There I go again, acting white.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against white people. This is not a self-loathing post. It's just that every once in a while I find myself behaving in very white ways. I'm not talking music, food, or other things you might find on one of those "stuff white people like" lists. I'm talking power. I'm talking who gets heard, and why.

So first, I should explain that I'm writing a book about race. My research on race relations in a suburban high school will be published by Rutgers University Press sometime in 2016. In the book I talk a lot about critical race theory (CRT), the theoretical framework that helped me understand what I was seeing among the students (don't glaze over - I'm getting to the point).

Here's an actual sentence from my book, regarding CRT: "Infused with the goal of social justice, this area of study privileges the voices of traditionally oppressed groups…" You got that? Privileging the voices of traditionally oppressed groups means listening to what people of color have to say about race, respecting their opinions above those of white folks because, let's face it, they've lived it and we haven't (this is not an invitation for so-called "reverse racism" arguments. We'll save that for a different post). Their experience matters. I wrote those words.

Then I found myself in an interesting situation. An organization I'm involved with is wanting to give more attention to what it calls "diversity issues." To its credit, this organization is realizing that it hasn't been giving race relations within its ranks adequate attention, and it's trying to figure out how to change that. Of course, I assumed that, since I'm writing a book about race, people would flock to me asking for advice. They didn't. Instead, they looked to a few African American affiliates. My response? I got mad. I even ranted a little. Why aren't they asking me? I study this stuff! Why are they asking these others, just because they're…oops.

See what I mean? Part of being white is the expectation to be listened to, to dominate even conversations about racism. True, race is my area of study. But equally true, if whites want to be part of the solution we (read: me) need to be willing to let others take the lead.

Right at the time I was thinking all this through, a fellow blogger, Drew Hart, posted something similar. If you're interested, read his post about how members of the dominant culture tend to dominate conversations about racial reconciliation. Here's the link: Drew Hart's post.

The funny thing is, over the years I've heard lots of talk among youth about "acting white" and "acting black." There seems to be lots of policing of those boundaries, and I think it happens among adults, as well. But black and white people come from a variety of backgrounds and talk and act in a variety of ways. For me, acting white is not about language or dress or music. It's about the expectation to have power, to be in charge, to be listened to. I don't need to rap to stop acting white (although that would be pretty funny). I just need to listen.

On Walter Dean Meyers

African American author Walter Dean Myers died this week. While I can’t say I’ve read everything he wrote, I can say I liked what I read. My favorite Myers novel is Monster, a book that can be viewed as a response to (or a “signifying” of) Native Son, a much earlier work by Richard Wright. Monster is the story of Steve Harmon, an African American sixteen year old who is on trial for murder. Steve is accused of being the lookout for a botched robbery during which the storeowner was killed. Steve, who was a member of the film club at his high school, narrates his story in the form of an imaginary film he is producing. In his film he describes the despair of prison life and the anxiety of facing trial. Although Steve fears that others now view him as a monster, Meyers depicts him as a complicated person who is capable of sustaining warm family relationships, and of expressing his identity with a wide range of human emotions. “I’m just not a bad person,” Steve tells himself. “I know that in my heart I am not a bad person” (93). While Myers’ ending is ambiguous (spoiler ahead) –we never do find out for sure if Steve committed the crime – in a sense, it doesn’t matter. Myers’ point is that guilty or innocent, Steve remains a person, a human being who, even if involved in this crime, is not a monster.

This is the stuff of childhood studies, an academic field that examines how people tend to conceptualize childhood. Childhood is often idealized as a time of innocence and vulnerability, but kids do bad things sometimes. If children are innocent, when they commit crimes do they stop being children? And how does race impact this view of childhood? In Monster, Meyers makes us face these and other uncomfortable questions. So, in the midst of my steady summer diet of dystopian YA fiction, it’s good to remember an author like Walter Dean Meyers, whose classy writing never included the phrase, “the smile didn’t reach his eyes,” and who understood the power of fiction to make us think.

My Bias, and Why I Don't Blog More Often

The title of my post today doesn't make a lot of sense, and for good reason.  The two phrases I've chosen -- "My Bias," and "Why I Don't Blog More Often" aren't really connected in terms of content. They are connected in process, in a way.  I'll explain.

First, why I don't blog more often.  Race related stuff happens to me all the time. White people say things or react to things I've said in ways that show their deep fear, ignorance, anxiety, intolerance, and/or anger over the topic of racism. All the time. Maybe I'm hyper-responsible, but I usually can't figure out a way to blog about these conversations I have or situations I find myself in without the feeling that I'm somehow betraying trust. The truth is, these people are often my friends, family, or colleagues. So I don't blog because I don't feel right about publicly airing comments said to me in private. Sometimes, I ask a person for permission to blog about a situation they've described to me, but that only works when the person's beliefs are similar to my own. It would be hard to say to someone I know, "Hey, that thing you just said is racist. It betrays the fact that you have never taken the time to consider life from the perspective of anyone who is not part of the dominant culture.  Basically, you don't know what you're talking about. Oh, and is it okay if I blog about this conversation tomorrow?"

You see my dilemma.  It just wouldn't work.  So, because my goal has always been to keep the conversation going, I choose not to use my blog in a way that would shut down dialog about racism.

Usually.  But something happened to me recently that I feel compelled to share, although I'll try to be vague enough to protect the innocent. That's the "My Bias" part of this post. I'll just say that an opportunity to talk about race with youth was subverted by a white person in a position of power who read The R Word (my young adult novel about race) and was offended by "my bias." Now, I don't deny that I am biased.  We're all biased in one way or another. But what, exactly, about The R Word did this person find offensive? The novel tells the story of a very sheltered white teenager who grows in her understandings of racism when she makes friends with teenagers from racial backgrounds other than her own.  In my view, it is a gentle work -- maybe too gentle, some would say. But it's true, the novel does reveal my opinions about racism, which are:

• Racism is still an issue. People may be less individually racist than in decades past (although one does not have to look very far to find folks who are individually racist), but institutional racism remains in the areas of education, housing, and within the criminal justice system.
• By nature of their position as members of the dominant culture, white people are privileged (although they are not equally privileged).
• We've all suffered because of the racial tensions that are the result of our nation's racist past. The way to alleviate these tensions is to keep the dialog going.  Therefore, although it's uncomfortable, we need to keep talking about race and we need to face our feelings of discomfort on the subject.

Sadly, that dialog was squelched by someone who disagrees with these opinions. This person's ideas about race probably go something like this:

• Racism was a terrible part of our past, but now it's over (so stop talking about it already). Move on and stop dredging up the past.
• Due to affirmative action, if anyone is victimized by racist policies, it's whites. My _____ (uncle, cousin, brother, neighbor) didn't get a job because a black person who is less qualified got it instead.
• If people don't do well in our society it's because they are lazy.  If you work hard enough, you can achieve anything. 
• Etc.

Nothing new here. I'm not surprised by this way of thinking, and my goal is not to place blame. People have the right to believe what they want, even if I don't agree.  It's just sad when those beliefs are accompanied by the power to shut down the opportunity for others to benefit from honest, respectful conversations about race.

What did it cost me?

Yesterday I posted the link to my interview with Tiffany Rae Reid on Mixed Race Radio.  Here it is again just in case you missed it: Interview on Mixed Race Radio.

Toward the end of the interview, Tiffany asked me an interesting and unexpected question: what has my teaching and writing about racism cost me? She felt that it was courageous for me, a white person, to speak out about contemporary racism and white privilege.  I answered something about a loss of intimacy with white friends who don't agree with me, because that was the only thing I could think of at the time.

Did you ever have one of those, "I wish I'd said" moments?  I'm having one now, and here's what I wish I'd said in response to Tiffany's question:

It's cost me nothing. I've lost nothing. I can't see how it's taken any courage at all for me to teach, speak, and write as I have about race.  To the contrary, I've gained a dissertation topic that led to a PhD.  (I can't say I've profited financially, because -- true confessions here -- we haven't sold enough copies of The R Word to even cover the publishing costs.  This is ok with me, because that's not why I wrote the book.)

When I speak or write about racism, people think I'm courageous. They think I'm noble and unselfish. The whites I'm teaching or speaking to may not agree, but they don't doubt that my motives are good.  I lose nothing. But the truth is, when a person of color says or writes the very same things, often whites respond in a different way. They may assume the person has a "vested interest" and a "bias" in speaking out against racism, and so they distrust both the person and the stance the person is taking.  I've had this happen in classes many times, when teaching Tatum's work.*

One more example of the invisible way that my whiteness is at work for me.


*Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?"  http://www.amazon.com/Black-Kids-Sitting-Together-Cafeteria/dp/0465083617/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1390573505&sr=1-1&keywords=tatum

Mixed Race Radio Interview

Yesterday I had the privilege of being interviewed by Tiffany Rae Reid on her Mixed Race Radio talk show.  Here's the link -- give it a listen!

Interview on Mixed Race Radio

The Other Marianne Modica?

Last month I was invited to participate in "One Book, One Church," a program sponsored by Wayne Presbyterian Church. (Check it our here: One Book, One Church at Wayne Pres.) Beginning in February, I hope to take part in group discussions about the New York Times bestseller, "The Other Wes Moore," which parallels the lives of two young African American males with the same name.  It's an interesting read: both Moores grew up with single moms in difficult circumstances, but while the author was able to break free from the poverty and crime that surrounded him, the other Wes Moore committed a crime that left a police officer dead and landed him in prison for life. The story invites the reader to ask, why? What factors in the lives of these two young men influenced their choices? For that matter, how much of the way their lives unfolded was due to choice, and how much to inescapable circumstance?

Maybe because I'm an early childhood teacher educator, reading this book brought to mind a longstanding debate in the field of child development -- nature v. nurture.  (Remember that Eddie Murphy/Dan Aykroyd movie,  "Trading Places"? I loved that movie.) Why was one, but not the other Wes Moore able to overcome his difficult environment? Was there something genetic, some biological attribute that the author inherited that helped him avoid the negative influences of his environment and make a decent life for himself?

Sociologists reading this book might think of a different debate known as structure v. agency.  How much do structures in the environment influence people's life paths, and how much does their own individual freedom to choose determine the lives they end up leading? Are structures like poverty and crime so engulfing that they are almost impossible to escape? If so, how is it that some people do break free? Is it a matter of will power, luck, fate, or karma? Or is there some other mysterious factor involved? As a person of faith, I believe in God's providence, but I also know that there are no guarantees and that bad things can happen to people regardless of their religious beliefs.

I don't know. I do know that the author of the book, the Wes Moore who made it, had educated parents and a family support system. He had relatives who were able to provide the financial help needed to get him out of his deteriorating neighborhood and send him to Valley Forge Military Academy (located right in this area). He had social capital that the other Wes Moore didn't have. Still, are those the only reasons for his success?

There isn't really another Marianne Modica, but I did once have an older brother, Phil, and people did say we looked alike (or maybe I just wanted to believe that because he was really cute).  Phil was seven years older than I, and as a young kid I worshipped him.  He read me comics (The Justice League was our favorite) and introduced me to The Twilight Zone, which, luckily, I was too young to understand and so avoided nightmares. Then, as a teenager, Phil began using heroin and soon became an addict.  He dropped out of school, stole, spent time in jail, and was in and out of our home until the day he and his friends started a fire in a bedroom with a cigarette; at that point my parents kicked him out for good. We sort of stayed in touch, as I'd see him around the neighborhood every once in a while. Phil finally died a drug-related death at the age of 24.

So why did reading "The Other Wes Moore" make me think of a brother that I lost so many decades ago? It made me wonder how kids from the same neighborhood, and even from the same family, can turn out so differently. My family's white, working class status provided me with the benefit of a safe neighborhood and a good education, of that there is no doubt. But my brother was the recipient of that same kind of capital. And like him, I certainly was no angel when I was growing up. In fact, I took risks that could have gotten me into serious trouble. Life could have turned out very differently for me. Yet here I am, this Marianne Modica. I feel grateful that the other Marianne Modica, the Marianne Modica that easily could have existed, didn't. Grateful and incredibly lucky.

Who Paints the Picture?

Drew G.I. Hart, whose blog I follow, posted an important essay that tells the story of Renisha McBride, a 19 year old African American woman who was shot in the face while seeking help from a white man after being involved in an auto accident. I encourage you to read Drew's blog here: http://drewgihart.com/2013/11/16/do-you-see-this-woman-renisha-mcbride-and-the-imago-dei/.

The shooter, Theodore Wafer, said that he believed his life was in danger, and that he fired his gun accidentally (I'm not quite sure what one argument has to do with the other). There were no signs of forced entry -- Renisha (who along with being disoriented from the accident was under the influence of alcohol and marijuana) had only knocked on Wafer's door.

Drew's point is that the shooter saw a black woman and believed he knew her essence -- this was a dangerous person. This was a person who needed to be stopped.

A young African American named Ryan woman expressed a similar sentiment to me. She said:

I feel like as soon as an African American person walks into a room they’re categorized, their whole entire life is just spilled out in front of them because everyone already knows their entire, you know, their struggles and everything. But for a white person it’s not like that. I mean, I feel like people give them a chance to, you know, tell about themselves and, you know, paint their own picture. I feel like for African American people it’s painted. 

Although no one was shooting at Ryan, the feeling she describes reflects Drew's argument. As a white person I can't know what it would feel like to have people of the dominant culture paint my picture the way that Ryan so poignantly described. I do know what it feels like to be the one painting the picture, the one making assumptions about people because of their race, ethnicity, gender, religion, or sexual orientation. Of course, I would never shoot first and ask questions later. Most of us would not respond violently the way that Wafer did. But in much more subtle ways I struggle with allowing people to paint their own pictures, as Ryan deserves to do.