it will someday use what it is learning. I think about my mother struggling with Alzheimer's. And all the folks who used to make good money, but now can't find a job. And I think about the old folks and mentally ill who can't afford the medication they need to live a decent life--or even live at all.

Even when I teach--and maybe especially when I teach--I'm increasingly, incredibly aware of the human condition. I walk into a classroom and look at thirty or fifty or one hundred and fifty expressionless faces, at the ready, and wonder if one of them is the one who will shoot me (as an anonymous student once threatened to do on the telephone in the middle of the night) or try to cause me some kind of trouble because they don't like what I say or they don't want to know it. I wonder if one of them will kill themselves on my watch--without ever telling me that they're considering it. I wonder how many are struggling with drugs or just found out they're pregnant or will learn tomorrow that they've acquired a disease for which there is no known cure. I wonder which of the women got beaten up by her "boyfriend" last night, which of the men is working two jobs on top of going to school in an attempt to keep his father and mother from hitting the wall now that they're both ill. I wonder which of them will lose their scholarship this semester and be relegated back to the ranks of those who will not earn enough to survive. I wonder which of them live their every moment in gut-gripping anxiety because if they don't get all A's (no matter what), they'll incur the rage of a father who holds not only the purse-strings, but their sense of self-worth, in his authoritarian hands. I've long since learned that every one of them has a story. Every one of them, no matter what they look like, have things going on in their lives--or have had or will shortly--that will mark them as humans in a difficult world.

Sometimes, they wait to see me one after the other outside my office. Sometimes, they approach me after class (starting on the first day of the semester), saying, "You seem like someone I can talk to." Sometimes they call me so I can't see their face. Sometimes, they don't even want to admit what the problem is, so they'll approach me with another problem or situation or concern.

"I'm not sure I can pass your class," he might say, looking worried. "I'm used to teachers going through the book page by page, talking about it. I don't know if I'm taking the right notes." But in truth, it may be that he doesn't read well. Or write well. And he has to pass the class to play his sport at the school to which he wants to go. Which is--to his mind--the only way he's going to get out of the abject poverty in which he was raised. And he's six foot four and a man and he can't just admit how weak his skills are off the court or how frightened he is that he's going to be stuck in the ghetto. And I can't ask because it might not be true or he might not tell me, but if it is true and he won't tell me (for fear I'll rat him out), then the game is over before it's begun. And he'll disappear mid-semester and I'll have lost him. Forever.

I look at the woman who's come back to school, who's shaking in her boots because she's twenty or even thirty years older than the others, embarrassed at her fear, embarrassed at not having done it already, unsure she can do it, caught in a new employment market that is going to push her out if she doesn't have the credential. I look at the kid with the dream and no food money. I look at the one who's taken the class three times already in an attempt to make the A that's necessary to get him into the course of study he's longed to enter since he was fifteen. I look at the one who's translating everything I say into some other language in her head, determined to make it because her degree from somewhere else isn't meaningful here, even with years of experience.

I listen to a woman tell me off because she isn't doing well in the course and it's months before she admits that her emotions are really about her fear on a new and more professional job and her attempts to be a good mommy while her husband does his year in jail. I look at the couple who's breaking up because she's already successfully made the shift to the university and he's still struggling with D's at the community college, not wanting to face that both his college career and his relationship are probably hopeless. And I watch the bright, but odd ones, collecting the giggles of their classmates, pretending not to notice and not able, in any case, to be any different than they are.

Needless to say, with my rather focused interest in and understanding of racial issues, I'm especially sensitive to the struggles of my students of color. The other day, for example, I looked out over my classroom at a group I had only seen four times so far, and I was suddenly hyper-conscious that fully six or so out of the 28 students were African-American males taking a summer sociology course and on their way to another school in the fall to play a sport. At the college level, at least at community colleges and state schools (the only ones with which I'm familiar), there are always a few athletes--male or female--in the class. At one point, I spent four years teaching at FSU where you knew the male athletes because, no matter what their sport, they filled the doorway. But to have half dozen in more or less the same circumstance suddenly reminded me (once more) of why I do what I do in the way that I do it.

Almost instantly, in spite of the fact that my lecture of the day was on research methods (not one of my spicier offerings), I started finding ways to reach out to them. You can't be sure you'll ever see a student again (regardless of where you are in the semester). In fact, I often operate when I speak, in school or otherwise, out of the idea that, if I never see these people again, what would I have wanted to say to them? And I started fighting for their very lives.

The fact is that I don't even remember now what all I managed to work into the lecture. And it was appropo to all of the students anyway--more or less. And I worked hard not to look overly at the young men in question when pouring out my heart, telling what I know about life, using how sociological research captures causal chains to offer them tools for better understanding that many of their problems are not so much personal as social. Encouraging and empowering them to go another step, to hang in there, to recognize that the strength that brought them this far can take them all the way, I was terribly aware of what I was doing. But you rarely get a signal from them--not when it's going on.

Then, on the way out of the class, one of the young men to whom I'd been particularly speaking walked past me casually, handing me a folded piece of paper and proceeding out the door. I knew what it was. I've gotten many such notes through the years.

"I really enjoy this course," it read, "and I wanted you to know that the way you teach highly encourages me to be here. You kinda got me thinking of switching my major to becoming a sociologist. Thanks for being a great instructor. You are very appreciated. Real talk, you're the best I ever had."

And then I knew I had been heard. Again.

See, it's not about me. It's about them. All the ones who need to know it's possible, who need to believe there's hope. They can take that little speech, those words of truth, and parlay them into a leap to the sun. I've seen it happen over and over. It amazes me every time. That I get to participate in their process. That I get to show them how to stretch their bow. That I get to give them sustenance, sometimes before they even know they're hungry.

European-American youth who may have always known they're going to do this and be that and have those things that make them what they've always known they'd be--they have problems, too. And I work with them one on one endlessly, when they need me, but they often have other support mechanisms, as well. Not always, but often. And they have the social benefits of their racial privilege. Still, even they have the capacity to surprise me.

Yesterday, as I mulled over the note I had received the day before, I got an email from a former student, a young European-American man who was raised in a fine home in a particularly beautiful and wealthy setting, the son of a powerful father, with basically nowhere to go but up. Very bright, he spoke almost not at all, but he came within three points of earning all the possible points in the course, and then asked me politely at the end if he might contact me by email sometime. I assured him that he could. And here it finally was.

"I just wanted you to know," he wrote,"that what I learned from you touched me deeply, and you may have taken me one step closer to finding out what I want to do with my life. I'm not sure, but I think I may want to write or somehow communicate on as large a scale as possible--always on my subject of choice: institutional injustice, that of our country in particular...After one of your classes when you were lecturing about the state of affairs in this country...I went down to my car, started processing that information with my life experiences and cried. I wasn't even really sure why...I have always had to do what I have to do and have rarely done what I wanted to do. I have just put my philosophies and creativity on hold...[Y]our class brought a piece of me out and I thank you..."

So, there it is--Black or White. I am socially reproducing myself as a conscious European-American. I am--to the extent I am capable--being a bridge of hope across which people of color can walk to their next destination. And when the world is too much with me, I am, always, saved by the students I'm trying to save. And that's the way it works, I guess, because, in the end, maybe we're all just fighting for our lives.

Well...Nazi's Love Uniforms (gulp)

Just when I thought the news couldn't get any weirder or more depressing, the New York Times (here) with the help of the Southern Poverty Law Center (which you'll find on my links list), has just left me stupified. Apparently, according to a military investigator's report, the military (and most especially the Army) now has what may be thousands of rabid racists roaming the streets of Iraq on our nickel, learning how to use sophisticated weapons on our nickel, and practicing house-to-house missions on our nickel so they can learn how to do the same thing in the future right here in the good old U.S. of A. when they finally "cleanse" our nation of the "undesirables"!!

What!? my brain screamed (as I contemplated the $7000 bill I just got from the I.R.S. because of a mortgage deal that went south). I wanted to believe that the Times was mistaken. After all, they've had their problems in the past. But there it is, in the paper and on the SPLC website, with names and everything.

"The report quotes Scott Barfield, a Defense Department investigator, saying, 'Recruiters are knowingly allowing neo-Nazis and white supremacists to join the armed forces, and commanders don't remove them from the military even after we positively identify them as extremists or gang members.'"

Now, what is this telling us? First of all, it's telling us that the U.S. population isn't supporting the war on Iraq enough to sign up to fight. Well, we knew this, right? Otherwise, why would recruiters be routinely staging humongous dog-and-pony shows on college campuses and fighting in court for the right to continue? And why would we see them charging across Walmart parking lots in poor neighborhoods to tempt young men of color like so many uniformed dope boyz with quotas to meet? And why would ads in Jet magazine--every week--encourage parents to talk their children into signing up? Okay. So that's old news, I guess.

And I've always known that neo-Nazis and other kooks get their training in the military. Where else are they gonna get it? It's not like you can sign up for "How To Blow Stuff Up 101" or "Advanced Killing" at your local community college. (And I know the directions are available on line, but not with hands-on, state of the art instruction and unlimited opportunities to practice--while you're getting paid.)

But this stuff about the recruiters and the officers knowing and letting it slide? Oh, oh, oh, please tell me this is new! And how is it explained? According to Mr. Barfield:

"They don't want to make a big deal...about neo-Nazis in the military because then parents who are already worried about their kids signing up and dying in Iraq are going to be even more reluctant about their kids enlisting if they feel they'll be exposed to gangs and white supremacists."

Uh huh! We'd certainly hate to think those parents who are so carefully being enlisted to enlist their young would be uncomfortable. Not better to get rid of the psychos. Oh, no! Better to just keep 'em a secret from the parents!

It's a cinch they're not a secret from the Iraqi's for very long. According to Barfield, "We've got Aryan Nations graffiti in Baghdad. That's a problem."

No. Kidding.

I mean, I can see where it would be difficult to keep the locals convinced that you're there to "bring them democracy" when you have spray-painted messages popping up in public places--in English--calling them and other people of color pejorative names. But hey! An Army's gotta do what an Army's gotta do! If the Commander-in-Chief says throw some more logs on the fire, who's gonna tell him no?

Actually, this little issue caused some excitement a decade or so ago, too. Timothy McVeigh, it turned out, who was executed for bombing the federal building in Oklahoma City, first espoused his right-wing philosophy while serving in the Army and found his sidekicks among the ranks of fellow soldiers, as well. Then, while we were still smarting under this revelation, another incident came along involving the dishonorable discharge of nineteen neo-Nazis in 1996, after three European-American paratroopers were convicted of randomly murdering a Black couple--to win tattoos, no less! The result was a crack-down on racist and extremist activities in the military. It's a little scary that there even had to be one. I mean, did none of these guys have tattoos going in? But at least, the Army was moving in the right direction--at the specific instruction of Washington, I might add.

But you know how it is. Time goes by and quotas must be met. Then, as other countries (who never did really ante up a whole lot of troops, especially not for long term warfare) started bringing their troops home (what a concept!) and we ran out of the 50,000 green card holders we talked into becoming soldiers, some things just had to be done. Winking at crazies as they sign on the dotted line appears to have been one of them.

In an article in Resistance, the hyper-racist National Alliance's magazine, Stephen Berry, a former Special Forces officer who now serves as the organization's "military unit coordinator," urged skinheads to join the army and insist on serving in light infantry units.

"Light infantry is your branch of choice because the coming race war and the ethnic cleansing to follow will be very much an infantryman's war. It will be house-to-house, neighborhood-by-neighborhood until your town or city is cleared and the alien races are driven into the countryside where they can be hunted down and 'cleansed'...As a professional soldier, my goal is to fill the ranks of the United States Army with skinheads. As street brawlers, you will be useless in the coming race war. As trained infantrymen, you will join the ranks of the Aryan warrior brotherhood."

Good to know...I guess...

*gulp*

And I would assume that we can expect the military to take some kind of immediate radical action concerning this most serious matter. Especially in the face of all the torturings and murders and gang rapes and all that keep implicating U.S. soldiers in general in Iraq and making them infinitely less safe than they would be otherwise. Surely, the Army would want to strongly and instantly distance itself from any practice of allowing Nazi's and their ilk into the U.S. military or ignoring their activities once identified, right?

Right?

When Yo' Right, Ya Know Yo' Right!

Well, I'm irritated as hell, having tried repeatedly--and I mean repeatedly--to publish the following links all pretty and neatly hidden behind the word "here," but blogger has refused to allow me to do it that way. It's taken me hours to remember, of course, that I can just publish it looking all crazy. Guess that's my OCD kicking in. Anyway, here are some links I recommend checking out. The post may not be tidy, but it'll get the job done.

Jay has an excellent rant on what African-American workers and undocumented Latino workers have in common here.

The Piscean Princess gets off writing about how she is not her hair here.

Skyscraper electrified me with her poem about how she is a walking mini-revolution here.

And Glenda very creatively reminds us to get real, stay real, and celebrate the truth regardless and maybe especially because of what's going on around us here.

Posting For Peace

Glenda has called on her readers to post for peace today. It's the 4th of July--Independence Day--after all, and there are more of us than you might think who don't instantaneously connect the making of war with the making of greatness. I am regularly made heartsick by what I see going on in our nation and in our world, as you know. Some of you seem to get a little bummed out from time to time about my critical concerns related to race. But I am not critical because I got out of bed on the wrong side on a given day. I am not critical because I am afraid of power. I am not critical because I have issues or I want to be on top. I am critical because I love life--in all its forms. I love babies (even when they smell funny). I love birds and trees and butterflies. I love fresh-faced, eager students. I love drill teams with drums. I love stand up comics and spoken word artists. I love big city web designers and folks growing watermelons in patches of rural Florida. I love people willing to memorize lines and get up on a stage, risking possible humiliation, to entertain or to teach or just to connect with the rest of the human race. I love life. Even when it doesn't look like me. Even when it doesn't speak my language. Even when it has a different way of talking to God/dess.

See, the fact is that I'm alive. And the life in me calls out to the rest of life on the planet. Despite the way I may be seen from time to time, I do not think it's all about me. I think it's all about Me. That is to say, I think, you and I and the butterflies and the drill team members and the babies and the people in Iraq and Iran and Darfur and Palestine are me. I'm not somehow "up here" while you or him or her or it is somehow "down there." And once that idea gets up in your head, you can't say "ho-hum, they're bombing (again)." You feel the bomb hit and you scream in your soul and agonize over the Grand Ignorance of it all.

A couple of days ago, I came across a reference to "the hundredth monkey effect," a phenomenon first observed by Lyall Walson in the 1950's on an island where he and some other scientists were studying macaques (a type of monkey) and later popularized by Ken Keyes, Jr., in a book on the topic. Apparently, the scientists were dropping sweet potatoes on the beach for the macaques to eat. The macaques liked the sweet potatoes, but didn't like the taste of the sand. So, over time, a few of them learned and taught each other to wash the potatoes in a stream before eating. Eventually, however, (the process took over a decade) when the hundredth monkey learned the technique, the entire macaque population took to using it and almost immediately macaques on other islands--even distant islands--took to using it, as well, with no way to imagine how the information had been communicated. Thus, the term "critical mass" was coined.

So, I'm posting for peace today. Maybe I'm not the 100th monkey. Maybe only the forty-second or the eighty-sixth or the third, comparatively speaking. But I doubt that the macaques were counting. I doubt that they were shooting for an ultimate result. The ones who carried their potatoes to the stream were probably not blogging about it at the time or even trying to drag their friends down to the water. They were probably just washing their food and enjoying how much tastier it was without the sand.

And all those macaques grinding their teeth on that gritty sand--not realizing that it could be otherwise--just thought that's what they had to do to survive. Until critical mass was achieved and then they made the shift as if they couldn't have done it before.

Glenda called for posting for peace. In the interest of peace (world and otherwise), I'm calling for:

* an end to the war in Iraq, bringing the troops home now;

* immediate release of all political prisoners currently held anywhere in the world (including Guantanamo Bay and the U.S.) as a result of the decision-making of any branch of the U.S. government;

* an end to U.S. occupation of Afghanistan and any other lands that have not requested it (which, to my knowledge, includes everywhere we have perched a military base); and

* immediate economic and philosophical commitment to: fair trade practices world-wide; cessation of all violence against women and children; safety, opportunity, and respect for all people of color; and a massive re-organization of the U.S. "justice" system (including all prisons and jails) with the expected result of mass immediate releases of non-violent prisoners and the placing of drug addicts into appropriate facilities.

That oughta get us started. We don't need to eat sand. There's a better, more excellent way to live. Come on down. The water's fine.

Divided We Fall

The other day, I picked up a weekly newspaper expressly because one of the headlines on the cover was the question: "Is it racism?" You know me, there's no way I could walk past that one. So I took it upstairs, read the little article and decided to write this post.

The article was really just a short page dedicated to describing a young European-American man's struggles primarily with his own perception of things. He doesn't like to stop at a late night convenience store near his apartment any more, he said, because, after dark, it's full of scary-looking Black guys with gold teeth and saggy pants. But on this particular evening, he goes on, he wound up stopping there anyway and was invited more than once (by one of the scary-looking Black guys) to buy drugs. He asks his readers if he's "racist" for wanting to avoid the guys at the store and if the dope man is "racist" for assuming he was looking for drugs. I hardly know where to begin.

First of all, if you'll recall from this post, I don't believe anybody without the power to define their own and other's lives can be racist. So, I wouldn't see the guys with the grills as racist, in any case. Intimidating, possibly. Maybe even irritating, depending on how you feel about drugs and how much coming and going it brings to that section of the neighborhood. But not racist.

Still, in this case (hang onto your hats here, kids), I don't see the article writer as necessarily racist either, at least not for wanting to avoid the party. See, he may be a racist (I think all "White" people are, even the ones who struggle daily to renounce their racial privilege, as I do), but the reason he doesn't want to go to this particular store any more is because he's afraid. Duh!

Now, what's interesting about this is that, were the parking lot (and inside) of the store in question being haunted by other European-American males, looking tough, even a little psycho maybe, and accosting customers trying to sell stolen property (or drugs--what the heck?), would the writer have wondered why he was uncomfortable? I doubt that he would have written the piece. And if he had, I suspect it would have taken an entirely different tack. He might have ranted about what's happening to his neighborhood. Or to the city in general. Or he might have berated local law enforcement. Or he even might have talked about how lack of jobs has more and more young men looking for alternate ways to support themselves. But he would either not have been afraid (and if not, why not?) or he would have known and admitted he was afraid. He wouldn't have written an article asking whether or not he was being "classist" to look askance at these youth for being up in his world making him uncomfortable.

My point is this: White folks are scared to death of Black folks. Not just after dark, either. And not just the ones with gold teeth. White folks know the history and they know that the history goes on. And they know that they benefit from it and they know that African-Americans are hurt by it. And they know that if they were Black, they would be pissed off. You know what I'm sayin'? And that makes White folks scared of Black folks.

They don't admit it. Even to themselves. But Black folks know. That's why some angry young Black males will push. Because they know White folks are scared. And there's a certain base level of gratification for powerless people of color watching a White guy ready to pee his pants busily trying to pretend otherwise out of concern that the smell of fear will be the deciding factor on whether or not he pays some awful price. The scene is really the pay-off and good for days of chuckling afterwards. As offensive as this might seem to some European-Americans, if it keeps the rage from boiling all over us, we should probably count ourselves lucky and leave it at that.

But White supremacists are always talking about how dangerous African-Americans are to the "good (White) citizens" of U.S. communities. And, God knows, if I looked Black, I'd be dangerous because I'd be one of those who are pissed off--and for what I maintain are perfectly good reasons. But the fact is that, as reasonable as rage against the White power structure and its oppressive practices is, the majority of Black folks, by and large, are not threatening anybody--not even each other. It's really quite remarkable when you think about it, after all African-Americans have been through and continue to face on a daily basis. And White people know. They know. They know. They know. (Hel-lo! Do we not all live in the same nation, even if we don't live in the same culture?)

Last night, I watched a beautifully done Czech movie entitled "Divided We Fall." It was nominated for an Oscar for best foreign film of the year 2000 and I could certainly see why. It's a story about a couple in Eastern Europe who hide a Jew during the Nazi occupation and the horrified extents to which they have to go in the attempt to pull it off successfully. The story line, script, and direction were excellent, but the actors were phenomenal, not just because they made me believe them, but because they took me there--to the time, the place, and the incredibly complicated circumstances.

There are few people in the U.S. over the age of fifteen who haven't been exposed in some way or other to information related to the heinous crimes committed against the Jews in Nazi-held countries during World War II. Even the knowledge that Jews were not the only ones to suffer (at least seven million others died, as well--gypsies, homosexuals, members of the resistance, among others) in no way mitigates that particular nightmare of Jewish existence for more than a decade, while much of the world just watched--including the bulk of their neighbors and the communities around them. Which is what the drama of "Divided We Fall" is all about. It's about how some of the community collaborates with the Nazis, even though they are not themselves "bad" people. And how some are so terrified that they'll scream "Jew! Jew!" at the sight of one rather than risk being thought to be sympathetic. And how some just hide behind shutters and try to stay out of the way in the attempt to survive personally, regardless. But, as I already mentioned, the main couple in this film decide to do the unthinkable, putting their lives in mortal danger to save one man, the son of their former boss, the only local Jew to escape and return after the rest of his family is already dead.

The couple has wildly mixed feelings about the process in which they find themselves and emotions run high at one point or another for various reasons (I don't want to spoil it for you--it's a really decent flick, if you don't mind subtitles). Still, the most disturbing thought that wiggled its way into my mind as I watched it had really nothing to do with the Jews or World War II or even Europeans. It had to do with one man who had already suffered unspeakably unexpectedly finding the staunchest kind of allies in two people with everything to lose by reaching out to him.

In more than one unnervingly intense scene, the look on that young Jew's face went straight through me. He wasn't asking for anything. He knew the position he was in. He knew the couple was infinitely better off without him in their lives. And they knew it, too. And it kept occurring to me that this scenario, this precise excruciating horror was played out thousands of times in Nazi-occupied Europe. Many times in this same way, even when all lost their lives because of it.

And then (could you see this coming?) I began to think about other, heart-breakingly similar expressions on the faces of young Black men standing in handcuffs beside a patrol car; young Black mothers trying to figure out how to support their children when the safety net of social assistance has ripped apart without warning; elderly people of color, pushed aside all their lives and praying--still--for grace to keep believing.

Oh, I know that in the U.S. in 2006, there are no concentration camps per se (though if you've never walked down a tier in a maximum security penitentiary and looked into the eyes of the men and women there, how would you know?). I know there are no mass gas chambers and no creamatoria. But there were two and one-half centuries of slavery. And then the better part of another century of Jim Crow. And the continuing trap of the projects and the ghettos. And the on-going reality of always being portrayed by the society as being less than--being "Black"--even when the African-American is a surgeon or a saint.

The fact is that Jews suffered the Nazis for less than two decades, horrendous as the situation was. But African-Americans have suffered White supremacy (different from the Nazis in what way again?) for more than three centuries. And while there have been allies, they are like those in "Divided We Fall," often riddled with their own fears and conflicts and compromises about their stance, and far fewer than have been so desperately needed to support the multiple millions left, sometimes literally, hanging in the wind.

When it's over, and White supremacy will someday be over, one way or the other, who will be ashamed to face their neighbors, I wonder? Who will remember their own humanity and weep? And who will smile across the great divide, knowing they did nothing more than what was right; that the cost, however great, was worth it; and that all they did was only what they would have hoped for from another had they been the one in hiding, had they been the one called "Black"?

One doesn't have to fear one's allies.

Saving My Soul

All my childhood and up into my teens, I lived in a family with a profound commitment to the kinds of church settings that are deeply concerned with saving people's souls. Until my parents joined a church with slightly less dramatic overtones, I was treated on a regular basis as far back as I can remember to a steady diet of mind-bendingly emotional appeals known as "altar calls." If you grew up Episcopalian or Catholic, you may have no idea what I'm talking about. But if you've ever sat (or stood--sometimes interminably) through a really full-tilt boogie altar call, just the mention of the term will bring back a graphic memory. If you've experienced as many of them as I have, you may have mixed feelings about the memory: the backdrop of organ music intended to stir the hapless sinners, the singing of hymns about coming home (verse after verse, over and over), the bowed heads of an entire congregation, and the pleading entreaties of a preacher or evangelist who would often come down from the pulpit, mopping his brow with a big white handkerchief, to stand in front of the listeners and meet the men, women, and children who stumble, weeping, down the aisle.

I was an altar call retread. My parents were at best, horrifyingly critical, and at worst, criminal in the various types of attention they showed me and my four younger brothers and sisters. They did the best they could, I know, given the nightmare childhoods they survived themselves. And I don't fault them any more. Hell, the more people I meet and the more students I have, the more I'm not sure anybody in the U.S. had an Ozzie and Harriet family life. But regardless of the factors involved, I was more easily moved than the average kid--or maybe I just needed to be comforted--but over those years before I could opt out of the church-going (which I largely did at my earliest opportunity), I "went down the aisle" like someone who was trying to make the Guinness Book of World Records. I was seeking redemption from my sin, my wrongdoings, my badness (whatever I perceived that to be at the age of ten). I was trying to get my soul saved.

This is not a minor issue for one spoon-fed hell-fire and brimstone from birth (I guess it was) and suffering enough in this life to be infinitely sure that I did not want to suffer for eternity, as well. I didn't want to leave any stone unturned or run the risk of accidently forgetting to confess a "sin" that might cost me my mansion in Heaven.

By the time I left home, however, I was more ambivilent about the process and, will just have to trust that the multiple times I answered the call as a child did the trick because my spiritual development has taken on a different tone these days. And I think of my soul in terms less likely to be savable with a quick trip down the aisle on a Sunday evening and more likely to require some day-to-day effort on my part.

Now, I don't mean to disparage anyone's practice of religion, but most of these posts just kind of write themselves with me along for the ride (and to punch the letters on the keyboard). Besides, I'm given to long introductions sometimes and when I thought about the topic I'm about to discuss, this is just the way it began.

I am a sociologist. Which makes it sound a little like I'm introducing myself at a twelve-step group: "My name is Changeseeker and I'm a sociologist." But I'm not only a sociologist. And it could be (and I'm sure would be, by many sociologist's standards) that I'm not primarily a sociologist. A sociologist is a scholar, right? A highly trained individual committed to publishing their research in peer-reviewed scientific journals. A person with a broader view than the average. A person who takes things everybody already knows and puts them into language nobody can understand. And that isn't me. I am highly trained, no question about that. And I have a broader view--some people think too broad. But while I never turn off my radar and I suck observations out of the air everywhere I go and while I've finished one book and am simultaneously working on three others even as we speak, I'm not one of those "objective" social scientists who works so hard at not having a perspective, they miss noticing that they already have one.

And sometimes that confuses folks. So I think I should probably set the record straight.

To do so, I will first have to write a little bit about William Lloyd Garrison. Garrison was born in Massachusetts in the early 1800's, and according to Wikipedia, was an abolitionist, journalist, and social reformer. Garrison had my skin tone, but he was early and utterly committed to the abolition of slavery and across the board justice for people of color. When he established his own newspaper, The Liberator, at the age of 26, Garrison wrote, referring to his stance against slavery:

"I am aware that many object to the severity of my language, but is there not cause for severity? I will be harsh as truth, and as uncompromising as justice. On this subject, I do not wish to think, or speak, or write, with moderation. No! No! Tell a man whose house is on fire to sound a moderate alarm...but urge me not to use moderation on a cause like the present...I am in earnest--I will not equivocate--I will not excuse--I will not retreat a single inch--AND I WILL BE HEARD."

Four years later, he was very nearly lynched in the streets of Massachusetts, and after he was arrested to protect him from the mob, he wrote on the wall of his jail cell:

Wm Lloyd Garrison was put into this cell Wednesday afternoon, October 21, 1835, to save him from the violence of a 'respectable and influential' mob, who sought to destroy him for preaching the abominable and dangerous doctrine that 'all men are created equal.'"

For twenty more years, Garrison continued his war on the immorality and injustice of White supremacy, with little support. But eventually he developed enough of a following that more than 3000 people in Framingham, Massachusetts, cheered him on at a 4th of July celebration when he burned a copy of the Declaration of Independence as a protest against the peculiar institution he had fought for so long.

Ultimately, speaking at a celebration honoring the passage of the 13th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution (which officially freed all slaves in 1865), Garrison was received by a standing ovation that lasted several minutes and then he said: "I am unspeakably happy to believe that the great mass of my countrymen are now heartily disposed to admit that I have not acted the part of a madman, fanatic, incendiary or traitor." It must have been a satisfying moment for Garrison. How could he have imagined that 141 years later, I would still be seen by many as a nut case for saying nothing more than that White supremacy is an unnatural, unmitigated attack on the dignity of human beings everywhere, regardless of their skin tone? Can you imagine what would happen if I burned a copy of the Declaration of Independence a week from Tuesday? They'd send me to Guantanamo, if I lived through the riot.

How sad for the memory of Garrison. How his memory drives me on! But I'm not committed because I'm trying to save Black folks, any more than Garrison was. I am, like all my spiritual forbears, simply trying to save my soul. And convinced that it takes more than a prayer and a promise to do so.

See, the bottom line is that I believe my mission in life (yes) is to grow spiritually and be useful. Growing spiritually, you'll note, comes first in that sentence. And to the best of my understanding so far, if I grow spiritually, I'll be useful. So I'm not trying to beat out anybody else and win (whatever that would look like). I'm not trying to fix anything per se and most certainly not the entire world system--all on my lonesome. I am simply doing my little part, whatever that is at a given moment, to move myself in a more healthy, more responsible, more conscious direction, recognizing that others may or may not fully appreciate my process or even, God help us, their own.

My teaching, my books, my speaking, my counseling, my meditation, my conversation, my swimming laps--whatever I do is about that process for me and I'm just following my gut and seeing where it leads. That's the reason I tend not to argue. What would be the point? I'm not trying to force my will on anybody else. I'm just telling the truth, like Garrison, loudly and without apology. We all have our little roles to play. I'm playing mine.

Credit Where Credit Is Due*

While browsing my usual blog-reads this week-end, I stopped by Hysterical Blackness, as I often do (here) and read an account of a U.S. Senate resolution a year ago that apologized for that body's failure to enact federal anti-lynching legislation even when seven Presidents requested specifically that they do so (see this site.) Apparently, the good Senators of previous decades preferred to filibuster rather than risk their constituents not having the freedom to attack and even murder African-Americans (and most particularly African-American men) at will without risk of legal consequences. I would most certainly have known about this when the resolution passed had I not been seriously ill and awaiting surgery last June, but even a year later, I'm grateful to find out about it now.

On the surface, it might not be immediately apparent to some folks why lynching needed to be prosecuted as a federal crime. But the fact is that, as long as states got to decide whether or not a "crime" had been committed, they seemed to keep deciding that it had not. And it wasn't just in the South either. One photograph most of us have seen, for example, was taken at a lynching in Marion, Indiana (remember?). It seems bizarre to most of us now, but it was often standard practice to take photos, turn them into postcards, and mail them out to all your relatives and friends to brag about your presence at the event in question, scrawling across the back of the card statements like "we know how to treat 'em here!"

So you can see how inconvenient it would have been for ordinary White folks to have to worry about some big time federal agents nosing around what just wasn't any of their business.

When Harry T. and Harriette Moore died in their beds as a result of their house in central Florida being bombed on Christmas eve in 1951, everybody knew the Klan did it in retaliation for Harry's work with the NAACP. And everybody knew who the Klan members were. Susan Carol McCarthy, who spent her girlhood around many of the principals, including Moore, recently authored a very intriguing novel about the occurrence entitled "Lay That Trumpet In Our Hands." Still, while the feds were chomping at the bit to do something about it, they couldn't--because murder isn't a federal crime and the state just didn't feel it could make an adequate case against the very important (and very powerful) "gentlemen" who formed the leadership of the local Klan implicated. You get the picture.

Anyway, so the Senate's long-standing unwillingness to intervene in this process on behalf of their constituents of color finally became more or less moot with the establishment of the concept of the "hate crime," but not before thousands and thousands of African-American men were horrifically and sometimes publically tortured to death, generally without any repercussions of any kind for the perpetrators. The official statistics are more than 4700 between 1882 and 1968 (keeping in mind that where no body was found, no lynching could be declared; lynchings are still occurring; and sometimes, such as in the case of Malcolm X's father, the death might be called a "suicide" in spite of the fact that his head had been bashed in and his body placed on a railroad track). Still, using even the very conservative figure of 4700, it averages out to about one per week for 86 years, with incidents appearing in all but four of the states in the union.

So an apology--at the least--was overdue and in order. And while many of the Senators didn't care enough to be present for the voice vote, for which there are no records as to who voted how, 89 out of the 100 of them eventually decided to go on record as co-sponsoring the resolution with Republican Senator Mary Landrieu of Louisiana. I thought it only appropriate that the ten who decided not to go on record as co-sponsoring the resolution, under those circumstances, ought to get recognition for their...um...shall we say "oversight?"

It is true, of course, that it was a voice vote (and how very convenient of the Senators to give their brothers the option of an "out"--something the victims of lynchings did not receive). Consequently, we can't prove the following Senators voted against the resolution, which passed, in any case. But we know for a fact (thanks to this site.) that they were the only ones out of 100 that chose not to co-sponsor the Senate resolution apologizing to lynching victims and their descendents for not enacting legislation that might have saved at least some of their lives by establishing a clear expectation of sanctions for the egregious crimes committed against them. In alphabetical order, then, the Senators who do not appear on the list of co-sponsors are Lamar Alexander (R-TN), Robert Bennett (R-UT), Thad Cochran (R-MS), John Cornyn (R-TX), Michael Enzi (R-WY), Judd Gregg (R-NH), Trent Lott (R-MS), Richard Shelby (R-AL), John E. Sununu (R-NH), and Craig Thomas (R-WY). Just thought you should know.

*This post is dedicated to the memory of those unfortunate souls of color who died in terror at the hands of White murderers and to the victims' descendents who will ever bear the sorrow of that horrifying experience.

Ya Can't Win For Losin'

When I was small and something didn't go the way my parents wanted it to, they would shake their heads sadly and say to each other: "Ya can't win for losin'." I basically understood them to mean that no matter how hard you try and no matter how things look as if they're going in a positive direction, they never, in the end, turn out well.

Now, obviously, this wasn't true for them and eventually, I knew it. I mean, we started out in the mountains of Kentucky in a house across a vacant lot from a coal mine. And by the time I was in high school, we were in northern Illinois, living in a three-story house with a working fireplace and wall-to-wall carpeting (not minor accoutrements in the early 1960's).

But the saying stuck in my mind and I thought of it again today as I opened my new Jet magazine and saw the stunning young Togolese beauty queen who was named Miss World Cup in Germany the first of this month (see this.) Weird, huh? During World Cup matches, footballers of color are spit on, while "fans" make monkey noises and throw bananas onto the field. But Miss World Cup is a warm caramel color with a broad nose and large, dark brown eyes.

I'm sure that there are some who read my last post who would find this a wonderful thing. "See?" I can just hear them saying. "Things are getting better!" And that might be true for Togolese student Edwige Madze Badakou, who beat out 31 other contestants to win $2,500 and the use of a convertible for a year. But one can't help but wonder what this might or might not mean to a world class soccer player who's wiping some stranger's spit off the side of his face as he takes his position during a crucial moment in the game.

I know that this is going to make me look like somebody who can't see the positive even when it has a big red neon arrow pointed at it, blinking on and off. But the problem is, in my opinion, that White folks feel guilty about letting Black folks get brutalized, so they do things to make themselves feel better and give themselves an excuse to look the other way when the Hitler banners are unfurled. Like voting for a Black beauty queen.

Don't get me wrong. She's gorgeous. But that's not my point.

People of color (Africans, African-Americans, Asians, and a whole raft of other indigenous peoples, such as the Native Americans) have always earned their share of the awards, distinctions, and accolades, even when they didn't get them. The first thing you notice when you start studying real history (and herstory?) is that since White males had the power to decide what got published and disseminated, then White males got all the credit for everything, even if they didn't actually do it. Or it just didn't get reported at all. Tidy, huh? And, over time, in the United States, at least, people of color actually began to believe the hype themselves, waiting to "someday" be "allowed" to achieve something, when people just like them have been achieving all along.

Anyway, so here's this lovely young woman who had just as much right to win as anybody else, but there's no real way to know how many votes were cast "in solidarity" with people of color in the face of the vicious racism that blights the World Cup competition or because some White voter feels guilty about not doing anything else about it. The point isn't whether or not she should be or deserves to be Miss World Cup. She has as much right to be in that position, certainly, as any White queen who ever served because she met the Euro-centric standards of beauty that held such contests in their thrall for so long. The point is that her election can be used to placate White guilt that footballers of color still have to deal with violent attacks on themselves by White people during soccer matches. And that puts a whole new spin on "Ya can't win for losin'," huh?

I'll bet if the officials shut down the match the second a banana hit the field, that crap would cease. I'll bet if the officials had to pay 5000 Euros to every footballer that got spit on, the Hitler youth would stop being allowed into the games. But while on the one hand, Miss Badakou is enjoying (and rightfully so) her moment in the sun, official responses that would be strong enough to stop demonstrations of oppression against people of color at the event over which she ostensibly "reigns" are unlikely to occur. I wonder if it's hard to maintain her regal smile from time to time, watching her brothers continue to suffer because of their skin tone when it's the same as hers.

A World Cup...of Hate?

I first heard about this when France's Thierry Henry, arguably one of the best soccer players in the world, got international accolades for talking Nike into bank-rolling a Stand Up/Speak Up campaign against rampant racism at the matches. But I was totally unprepared for the recent rash of news media discussions about the extent and boldness of the activities--still common--that made the campaign necessary.

It's World Cup time, from what I can gather. God knows I'm not tuned into or turned on by sports of any kind really, but the competition began last Friday and will continue until July 9th, with matches in multiple European countries featuring the best "footballers" in the world (including some from the U.S.). The reason I know this information is that I have actually read a couple of lengthy pieces on it, but you know by now, of course, that if I'm writing about it, the subject is not sports--it's race.

Apparently, soccer (called "football" outside the U.S., hence the reference to "footballers" above) has a history of drawing hyper-emotional fans (remember the bloody free-for-alls they finally had to crack down on a couple of decades ago in England?). Well, the powers-that-be finally got the fisticuffs under control more or less, but over the past couple of years, they've begun to admit that there's another little problem they probably should deal with. Racist groups and individuals make the matches hellish for footballers of color. Simon Kuper, a British sports columnist, says "It was seen as all good fun and part of football culture and accepted for a long time." Hmmm. Let's take a look at the good fun he's talking about.

Thousands of fans screaming monkey noises and throwing bananas onto the field when a Black player is trying to make a kick. Entire groups unfurling pro-Hitler banners, complete with swastikas, and using intricate choreography to form human swastikas or even the face of Der Fuhrer in the stands. Teaming up to spit on Black players. Sounds like a barrel of laughs to me. And keep in mind: we're not talking about occasional instances here or certain countries or a few particular people. We're talking about routine attacks.

"In a stadium of 60,000, it's easy to be anonymous," says Jerome Champagne of the Federation Internationale de Football Association. But I've seen photos of young men being allowed to hang a big swastika banner by the fans seated behind them--and their faces in full view. What's up with that? Champagne knows. "The main issue," he goes on, "is not racism within soccer, but racism around soccer." No lie.

So the footballers organize in groups with names like "Kick It Out" (in Britain) and the "Never Again Association" (in Poland), both part of a network called Football Against Racism in Europe (FARE). And there are fans--such as those who formed "Arsenal Against Racism"--who have joined them. Thierry's Stand Up/Speak Up campaign sold four and one-half million black and white wrist bands, raising five million Euros (more than six million dollars!) for anti-racist projects in eleven countries.

Nevertheless, Kuper tells us: "You can still hear people say, 'Oh, it's all good fun." Being spit on is good fun? Hitler is good fun? Gee, and all this time, I liked reading. Just look what I've been missing!

My point is that the Hitler youth and the spitters may represent a relatively small group, comparatively speaking. But they're not the ones calling it fun. They're not doing it for fun. They're doing it to spread an agenda of racist hatred. I understand them. They're sick and, if they're allowed to, they will bring us to mayhem, at least, and destruction, if they can. But the ones that scare me are the "ordinary" people who call it "fun." Would they laugh at being spit on or called an animal? Would they find these situations "fun" if they were happening to their children? Of course not. So what is their agenda?

We still have Nazi's in the U.S. They leaflet campuses on a regular basis in this country. But overall, many European-Americans purport to believe that all that bold and ugly racist stuff is behind us. They might watch the craziness at the soccer matches and pat themselves on the back as being from a nation where that isn't currently happening. But most of them still wink at racist jokes, look away from racist activities in the work place, and would not consider seeing themselves as allies of people of color. So they are probably not much different, in the end, from the Europeans (who look like them) and ignore the "fun" while people of color continue to have their spirits lynched in the name of a sport.

Passing and Crossing (Oh, My!)

A few weeks ago, I backed into an interesting dialogue here. It started with a post by Rachel S., who's also a sociologist and also blogs often on race at Rachel's Tavern. And part of what the discussion was about had to do with "transracialing," a concept I had never heard of before.

Actually, there was considerable back and forth about what transracialing is. One comment suggested that it was just what they call it when an individual or couple adopt a child of a "race" different from their own. But a more expansive view suggested that transracialing might be similar to transgendering, that is, when a person crosses the gender divide and "becomes" (either literally by surgery or to some lesser extent) the "opposite" of the category in which they originated. Now the point was made that people are born biologically gendered, but the point was also made that society does apply--with a heavy hand--characteristics and expectations related to the perception of each gender. And then, of course, there are, in fact, a healthy handful of folks convinced enough that sometimes biology errs that they have surgery to change their bodies, if they can afford to.

"Race," on the other hand, is only as biological as it can be physically perceived. That is to say, many African-Americans have "passed for" White, sometimes for their entire lives. And one Californian writer who had been raised as and married Black, discovered in his fifties a few years ago when he had a DNA test that his family actually had only some Native American blood and no African-American heritage at all. He was not pleased. Apparently, his people (located in Louisiana where he was raised) just didn't like White folks and had features and skin tone that allowed them to pull off living on the "colored" side of town--so they did, with all the attendant difficulties accompanying that decision.

So, after reading everything the others had to say, I started mulling over what I think about the idea of transracialing. "If 'passing,' 'Watermelon Man,' and 'Black.White.' (the recent television show) are all transracial in nature," I commented, throwing in my two cents. "What about European-Americans who wear oversized clothes low on the hips, speak various Black vernaculars, and/or dred-lock their hair? Or to get even more subtle, what about European-Americans who prefer rap, jazz, or R&B or who go to Black clubs and maybe hang out with Black friends (primarily)? And certainly 'transracial' might be construed to include European-Americans who have reached a point of being bicultural in every area of their lives, even to the point of blending their families and birthing biracial children?" Am I, then, I wonder, "transracial" rather than "bicultural" as I have typically referred to myself in the past?

I can affect with great facility what is often perceived as typical Black speech patterns and body language. I have an African mask in my living room and buy mixed c.d.'s and shea butter soap from guys that sell their products from card tables. I own 150 books on racial issues, most of them written by people of color. And I performed in a spoken word event two weeks ago, for goodness' sake. I have been laughingly referred to by Black friends and students from time to time as the "Blackest person I know." But what does all that mean, in the end? I don't know yet.

Anyway, I was still mulling over these questions when I made a trip to another city to see a play this past week-end and wound up spending Saturday afternoon with an African-American extended family that was celebrating the youngest grandchild graduating from high school. It was a fair-sized group, with people coming and going all afternoon, a mother-lode of the most wonderful food in the old guard Black southern tradition, and just enough bottle-tipping going on to appropriately oil those with a mind to get oiled.

Before going to the celebration site, however, I had the pleasure of spending an hour or so privately with the 72-year-old matriarch of the family, who happened to be White--German, in fact (rather than European-American)--a woman who married an African-American soldier while he was in her country and then eventually returned here with him in 1959. They had a family. He eventually left the military and joined the post office. They built a beautiful little home on a good-sized hunk of land and basically lived the "American Dream." Except, of course, that it took them so long to get the Army to let them wed that they wound up with two children before they could finalize the matter. And even then, they had to sign a paper promising never to try to live in Florida as man and wife...!?

She had plenty to say about adventures such as having to travel separately--him in the car with the children and her with the baby on the train--whenever they needed to pass through the southern United States. But overall, it all sounded less dramatic than it might have, given some of the stories I've heard or read. Nevertheless, it was truly fascinating to me to be sitting in her house, filled with Black family photographs, with African artifacts here and there, and with a large painting of African-Americans picking cotton on the wall over her head--while she herself is not a person of color. Seventy-two-years-old, with her German accent still readily apparent, and with her husband passed on now for some years, she would fit handily in any European or European-American setting, but she has surely become transracial, if anyone has.

She doesn't speak Black vernacular. She doesn't affect Black mannerisms. Yet, when I commented on the painting of the cotton-pickers, she only replied with the name of the one who had given it to her, rather than making any attempt to explain it. It is part of her world now, no matter what she looks like. And it's as simple as that. No matter what word we put on it.

Perhaps, as one of the commentors to Rachel's post suggested, "The act of 'trans-'ing is an attempt to insert agency and self-definition into categories which socially don’t seem to be founded on these." In other words, people through the ages and into the present, however hard the attempt is made to squash them into socially-constructed categories, will, like water, seek their own level. They will, without apology, define themselves, even if they put themselves in harm's way for doing so.

And Les, who can be found here, wrote, "Being black is therefore not just a skin color but also an ethnic identity. I think this is an important distinction. A person who is visually black is recognized as such whenever [he or] she deals with anyone. A black-looking person is identifiable as such before [they] move or open [their] mouth. It is not an invisible identity. However, somebody who has been accepted into the black community may have black ethnicity." Hmmm.

*nods slowly and thoughtfully*

Holla.