Books- Bad Feminist

9/3/15

I have to start by stating the obvious: I am a terrible blogger. All day I have ideas of blog posts running through my head, but beyond time being an issue, I also struggle with the lack of an answer or of hope. I have been reading a ton, and so I am going to start putting some book favorites into posts.

Bad Feminist by Roxanne Gaye because she is a bad-ass who is self-deprecating, funny, accessible and insightful, but she also has a knack for writing about issues without needing to come to any sort of answer. She has a terrific chapter on the kinds of friends women should be to each other and a number of other chapters on race. One chapter in particular is about The Help which I never saw or read.

She confesses that when she thinks about the white author, white screen-play writer and white producer, she thinks "How dare they?" (Gaye 216). She challenges herself to not dismiss the abilities of these white professionals, but there is a difference between being white and black in America and writing this difference is not easy.

A couple of years after The Help came out, our family had read an article called "Oscar loves a white savior" that was published in Salon Magazine. And a couple of weeks after, we went to 42, the movie about Jackie Robinson. As we walked out of the movie with Alex, her boyfriend, Julia and Solana, Alex turned to me and said, "another white savior movie." It took me a moment, and then I realized, she was right. Of course, the real problem is there are so few movies about black people that don't include the white hero. First, a movie acknowledges the plight of being black in America, and then, instead of focusing on what whites have done to get race relations to this spot, there is a white hero who comes to help the black person or persons pull themselves up by their bootstraps.

There is so much more that Gaye writes about The Help, Djano Unchained, 12 Years a Slave and more, and I think you should read her book. It is in the Barnes and Noble employee recommendations or challenge your thinking section.

I DO see color.

August 18

Curt and I are headed to Iowa today to visit with anti-racist activist Jane Elliott.  I have been re-watching the videos that I saw in college about her brown-eye/blue-eye experiment. There is so much there to think about and to comment on, and I cannot write about them all in one post, so I am going to limit myself to two comments. First, after I watched one video with Solana, she commented at how often she hears white people say, "I don't see color." I cannot remember the last time I heard someone say that, so I was surprised. Solana has not said it herself because she does not feel that way, but she said she was never able to explain why the comment sounded wrong. This morning, we were discussing this and then trying to explain it to Frances, who is 10. I asked Frances what it would feel like if I said I don't see her as a girl. We all laughed. It is so ridiculous. And we all agreed, we like being girls and we value this part of our identity. It is just as ridiculous to say one doesn't see race. That basically says that I don't value or want to hear about that person's experience as a person of that race. If I say to Frances that I don't see her as Korean-American, I am saying that I don't see any need to discuss her experience as a Korean-American. I am dismissing a vital part of her existence. If someone says that they don't see me as white, well, I guess then I wonder what they do see. Why are we afraid to say that we see someone's race? A person saying he/she doesn't see race implies that seeing race is a bad thing, and somehow absolves that person of being seen as racist. So then we have to ask, what does racism look like? Is it simply seeing race or not seeing race?

The other part that struck a chord from one of Elliott's videos was a moment when she was doing the experiment with prison employees and picking on a white man (with blue eyes) who was being uncooperative. Something about the way she kept saying, "You," brought me back to my St. Winifred's classroom in Barbados. A black girl, whose name I cannot recall, was standing up in the back corner with the teacher yelling at her about how she was wasting everyone's time, not listening, not following her instructions, etc. "You. . . .you. . . you. . . you. . . "  She was shaming this girl, and the rest of the class sat in silence. I watched other girls of color go through this same shaming experience over and over during my year there. I never experienced it as anything other than a witness. I was called out for pushing the rules, but I was never called "stupid" or made to feel less than. I knew it was because I was white.

Gandhi

August 17

I couldn't sleep last night. Curt and I have been talking about an anti-racist workshop, camp, summer institute. . . Last night, I lay in bed wondering what the objectives would be. It reminded me of six or seven years ago when Macalester (where I was working at the time) opened its Institute for Global Citizenship. At the time, I wondered why they didn't name it the Institute for Local and Global Citizenship. Why is being a global citizen considered so much more sophisticated and glamorous? Are there colleges out there that focus on engaging in the communities around them? Are there colleges that encourage students to become citizens of their city in the same way they encourage students to embrace the international experience, not as white heroes serving the underprivileged, but engaging and learning? The language, the culture, the DIFFERENCES.

I realize that a summer camp for white teens, whether it be a week or six weeks, is far-fetched. We started watching Gandhi last night with the girls, finishing tonight. At one point, someone asks if Gandhi feels that it is hard to get support, and Gandhi responds with something to the effect of, "the surprising thing is that when you are fighting for something that is just, then people pop up out of everywhere to support you." I don't think that is true in America. I don't see the support, or at least not in a way that has cured the unjust. And I want to pop-up and support, but I still don't know how. So I am letting my mind wander at night in search of objectives for my anti-racist teen summer workshop.

Teaching History

August 16

I have been reading Alan Taylor's book, American Colonies, for a class. It is an American history textbook unlike those read in schools. Solana and I talked about how her history teacher in 7th grade, as they learned about the colonization of America, had to stop and interject accurate information about how Europeans didn't just happen upon unoccupied land, but instead claimed land through cheating, killing and annihilating Native Americans.

The American education system has been designed to teach white supremacy and as some white people have become more progressive, instead of demanding wide spread changes to the curriculum, we hope that individual teachers will augment our children's education. It is amazing that not only are most white Americans satisfied with the status quo, but that teachers, including myself, are too scared of what will happen if we question it. I inadvertently questioned the status quo in my second year of teaching and I learned The Lesson (by Toni Cade Bambara). More to come on this later, but if you haven't read it, please do.

So, I have spent some time procrastinating and  imagining how I would teach a US history class. It  would involve timelines around the room: one for white immigrants, Native Americans (unfair to group them since there were so many different tribes, and are still today- but forgive me this), black, Asian, and Hispanic groups. Throughout the class, as we learned about a time period or a war, we would stop and take stock of what was happening to and within each community. Which racial groups were entering the US and why. And within each group, men and women would be discussed separately. We'd have a system of noting the levels of freedom each group had according to their right to vote, own property, get an education, file assault charges against others, bear arms, travel, sit and eat anywhere, etc. Students may have to debate with each other to decide how to rate a group's level of freedom.

We may watch Roots, as I did in middle school, because if there is one time in my life that I can remember a room full of people cheering for a black person, it was for Kunte Kinte. Or maybe not. I'd have to watch it again and see what my 2015 eyes say about it. We would read original texts and examine how our racist nation was formed. Taylor's text would be a great option for my dream classroom as exhibited by my overzealous highlighting.

At one point, Taylor describes "the emergence of a new racial solidarity in 'whiteness' which trumped even the powerful class divisions  between the English. As they came to define a certain minimum dignity due to all white men, the English magnified their superiority over people of another color, especially those who seemed most different: the 'black' Africans" (212). This is the beginning. The rich white men needed to control the slaves and they did so by creating a common "solidarity" for all whites. Shouldn't America's classrooms be teaching and talking about this? When students complain about history and class not being relevant, isn't this how it becomes relevant? Wouldn't analyzing how decisions were made 500 years ago inspire conversation and debate? Can't we imagine classrooms that create just citizens because they UNDERSTAND?

Karachi, Pakistan Part 3/ Barbados

August 15

I can't "leave" Pakistan without saying that one of the things I witnessed in my time with Mansoor was the capacity for men, besides my father, to be proud, curious, loyal and warm. It reminds me again of how important it is for kids to experience these attributes in people of other races. This is what builds trust, respect and empathy. I know now that the closeness I had with Mansoor and Philomena was much like that of Scout with Calpurnia in To Kill a Mockingbird. I believe that they had true affection for me, but they were not allowed to deviate much from their role. Their impact on me was significant, but in some ways they didn't have a choice. And yet, Mansoor did allow me to follow him around and he did insist that I treat him with respect. I believe that he knew he was educating me.

I was heart-broken when we left Karachi. It was home and the people were family. We didn't have skype, email or texting, and even letters were limited given how long letters took to get from one side of the world to the other. So once we left, besides some minimal updates through other Americans, I heard very little about Mansoor and Philomena.

I did not return to Minnesota, but instead, I moved to Barbados with my mom and her then boyfriend. I attended an all girls school called St. Winifred's. This is the first experience of racism that I had as a more mature kid. I knew what was going on when the black girls in my class were shamed and called "stupid" by our teachers. As a class, we rebelled in the only ways we knew how. We passed answers around and interrupted teachers. We had inside jokes and rebelled in every small way possible. I wore a small thin braid in my hair on the side. I wore earrings in my second piercing and hike my skirt up every day despite the fact that the headmistress would tell me to take the braid out, the earring out and pull down my skirt most days. The schools insisted on calling me "Elizabeth" because my name, Jordan, was considered too masculine. I wonder now who else's names were changed.

I was only in Barbados for one year, but it was an education. I was repulsed (as only a teenage girl can be) by white Americans who would get off the cruise ships at the docks and walk through the shopping malls, grocery stores and markets in their bikinis and swim trunks. I went from one country with no tourists to one that was overrun and it was a hard shift. By the time I returned to Minneapolis the following year, I was certain it was not a place I wanted to be.

Karachi, Pakistan Part 2

August 14

Four years ago, in my first year teaching, I read the 1982 play "Master Harold and the Boys" by Athol Fugard. It is the story of a 17 year old white boy in South Africa who has a nurturing relationship with two black servants while his father is a drunk tyrant. In the climax of the play, Hally chooses to follow in his father's footsteps of racist behavior towards the two black men and in turn sacrifices the only nurturing relationships he has. Fugard wrote the play based on his own personal shame after having treated a black man he cared about disrespectfully as a teenager.

When I read the play, I immediately had a flashback to a moment with Mansoor, our driver in Karachi. Up until sixth grade, I spent a good chunk of my free time accompanying Mansoor to the markets where I would listen to the yelling, music and honking of the streets. We would go to the shanty town area in Karachi that was built on mounds of garbage (think of the scenes from Slumdog Millionaire). When we arrived in the three room hut of Mansoor's friend, the family would all crowd in and the soda walla would be beckoned so that the family could buy a Fanta for their visitor, me. I'd play cards with Mansoor and his friend. Once I remember winning money, only to learn from my dad when I arrived home that I was not to take money from people who had so little. I know we had a television in our house, but I spent time watching "Little House on the Prairie" in his room in the servants' quarters. When my parents divorced, and my mom converted to Islam and married a Pakistani, changing her name to Alia Bana, there was a safety in Mansoor's constant presence.

I felt that Mansoor was my friend, which sounds silly for an eleven year to think of a grown man, but his stability provided something for me. Then, when I got a terrible case of malaria in fifth grade, and my father and I were medically evacuated to London, it wasn't Mansoor who carried me out to the car. It was a white American. I can remember wanting it to be Mansoor, and wanting to ask for him, and maybe I even did. I remember realizing sometime later that it meant something that it wasn't him. There was a separation that I hadn't felt before and I didn't like, and I couldn't articulate.

In our last year there, on some random afternoon, I asked Mansoor to take me to the school. He said he would, but that he was going to have his tea first. Maybe five minutes later, I stood next to the car yelling back towards his quarters to hurry, that it was time to go. He walked out, tall and serious, and he looked me in the eye and told me to stop yelling. He told me that he was going to finish his tea, and then we would go. I remember my shame. As I matured, I had begun to accept the power dynamics that go with economics and race. Mansoor reminded me that he was a human.

I have often thought of Mansoor since we left Pakistan; he is the person I miss and wonder about the most, but I didn't remember that moment in the driveway until I read Fugard's play. Now, that is what I think of when I think of Mansoor, and it reminds me of who I want to be, an anti-racist.

Photo is from circa 1984. Philamena, Dwarf and Mansoor.

Teaching about Slavery

August 5

I teach American Literature to tenth graders and since I have terrible retention of historical information, in my first year of teaching the course, I relied on what I assumed my students were learning in history to create a context. I learned that while my students were learning "American History," it was history with a very traditional, sometimes racist bent. The first and most alarming comment a student made in my first year of teaching the class was that they had debated in history whether or not slavery was necessary for the successful founding of the United States of America and that truly America would not be what it is today without slavery, and he was not suggesting that it created the racist society we live in today, he was talking about the amazing home of opportunity.

I did not know what to say. I wondered how my two African American students survived that debate, and which side they were forced to support. I wondered if there was any reading of slave narratives prior to the debate or if the teacher believed and taught that people can have a discussion of the economics, minus humanity. That was my first year.

The last two years, I have brought it up before my students do. I tell my students that I know this debate occurs in some US History classes. I tell them that it is a conversation that I could not sit through. I tell them that while I enjoy many privileges of being a white middle class American, and that I would not have been born without history happening the way it did, I can imagine a society that was able to maintain humane values while creating opportunities for success. I tell them that slavery was not necessary, and that while we read The Narrative of Frederick Douglass and other texts from that time period, I hope they will realize that slavery was immoral, unethical and inhumane in every moment that it existed.

I wonder if students go home and tell their parents what is being discussed in history. I wonder if parents call in and say my kid will not debate the decisions made by elite whites to dismiss humanity for profit. I wonder what is listed as the objectives for that individual or group of history teachers who facilitate this debate. I wonder if parents will call and complain about how I frame slavery and racism. I wonder how this debate continues in history classes in my district or anywhere. I wonder why white parents are not outraged.

Racism: Call it out

August 4

On my run this morning, I was listening to the Saturday's edition of This American Life: "The Problem We All Live With." I think most people would be disgusted by what the white parents said, but it feels so far away. I have to keep reminding myself- it is right here.

It reminded me of an experience Solana had last winter. She was playing for South High varsity as an eighth grader and played in her first game we were not going to attend because it was too far away. When Solana left the game and was on the bus, she texted asking me to stay up so we could talk. When she arrived home after 11, she shared what had occurred. After arriving at the school, the team went into the locker room and when they came out there was a white girl wearing a confederate flag shirt standing so all the players could see her. She stood staring at the mostly black team as they left the locker room. Throughout the game, this girl sat across from the bench staring down the team. One of the seniors said something, but besides that there was no acknowledgement of that girl's overt racism. That does not mean that it didn't stick. Solana was shocked, sad and confused. I cannot imagine what the takeaway for the black players was. Racism exists and we have to call it out.

And then I remembered an instance last fall when I was watching my nephew play soccer at his mostly white private school. They do have a few students of color on the team, and the Hispanic family of one of the players was sitting in the stands a couple of rows in front of us, a mom, dad and group of younger siblings. The student section started to gather along the railing in front of the stands and I yelled down and asked the students to not stand in front of this family. Then the all white girl's soccer team walked in. Without looking around, they stood in front of the family. I yelled down again, a few of the girls looked at me and then turned back continuing to block the family. There was no AD or headmaster, but I couldn't help thinking that if that family had been white these girls wouldn't have been so blatantly disrespectful. Maybe not. I will never know, but I should have gone down and insisted, not because the family couldn't speak for themselves, but because when it feels like it is about race, it probably is, and it is white people's responsibility to call it out.

Korean Culture Camp

August 1

Every year for the last five years, Frances has gone to Korean Culture Camp. She spends five days with other Korean American children and a handful of white children doing art projects, eating Korean food, learning history and getting ready to perform in a dance or song in front of family. So, all this week I have been dropping her off and picking her up. Frances' report on each day comes in the creative one word format: "great", "fun", "awesome." I can and do beg for other details, but truthfully, the details are in the walks in and out through the crowds of other participants. It is in Frances' obvious comfort level, in the hellos she says to kids she has known for the last few years from this camp alone; it is in the positive energy that is so contagious in the space.

The first year Frances attended this camp, Solana and my niece, Lucy, attended as well. One day as we were walking out, I asked the girls how camp was going and Lucy replied that it was a little strange because there were so few white kids in the camp. My response was, "Imagine, that is Frances' experience every day in our family." Obviously, she has grown up in it, so it is different. And, I really do not know how she sees herself. When she was four, and we'd lounge in her bed, she would comment on how we have the same color arms. We'd hold them up in the air and she'd say, "yep, see Mom." And she was right. And the whole thing seemed sad and like it had the potential to get so much more complicated.

But during this week, when I walk through camp, and I see hundreds of Korean Americans, children running, teenagers who have clearly known and been at camp together for years, parents, both white and Korean-American who look overjoyed to be there and then the few older Korean-American grandparents holding their grandchildren's hands, I get a little choked up.

Police Lights

July 30

I haven't been pulled over for quite some time (knock on wood), probably 15 years, but I remember vividly the first time I was pulled over. I was sixteen and the cop said, "Seriously, your name is Jordan? Isn't that a boy's name?" I squeaked, not a word. He asked where I was headed and I said, "home." He asked me where that was and I said on St. Paul Avenue, which is a block off Cedar and two blocks from where we were. He said, "St. Paul Avenue in Minneapolis?" I felt small, scared and then grateful when he handed me my ticket and drove away.

Six months later, I was driving home from my boyfriend's house late, saw a cop, rolled through a stop sign and pulled over. He turned on his lights and pulled in behind me. I was so nervous when I saw him that all I could think to do is pull over so he would pass. Instead, I got a ticket.

Today, I know I would get that nervous adrenaline rush and feeling of dread. I know that my mind would go to how much will the ticket be and how much will our car insurance go up.

I cannot conceive of a situation when police lights for a traffic stop would lead to me being accosted, handcuffed, arrested, brought to a jail, booked, let alone shot. If I ended up in jail, I know my family would get me out because I am white and privileged. That is the reason.

When I was talking to Curt about this last night, he said sometimes he gets annoyed driving behind someone who is going slow, but when he is finally able to pass the car, the occupants are often black, and then he thinks, "Yeah, I wouldn't drive over the speed limit if I were black either."

Blogging about race

July 26

There are parts of writing this blog that are harder than I imagined. I haven't struggled to think of things to write about, but I have struggled to rush from one post to another as I tried to keep up with my one a day posting. At first, I had three going at a time, and then one or two would get deleted. Now, I am just taking more time to write, read and process.

I worry a lot about offending someone. I don't want to offend my white friends or family. I don't want anyone thinking that I believe I have made the morally superior decisions in school choice, in my decision to blog, in my hope to be an anti-racist, etc.

I don't want to offend people of color, and even as I write this, the thought of lumping all white people or all people of color into one group is ridiculous.

I have struggled to stay focused on experiences and thoughts around race that are more personal. I want to write about Harper Lee's new book and how I have always thought Atticus was a racist and the book was not anti-racist in a modern day sense even though I love it. I want to write about March 1, March 2, American Born Chinese and Bad Feminist, all of which talk about race and I recently read. I want to write more about school after every conversation I have with people.

It isn't that I thought it would be easy; it is just hard in ways I didn't anticipate.

I don't want pats on the back; I want someone to say, "have you thought about this or that?" "I was offended and think you are being myopic." I want to start a conversation somehow, but I seem to be just having a conversation with myself (and Curt).

Sixteen Candles

July 25

There are so many things that are offensive about Sixteen Candles. Homophobia, sexism (particularly what is portrayed as acceptable sexual harassment and rape), but for the purpose of this blog, I'm just writing about Gedde Watanabe's role as Long Duk Dong. 

In one interview I read, Watanabe, born and raised in Utah to Japanese-American parents, said he knew he needed to audition with an "Asian accent", as if all Asian's sound alike, so he hung out with a Korean friend of his. Then he showed up talking like Long Duk Dong, and John Hughes was convinced he was from somewhere in Asia until Watanabe finally came clean and spoke as he normally does. Hughes was fooled. He had no idea which Asian country Watanabe was supposedly from, but he was convinced he was from one of them. 

During the filming of Sixteen Candles, Watanabe did improv for a couple of the scenes that ended up in the movie. He knew what Hughes was looking for and he offered it up. In a number of the interviews I read, Watanabe says that looking back he was "naive" when he arrived at the Sixteen Candles set. He showed up to do his job and he did it well, as evidenced by the fact that you can say Long Duk Dong and most people who were alive in the 80's will know which movie you are talking about. It is an iconic film from the 80s and so people struggle to let it go. In one interview I read, the interviewer commented that while Long Duk Dong is a stereotype, so are many of the other characters. The unattractive nerd boy, the dumb blond girl . . . Does someone really have to point out the difference? There are plenty of unattractive white men in movies who are smart, dumb, good, evil, flawed, loving, lovable, interesting- COMPLEX. True, roles for white women continue to be given mostly to super attractive white women, but there are lots of them, and they are on the news in varied roles, and in books, etc. You could never say, "remember that white man or woman in the 1980's movie. . . who was that?" But I bet you could say, "who was that Asian man in the 1980's movie?" and many would respond, "Long Duk Dong." If one semi-major role is going to be given to an Asian character in a decade, then it will provide only a single story (Adichie's phrase) at best. This film offered up a new insult, now there wasn’t just “chink” or “Bruce Lee”, but now Asian males were called “Donger.”

We watch a lot of 80's movies with our girls, and I annoyingly pause them as we go along to point out sexism and racism (although there is significantly less racism because there are few people of color in 80's and 90's films), but I can honestly say, that I will never watch Sixteen Candles again. 

The Goonies

July 22

Last night we returned from a trip to Oregon which included a visit to the Goonies house in Astoria. We took pictures, walked around a bit, and the girls vowed to watch the movie when we got home. So at 9:30 last night, the girls started the film. Curt and I joined an hour in, and I noticed something that I hadn't before. Data's (Jonathan Ke Quan- the only Asian person in the film) had a stereotypical Asian accent. When I mentioned this, one of our girls responded, "are you sure he doesn't have an accent?" I responded, "100%." I know this because I don't find his accent believable; it is meant simply to make people laugh. Over and over, he says "booby" instead of "booty." I know this because Hollywood didn't accidentally hire someone with an accent. They hired someone who could do the accent because they knew it would make people laugh.  He was Asian and there to provide comic relief and be the smart one, of course.

But I did have a tiny bit of doubt. I wondered if I am going a little nutty and turning everything into race. So I did a little research. I found this review on someone's blog about the commentary that accompanies the 25th year anniversary edition of the film, and the blogger shares that, "One of the best moments happens throughout the commentary as the cast continually forces Jonathan Ke Quan (Data) who has no accent whatsoever to speak in broken english which he does begrudgingly several times." Imagine, 25 years of having to reinforce stereotypes, and to have your castmates "continually force[]" you. The fact is there is no escape from moments like that. What are his options if he is a)just tired of doing it, or b)finds it horribly demeaning and just wants to refuse. This is what he was paid to do. Exhausting. I couldn't find anything on the person who played his mom, but his dad was also played by a Chinese-American who pretended to be Chinese because there is nothing funny about a Chinese-American who speaks standard English.

It isn't simply that the stereotype is offensive, but that it exists in an American society where there are no (or perhaps by 2015, very few) representations of Chinese or Chinese-American people (or Japanese or Korean or Vietnamese, etc) that are complex, human, balanced, layered, etc. If you don't know how this may affect you, or you have no idea what I am writing about, watch Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Ted Talk, The Danger of a Single Story. This is my FAVORITE Ted Talk. I show it to my students every year when they question why we have to read texts by Native Americans- didn't they do that last year? I also respond apologetically; they will be forced to read many more texts by white men.

I have watched The Goonies a number of times, and at least once with our girls, and somehow this stereotype didn't stand out. But now, sitting with Frances, I have to wonder, what does she see and take-away. What other things am I not aware of? How do I address it with the white kids in our family? Should I talk about it differently with Frances? Should I talk about it at all? The Goonies is a funny movie. I don't intend to stop watching it, but I'd love to know what Frances experience is without asking her. Not possible. What to do?

Karachi, Pakistan- Part 1

July 20

Through 2nd grade, besides my brothers, I didn't know any people of color.  I know I had classmates who were students of color, primarily black. I also don't recall meeting people from other countries, with the exception of an East Indian couple who came for dinner, and all I can remember about them was being enamored with the wife who looked like a princess to me.

So my entire family was in for quite a change when in 1982, my parents decided to move us to Karachi, Pakistan. My dad was offered a job as a hospital administrator for a hospital/nursing school being built by the Aga Khan in Karachi, Pakistan. For those of you who have not heard of the Aga Khan, he is the spiritual leader of the Ismaili Muslims. So this was also my first introduction to Islam and it had nothing in common with the Islam I heard about in America years and then decades later.

When we arrived, we immediately met our servants: Philomena, the maid, and her husband, Dwarf (that is how we pronounced his name, but that can't be the spelling), who was the cook; Niaz, the chokadoor (phonetic spelling of an Urdu word I have not said for years), our house guard, and Mansoor, our driver. Mansoor and Philomena shaped so much of what I came to believe about life, including race.

WWAD- What Would an Anti-racist Do? - Post 1 (there will be too many more)

July 19 (no wifi at our vrbo last night)

I intended to continue writing about adoption, but we are on a family vacation in Oregon, and as is too often the case, I was confronted with “what would an anti-racist do” situation.

After dinner, we stopped at the only market available in Rockaway Beach, Oregon to get some crackers to go with our Tillamook cheese for tomorrow’s mid-day snack, and some beer for an evening nightcap. As we proceeded to the check-out, one of our girls pointed out a hat with a Confederate flag on it. We stood there wishing it was not so. Curt suggested buying it to burn it, but we didn’t dare exchange money for it. I grabbed some other hats to put on top of it, but in doing so revealed another hat with an even larger image of the Confederate flag. We abandoned the hat display and proceeded to the check-out in silence.

As the woman checking us out ran our credit card, I debated what to do, or rather whether I should say something. I had a moment when I worried about making her feel uncomfortable, and then I thought, what would this same scenerio feel like if our family were black? I can’t say I know, but the thought was enough for me to say, “I’m not sure if you are the owner. . .” at which point the woman said, “No, I am not the owner.” So I went on, “if you wouldn’t mind passing this feedback onto the owner, I’d appreciate it. I think it is no longer appropriate to have hats with Confederate flags on them.” Her response was simply, “oh, okay.”

I had so many thoughts as I walked out. I wondered how many white people who do not consider themselves racists have seen those hats and said nothing. Why is that? I asked Curt if he would have said something if I wasn’t there, and he said no. I know this isn’t because he feels any differently than me. It is just easier. Now, I wish that I said to our girls and then the check-out woman, “we will not buy food from a store who is overtly profiting from racist goods.” Why didn’t I? Ahhhhh, why didn’t I? I don’t know.

Every moment does not need to be a political one, but neither does every moment need to be a passive one.

"Chink"

July 18

As I wrote before, my parents adopted my two brothers from South Korea. Caleb was about three when he came home; one year younger than my biological older sister Courtney. One year later, they adopted Garrison, and he was around three too, and one year younger than Caleb. I was the youngest, one year below Garrison.

There are all sorts of things that adoption agencies would not recommend about this situation today. Namely, don't mess up the birth order. They'd probably not allow a family to adopt two kids who were adopted older than one to be adopted so close to each other. Nowadays, agencies mandate trainings and give warnings to prepare families for the complexities of adopting a child older than one who may or may not have attached, and therefore may have attachment issues. Today, agencies also have overt conversations about race; I don't believe this happened when my brothers came home, but if they did, it was not with the understanding agencies have today.

My first memories of seeing racism were with my brothers at elementary school. Other kids tried out the word "chink" on them regularly, while pulling their white round eyes at the corners so they were "oriental" looking. I can remember one of my brothers smiling once, perhaps in an effort to laugh with versus be laughed at, but mostly I remember the pit in my stomach watching their facial expressions and knowing that something was not okay, but none of us knew what to say or how to get out of the moment. At the same time, I knew it was not directed at me. I never said a word to my parents. I don't think I had the words to describe what I saw my brothers experience.

There are other comments that my brothers and now my daughter have to endure that make me cringe and want to lecture, and I want to tell her to disregard those comments, they mean nothing, but avoidance is not an answer. I used to get questions all the time about where she is from (Minneapolis, same as the rest of her family). The question people are asking is where was she born. And sure, they are simply trying to start a conversation, but why is the conversation starter about her race, the way in which she is different? Frances, obviously, has been one, four, seven, and now is ten. She is a fun, interesting and chatty person, but point out how she is different, and she turns shy very quickly. There is so much to say about her that has nothing to do with where she was born.

I also used to get comments about how lucky Frances is that we adopted her. No one says this about Solana. What is the intended message?

Peers vs. Texts

July 16

I need to clarify, or expand, or explain my last line. I think many teachers in many schools, public and private, make huge efforts to teach diverse texts and discuss racism, as I do in my mostly white classroom. I know that many white families celebrated Obama, seek out opportunities to understand issues of race, and cry, scream and demonstrate after race-based atrocities of the past and will in the future, and I believe they bring their children along on their personal journeys. I do these things also.

My parents did some of these things too. So then I ask myself, if my parents did these things, why don't I have any friends of color? Why do I live in a mostly white neighborhood? Why do I blame race when considering what the difference is at South? If my parents, and presumably their liberal white friends, did some of the same things, then why is there a huge achievement gap in Minneapolis? Why are communities still largely segregated in the Twin Cities? Why aren't white liberal adults (like me) incensed to the point of action with speech and money every day? Why do so many liberal white families seek out educational opportunities for their children in the suburbs or in private schools that are NOT diverse despite what you see on their websites or what they say?

I'm not disappointed nor do I feel I am missing something in my friend group. I love all my white friends, colleagues and my white husband. What I am disappointed in is that somehow the white community that I live in, including myself and my white husband, has not found a way to demand more for all of the human beings in our community.  A part of me believes, or hopes, that the world may change if more white children grow up interacting daily with actual peers of color-- not people of color in books, movies, media or on Facebook. Peers who tell bad jokes, and get offended, and forgive, and share, and listen, and sweat, and cheer, and dream. History repeats itself, correct? So what am I willing to do differently than my parents?

School Decision Wrap-up (for now)

July 17

It feels disingenuous to write as if we chose South out of many school options. The truth is a lot more complicated. Solana's dad considered moving to add the option of Washburn or Southwest to the mix.

We visited one private school and looked into others, and I wasn't convinced the academic rigor was better just because there is an admission process to get in or because the students who don't measure up are either not admitted or kicked out. I think there is a different kind of diversity that is lost through self and school selection. AND private schools cost a lot of money which means that many of the students have lots of money, and do I want my girls around that kind of privilege? I see this kind of privilege out in Minnetonka. I see the sixteen year-olds driving cars that cost more than I will make this year. I hear students discussing the amazing world travelling they will do over spring vacation, and I also hear the silence from the students who are not headed anywhere. Maybe this is just me convincing myself that private schools or suburban schools would not offer the complete experience that I wish for my girls because money is an obstacle. We would have worked it out, but it would have been hard.

Solana and I also discussed schools from the perspective of Frances. Which school would she be comfortable in? As a Korean-American, would she feel comfortable in a school where she would be the minority (she will be in the minority as a Korean-American anywhere, but as a non-white student)? In the end, Solana stated that she wanted to attend a public school. So we reconsidered the school that I teach at, but really it was just to compare and process what may be lost.

Solana's friends who are attending Southwest and private schools have summer homework, all language arts. I have had moments where I panicked that this alone reveals the differences in academic rigor. Then I remind myself that I teach language arts and my honors students will do summer homework and I don't think it means a whole lot. I think summer homework is to set a tone of expectation, to start the school year with some meat to talk about and to appease parents who are expecting rigor. And isn't that what I am a little jealous of? A community of parents who demand rigor. Or maybe it's teachers and administrators who listen. 

What do parents of color demand for their kids? I have no idea because I have not talked to any.

Schools Part 3: What I cannot teach

July 15

As with everyone, experience dictates my vision of my world and myself. My experience growing up and experiencing race was varied. I have/had two brothers, one died ten years ago, who were adopted from Korea. I lived in Pakistan for four years and Barbados for one, moving back to the United States for eighth grade. More on all of that later, but the culminating lesson for me, one that has guided my priorities as I have looked at schools for my kids is that I cannot teach diversity in my home. I cannot teach my kids to see people of all races as human beings. I can discuss race and point out racism. I can expose them to different ideas and texts, but that is not the same. I do not have friends of color that we spend time with. I have had colleagues and friends of color through work and on Facebook, but the truth is that I am not exposing my children to people of color.

When Joel (first husband, now divorced) and I were going through the adoption process for our second daughter, Frances, Children's Home Society had us go through an exercise. The leader asked us to put a bead in a bowl that represented the race of the artists, musicians, authors, movies, music, friends, family, etc of what/who our kids will experience in our home. Our bowl was filled with white. We adopted a daughter from Korea, and yet my bowl is still white. Joel and I both have the best intentions, but we do not have the network to provide what Frances, or my other three girls, all white, deserve as they navigate the world.

So what does South High School have to offer Solana? When we went to the open house, we had an effeminate black 9th grade boy approach us and offer to give us a tour. I imagine this would/could happen at Southwest or Washburn, but it is hard to imagine it happening at the private school we visited or the school I work at. As we walked around the school, there was a mix of all races. Solana knew a number of students from her basketball team and from her middle school and many were students of color. There were mixed race groups and single race groups, but most importantly, it felt like the students' space. Yes, there will be fights in the halls, and maybe discipline issues in the classroom that are different from what I see in Minnetonka, but when I picked Solana up from the Y an hour ago, I had to go in to get her. She was playing in the gym with Tariq, an African American boy with whom she has been friends for three years even though he is two years older. He was telling her that honors chemistry is hard, but that she shouldn't be nervous about being in classes with older kids. He was one of the first boys at the Y to encourage her to join the pick-up games. Tariq is her friend because they both play basketball, both go to the Y, but also because they both went to Sanford and now to South. She would not have met him or any of her friends of different races if we had relied on my network of friends.

So I guess it comes down to my trust that South can provide Solana (and later Frances) with the academic rigor they deserve more than I trust the mostly white (often over-privileged) schools to teach them to see people of color as individual human beings.

Schools Part 2: Round and Round I Go

Schools: Part Two

Those two questions are not unfair.

Will South be challenging enough? Compared to Southwest and Washburn, South offers fewer honors level courses. Ask a teacher and he or she will tell you the district curriculum is the same, but examine the course offerings and you will discover they are not. Did the registration nights at Washburn and Southwest talk about the importance of graduating from high school and what the bare number of courses students need? Or did they at least mention colleges and challenge? Is this because of the difference in school make-up based on race and/or socio-economics? Does it matter what the reason is? Will it have an influence on my daughters' experiences?

A recent study found that the most disadvantaged schools have the worst teachers. Solana's middle school last year had 62% of its students qualifying for free and reduced lunch, and her teachers were mostly awesome. I work in a very advantaged district and I know there are sub-par teachers. But since it is a study done by respected institutions and academics, I trust it, and yet the assertion is such an absolute and I hate absolutes. I read an article like this and I feel protective and nervous. I read about Minneapolis School's commitment to black male youth and discipline and I wonder where my girls are in the discussion about students. I don't hear about the mission to educate. I don't hear anyone talking about my daughters' options and futures.

The other question I have is about safety. Last year, as an eighth grader, Solana played basketball for the South high school. One day, when my husband was dropping her at practice there was a fight, yelling, screaming, escalating, between two adult women in the hall by the gym. Later, there was a story on the news about a fight at the school that turned out to be outside of the school, but between two students. From my own personal experience, I know what fights, even occasional ones, feel like in a school. When I was observing at Edison High School five years ago before getting my license, I watched an all out brawl in the streets just outside the school. The fact is that I haven't seen many fights. I don't want to. That fight, the sound of one child punching another, has stuck with me. In all of the above situations, both parties were black.

When I was a South student, twenty five years ago, there were times I didn't feel safe. Once, while walking down the hall with Joel, my boyfriend, who was a superstar white cross-country runner, a black student shoved a marshmallow in his mouth. He turned around to say, "what the hell?" and was immediately shoved up against a locker and pinned. One boy stood mocking him and the other held him. It ended quickly, but I was scared. The assistant principal at the time did not help either of us process. Ironically, I volunteered with the special ed department, and the following semester, the boy who pulled the marshmallow incident was in the class I volunteered in. When I realized, I said that I didn't want to work with him and the teacher encouraged me to work it out. Not surprisingly, once I got to know him, I realized he was likable, and I finally told him that I had been there that day. His response was, "well, I wouldn't have done it if I had known he was your boyfriend."

I know in my heart that society must do all it can to help black males succeed; I believe this, and yet I want my daughters to be challenged and safe.

Truthfully, I don't worry about my girls' safety, but I worry more about what they will see; is that overly protective? And I do believe that they will find challenge on a number of levels, some academic and some not, at a school like South. That was my experience. But when my friends and family choose the less diverse schools that talk about academic rigor, I wonder if I am making the right choices. And round and round I go.

Schools: A Hard Look at Myself

July 13, 2015

Choosing schools, or rather, recognizing the lack of choice I have for my daughters' schools has revealed one of my biggest personal conflicts around race. My girls attend Minneapolis Public Schools. In 2006, Solana started at Pratt Community School as a kindergartener. The district had been trying to close the school for a couple of years, and the neighborhood fought hard to keep it open. In part because of this dynamic, a number of kids in the neighborhood went to other schools- charters, private, and open-enrolled public. Meanwhile, Pratt had some good teachers, but there were a number of very poor ones. Today, 29% of Pratt's student body is white and 69% receive free and reduced lunch. Nine years ago, the numbers were similar.

I believed, as Solana trudged through her experience at Pratt, that she was getting a sub-par academic experience in part because of the race and socio-economic make-up of the school. How did I imagine race and socio-economics played into the success of the school? And when I say imagined, I readily admit, I didn't form these opinions from any factual knowledge. What I imagined was that there were: Less involved parents, lower expectations of what could be expected from teachers, and lower expectations of what could be expected from students.

But when Solana hit fourth grade, she had one of the most amazing teachers I have ever met, Ms. Jan Nethercut. Everyone loved her. Everyone learned from her. Ms. Nethercut's arrival at Pratt marked a change in the tide at Pratt, led of course by the district finally committing to keeping Pratt open. Today, numbers are up. Teachers are worlds better. More young families are moving into our neighborhood and more of their kids are enrolling at Pratt. And all of this is happening while maintaining the diversity that I once thought was to blame for Solana's experience.

Despite this knowledge, as Solana entered the world of high school choices, I felt plagued by the same questions. Namely, would our area high school, South High, my alma mater, be challenging enough for her? Would it be safe for her? I know I am not the only parent with these questions.

Where to attack racism?

One day in class, Dr. Hunter said to her tiny white crew of students that one of the reasons racism persists is that often, almost always, when a white person finally realizes racism is real, she or he wants to surround themselves with others who know of its existence, or better yet, around people of color who will affirm the white person's status as a non-racist because how can you be racist if you have friends, colleagues, students and bosses of color. So, often, white people wishing to fight racism enroll in "more progressive" colleges. They live in areas where there is more diversity. They seek out work places that tout more commitment to diversity. And so, white teachers, who are anti-racist wannabes, also often choose to work in more diverse schools.

But, Dr. Hunter insisted, white teachers who want to fight racism are needed in white schools. People of color already know about racism. Not to say it isn't important to have anti-racist teachers in diverse schools, but that is not where the problem can truly be attacked. In this single message, she gave the four of us the benefit of the doubt that we were anti-racist wannabes, and she gave us a mission:  go be anti-racists in your classrooms. No matter your subject. This message was my saving grace when the first job I was offered was thirty minutes from my home in an almost all-white high school.

I had only ever been around mostly liberal-minded people, and although they were predominately white, I cannot recall an overtly racist comment ever made by someone I was close with. I heard comments that were racist in more subtle ways. I had people I was close to make decisions to sequester themselves and their children away from people of color, but always with self-shame for being both progressive with their speech and money, but less generous with their prejudices about neighborhoods or schools that have more diversity. And so I was genuinely scared to enter a world where I may encounter more overt racism. And even as I type this, I think of the irony that a white woman would be scared of racism.

Moving Walkway of Racism

July 11, 2015

I did not just have one professor of color. I had a second one when I was in graduate school at the University of St. Thomas five years ago. Dr. Sally Hunter. I was in her class with three other white women. Dr. Hunter was the first person to teach me what it means to be an anti-racist. She said that one who wishes to be an anti-racist, which means to actively fight against racism, must get on the metaphorical moving walkway (as are seen in airports), and as most are just riding or walking in the same direction, an anti-racist must turn around and walk against the current. The current of society has been to allow racist thoughts, words and actions to persist, so the only way to truly be an ANTI-racist is to walk in the other direction.

When I think of this metaphor, I imagine the looks a person would get if they walked against the walkway. Looks of annoyance, looks of avoidance, looks of fear of the unknown that go along with anyone who contradicts society. All of these looks exist when one works at being an anti-racist. Sometimes, if I bring up race, someone will wonder why I am going at it again: annoyance. Others will try to change the subject without sharing any of their own thoughts: avoidance. And still others will look scared or express words of concern that the status quo is being challenged. I share this metaphor with my 9th and 10th graders because I know that some of them are anti-racist wannabes, and I don't want them to have to wait until they are in their mid-thirties to discover that it has a name and it has a definition and they can be anti-racists.

Where to start, why to start

July 10, 2015

This morning I woke up and perused Facebook, as I do many mornings. I clicked on a link to the article: 23 Things All Black Kids at Liberal Arts Colleges Will Understand. A fellow Mac alum posted it, so I thought back to my experiences at Macalester. I thought about my liberal upbringing that launched me into a school that espouses superficial tolerance without teaching students how to strive to be truly anti-racist. I thought about how few students of color I knew (especially when I when I don't include international students). Then I thought about the ONE professor of color I had:  Don Belton. English professor extraordinaire. I took two classes from him: Black Masculinity and Writing.

In the Black Masculinity course, we read Ralph Ellison, Richard Wright, bell hooks and James Baldwin. I turned in one of my worst pieces of writing and Belton returned it with an F and a passing comment that went something like, "This was a waste of my time." I stayed after despite my humiliation. I asked if I could rewrite it, and he conceded as long as I was ready to write something interesting. As long as I was willing to dig. I wrote an essay on the emasculation of black men in society as seen in Invisible Man and Native Son. I'm sure it wasn't amazing, but I had an original thought and I dared to explore it, and Don Belton supported me, not by patting me on the back, but by pushing and demanding and expecting. He taught me I could expect more of myself.

So this morning, I googled Don Belton because I knew he had left Macalester, but I didn't know where he ended up. He was murdered five years ago. He was murdered five years ago. Even though I hadn't thought about him for years, I feel so sad thinking that there is a world where he is not. Every student deserves a Don Belton. And for some reason, this has led me to decide to sit down and write about race on this blog every day for one year. I don't think I will be brave enough to share it until I have written at least a few posts, but hopefully, I will dare, dig and expect it of myself. We'll see.