Two Things I Know About Racism
Jan. 22nd, 2009 12:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marydell...and how I learned them. Yes, this is a story of white enlightenment, and also an account of my racist dipshit behavior. And I do enjoy cookies. But I'm writing this as an exercise in Racism 101, passing along what I've learned, not as a confessional, and I'll attempt to avoid being a racist dipshit in the course of writing it. (When I say "you" in the lesson bits I am addressing white people in general, in case that's not obvious. I am not addressing any specific white person, in case that needs saying too.)
My first lesson in racism comes from when I was about 10 years old. I went to a catholic grade school, where I was picked on a lot. The reasons aren't relevant to this discussion; suffice it to say that I was weird, and weird kids get picked on. I wasn't alone at the bottom of the heap though. A black girl, L., got shut out and picked on as much as I did, even though she had a lot of self-confidence, was always well-groomed and neatly dressed, wasn't fat, wasn't puny. She wasn't the only black girl in the class, but she was the one we picked on.
I was sure that I wasn't racist. Our family had black friends; my parents and godparents were politically active and did things to help fight discrimination. I never used the N word and liked reading Ebony magazine at my (black) piano teacher's house while I waited for my lessons. I liked Michael Jackson and Earth, Wind & Fire. I didn't have any black friends of my own, but I had precious few white friends, so that didn't mean anything.
I knew that it was wrong for me to be mean to L., but getting through grade school when you're unpopular is all about moral compromise, and besides, I wasn't mean to her because she was black. I was mean to her because she was weird. Her clothes were kind of hippieish, she wore her hair in multiple twisted pigtails, she had a pretty name, but it sounded made-up and wasn't a saint's name. She wasn't catholic. And her Mom was raising her and her brother without her Dad, which was the strangest thing I'd ever heard of in my life. So we were all mean to her. The other black girl, who had an Irish-sounding name, preppy clothes, married parents, light skin, and long twin-braided hair like the rest of the girls in the class, was popular. So I was confident that it wasn't about race.
Except one day L. called me on it. I said something shitty to her--not when anyone else was around--and she told me, (not in these words--it was 30 years ago, sorry), that I was only picking on her because she was black, and that she and I, because we were both weird and unpopular, should really be allies. But instead I was choosing to score points at her expense to improve my standing with the other kids, and that that was racist.
I thought she was wrong. I didn't like being called racist. But even more than that, I didn't want to BE racist. And I really didn't know if she was right. But she was black, so I figured she probably knew something about it, and she was actually bothering to talk to me about race, even though we didn't like each other. So I decided I should take her word for it. We didn't become friends, exactly, but I stopped being mean, and we sometimes found ourselves on the same side of a fight, instead of on opposite sides.
Now that I'm grown up, it's painfully obvious to me that she was right; that she seemed weird to us because she was the "blackest" girl in the class, both in terms of culture and skin color, and that I spent years being a mean racist douchebag without even knowing it--that my intention was to be an equal-opportunity mean douchebag, but I was too ignorant.
Lesson #1: People of color know more about racism than white people do. If someone tells you that something is racist, and your first instinct is to say "no it isn't!" - consider taking a pause, not saying that, and instead saying: "really? I don't see it, can you explain it to me?" in as calm and unsarcastic a tone as you can muster. If the person is feeling generous and isn't totally exhausted from educating white people, they might explain it to you. Or they might get mad at you. Either way you should try your best to STFU and listen to them.
Which leads to lesson #2, and story #2. (The lesson is down at the bottom for those who are sick of the stories. However, this story has a cute baby in it!). So. We adopted our son Charlie earlier this year. Part of why his birth parents, who are Chinese, chose us is that we are familiar with Chinese culture. I've read some literature, Mike knows a lot of history; I know a fair amount about Chinese art traditions, and we are both big fans of kung fu movies. But. I also blithely put my kid into this tee shirt. [picture: Charlie in shirt with a bunch of bananas on it and the words "let's go bananas."] And emailed the picture to his birth parents in one of our regular letters, with an explanation of what the phrase means, since English is their second language. Charlie's birth mom replied that the shirt is so cute, and that Chinese people in America sometimes call their children bananas as a joke "because they have the yellow people's skin and the white people's heart." I had seen "banana" as a pejorative in a blog or something at some point, but I'd forgotten it, and so I didn't think twice about it when I bought the shirt.
And this is why I'm a racist dipshit: in all of my preparation and research and study of Charlie's birth culture, I never once thought to google racist terms for Asian people. I've been focused on every aspect of culture except how Chinese people experience race and racism. Because I'm white, so when I think about culture, I don't think about racism. As a result, I accidentally signalled to his birth parents, who are already in pain because of not being able to parent him themselves, that he is white "in his heart." Which, having white parents and growing up in America instead of in China, is probably going to be true to a large extent.
If it upset them, they didn't share that with me; his birth mom clued me in, but downplayed it and was kind about it. This is how they handle anything I do that upsets them, because they're the most polite people I've ever met in my entire life. And I'm pretty sure that's part of their culture. My black friends, (I have been informed) would so totally have kicked my ass if they were in Charlie's birth parents' shoes. By which they mean, they would have called me on my bad behavior and told me my ass was showing, because (I'm pretty sure) fighting to end racism even if it means having uncomfortable conversations with their white friends is part of their culture. (By which I do not mean "the culture of all black people" but "the particular black sub-culture that my friends belong to")
So, Lesson #2 is: How a person responds to racism is often a part of their cultural identity. Believing in the primacy of intentions - thinking that "I didn't mean anything by it" is even relevant - is part of white culture. (Every time I look at that picture of my son in what we now refer to as the "I'm a banana!" shirt--that little defensive voice in my head still says "yeah, but I didn't know.") Being "color blind" or saying "we're all individuals; race doesn't matter," is also a culturally white response. So is bending over backward to avoiding calling anybody racist. Telling people of color that they should adopt any of these white responses to racism is...(deep breath)...racist. Talking about racism is uncomfortable as hell when you're talking across a color line. But if you want to be an ally, you should suck it up and let the people of color in the conversation control the discourse. And if you think they are being outrageous, unfair, or otherwise, you know, uppity, it's best to recognize that thought for the racist shit that it is, and try to move on past it and see the beauty in people speaking truth to power and being brave in the face of oppression, even though you totally don't want to think of yourself as an embodiment of power and oppression. Because seriously? Back to Lesson #1: They know more about this shit than you do.
My first lesson in racism comes from when I was about 10 years old. I went to a catholic grade school, where I was picked on a lot. The reasons aren't relevant to this discussion; suffice it to say that I was weird, and weird kids get picked on. I wasn't alone at the bottom of the heap though. A black girl, L., got shut out and picked on as much as I did, even though she had a lot of self-confidence, was always well-groomed and neatly dressed, wasn't fat, wasn't puny. She wasn't the only black girl in the class, but she was the one we picked on.
I was sure that I wasn't racist. Our family had black friends; my parents and godparents were politically active and did things to help fight discrimination. I never used the N word and liked reading Ebony magazine at my (black) piano teacher's house while I waited for my lessons. I liked Michael Jackson and Earth, Wind & Fire. I didn't have any black friends of my own, but I had precious few white friends, so that didn't mean anything.
I knew that it was wrong for me to be mean to L., but getting through grade school when you're unpopular is all about moral compromise, and besides, I wasn't mean to her because she was black. I was mean to her because she was weird. Her clothes were kind of hippieish, she wore her hair in multiple twisted pigtails, she had a pretty name, but it sounded made-up and wasn't a saint's name. She wasn't catholic. And her Mom was raising her and her brother without her Dad, which was the strangest thing I'd ever heard of in my life. So we were all mean to her. The other black girl, who had an Irish-sounding name, preppy clothes, married parents, light skin, and long twin-braided hair like the rest of the girls in the class, was popular. So I was confident that it wasn't about race.
Except one day L. called me on it. I said something shitty to her--not when anyone else was around--and she told me, (not in these words--it was 30 years ago, sorry), that I was only picking on her because she was black, and that she and I, because we were both weird and unpopular, should really be allies. But instead I was choosing to score points at her expense to improve my standing with the other kids, and that that was racist.
I thought she was wrong. I didn't like being called racist. But even more than that, I didn't want to BE racist. And I really didn't know if she was right. But she was black, so I figured she probably knew something about it, and she was actually bothering to talk to me about race, even though we didn't like each other. So I decided I should take her word for it. We didn't become friends, exactly, but I stopped being mean, and we sometimes found ourselves on the same side of a fight, instead of on opposite sides.
Now that I'm grown up, it's painfully obvious to me that she was right; that she seemed weird to us because she was the "blackest" girl in the class, both in terms of culture and skin color, and that I spent years being a mean racist douchebag without even knowing it--that my intention was to be an equal-opportunity mean douchebag, but I was too ignorant.
Lesson #1: People of color know more about racism than white people do. If someone tells you that something is racist, and your first instinct is to say "no it isn't!" - consider taking a pause, not saying that, and instead saying: "really? I don't see it, can you explain it to me?" in as calm and unsarcastic a tone as you can muster. If the person is feeling generous and isn't totally exhausted from educating white people, they might explain it to you. Or they might get mad at you. Either way you should try your best to STFU and listen to them.
Which leads to lesson #2, and story #2. (The lesson is down at the bottom for those who are sick of the stories. However, this story has a cute baby in it!). So. We adopted our son Charlie earlier this year. Part of why his birth parents, who are Chinese, chose us is that we are familiar with Chinese culture. I've read some literature, Mike knows a lot of history; I know a fair amount about Chinese art traditions, and we are both big fans of kung fu movies. But. I also blithely put my kid into this tee shirt. [picture: Charlie in shirt with a bunch of bananas on it and the words "let's go bananas."] And emailed the picture to his birth parents in one of our regular letters, with an explanation of what the phrase means, since English is their second language. Charlie's birth mom replied that the shirt is so cute, and that Chinese people in America sometimes call their children bananas as a joke "because they have the yellow people's skin and the white people's heart." I had seen "banana" as a pejorative in a blog or something at some point, but I'd forgotten it, and so I didn't think twice about it when I bought the shirt.
And this is why I'm a racist dipshit: in all of my preparation and research and study of Charlie's birth culture, I never once thought to google racist terms for Asian people. I've been focused on every aspect of culture except how Chinese people experience race and racism. Because I'm white, so when I think about culture, I don't think about racism. As a result, I accidentally signalled to his birth parents, who are already in pain because of not being able to parent him themselves, that he is white "in his heart." Which, having white parents and growing up in America instead of in China, is probably going to be true to a large extent.
If it upset them, they didn't share that with me; his birth mom clued me in, but downplayed it and was kind about it. This is how they handle anything I do that upsets them, because they're the most polite people I've ever met in my entire life. And I'm pretty sure that's part of their culture. My black friends, (I have been informed) would so totally have kicked my ass if they were in Charlie's birth parents' shoes. By which they mean, they would have called me on my bad behavior and told me my ass was showing, because (I'm pretty sure) fighting to end racism even if it means having uncomfortable conversations with their white friends is part of their culture. (By which I do not mean "the culture of all black people" but "the particular black sub-culture that my friends belong to")
So, Lesson #2 is: How a person responds to racism is often a part of their cultural identity. Believing in the primacy of intentions - thinking that "I didn't mean anything by it" is even relevant - is part of white culture. (Every time I look at that picture of my son in what we now refer to as the "I'm a banana!" shirt--that little defensive voice in my head still says "yeah, but I didn't know.") Being "color blind" or saying "we're all individuals; race doesn't matter," is also a culturally white response. So is bending over backward to avoiding calling anybody racist. Telling people of color that they should adopt any of these white responses to racism is...(deep breath)...racist. Talking about racism is uncomfortable as hell when you're talking across a color line. But if you want to be an ally, you should suck it up and let the people of color in the conversation control the discourse. And if you think they are being outrageous, unfair, or otherwise, you know, uppity, it's best to recognize that thought for the racist shit that it is, and try to move on past it and see the beauty in people speaking truth to power and being brave in the face of oppression, even though you totally don't want to think of yourself as an embodiment of power and oppression. Because seriously? Back to Lesson #1: They know more about this shit than you do.
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no subject
Date: 2009-01-22 10:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-22 10:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-22 10:58 pm (UTC)I did apologize, and I said that we hoped he'd always feel Chinese in his heart, which was the best I could do without making too big a deal out of it and embarrassing her.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-22 11:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-22 11:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-22 11:53 pm (UTC)And on the rhetorical front, an excellent example of how much stories help to communicate past these cultural blind spots.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-22 11:54 pm (UTC)Which, whether I end up agreeing with you or not (or only partly so)after I've rolled it around in my brain, is never a bad idea.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-30 08:42 am (UTC)Damn straight.
One note on the term 'bananas' - depending on the country and culture, it may be used as an uninsulting, self-deprecating term by someone in reference to themselves. I would (and have) described myself as a banana (Chinese-Australian), although I would hesitate to label anyone else as such - particularly after learning the connotations of it.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-31 01:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-31 06:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-05 02:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-05 03:40 pm (UTC)Exactly - if he wants to call himself that when he's older, that'll be up to him.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-10 06:12 pm (UTC)(and Charlie is SUPER cute, my 10 year old son says and I agree)