I’ve often wondered why so many white people care about racism against black people.
Nobody asked me to be black. I didn’t become black in order to “trick” anyone into feeling guilty. I was born this way, into this country, at this time. It is true that my experiences have shaped the way I see the world; it is also true I have researched the ways that black people are treated in this country and become appalled. But I discovered this situation I found myself in, and that’s why I care about it. Makes sense to me.
But when I see white people care about racism, I find it intriguing. Why would anyone who isn’t black care about racism against blacks? Honestly. I’ve occasionally claimed that I wished I were white so that I didn’t worry about fighting against racism. I’d loudly proclaim that there was no such thing as racism, and any facts to the contrary would prompt me to feel a bit smug and superior, I speculated. I’d probably just argue that any inequalities would happen because many black people were lazy. I mean, why would I give someone else a leg up when I’m doing perfectly fine myself? If you’re as cynical about human nature as I often am, that’s what you’d probably expect.
I was thinking about this recently, and then it dawned on me. I care a great deal about marginalized groups that I am not in. I care about women’s rights, about children’s rights, about lgbtq rights, about minimum workers’ rights, about immigrants’ rights…and the list goes on. And while some of this care, to be dead honest, might be because I’ve been shamed into it, a lot of it, I know, is sincere. I’ve shed a tear or two, at some point in my life, about each of these issues, and I can feel that my care is honest. I care. But why?
And as I thought about it, the answer wasn’t necessarily all pretty. I mean, empathy was part of the answer, but there was still something a bit…off about it. At the same time it opened the door into why many white people might be so naturally inclined to be attuned to my situation, as well.
It’s like…a room that’s closed off. And everyone tells you not to go in that room — that it’s ugly and dark and the door shouldn’t be open. Let’s call this the Room of Marginalized Groups. But when you walk past it, you begin to suspect that’s not true. Maybe you walk past once, and you see a bit of light under the door — and you begin to suspect it’s not all dark. Or you walk past another time, and you hear someone playing a beautiful piano concerto behind the door, and you begin to suspect it’s not all ugly. You begin to get curious and suspect that either the others are lying or ignorant. Eventually you open the door…and it’s nothing like you were told. It’s just another part of the world, with its history and heritage and so on. And the reason the door was closed had to do with stupid rules and traditions, not with the reality of the situation.
So that’s an answer. We care about marginalized groups because we know society is lying to us about them. We want to see the beauty in the places society tries to close off from us.
That explains a lot about why we’re fascinated with these marginalized groups. It’s a beautiful thing.
But then…there’s a problem. This guy named Slavoj Zizek hit upon it with a joke:
A man who believes himself to be a grain of seed is taken to the mental institution where the doctors do their best to finally convince him that he is not a grain but a man; however, when he is cured (convinced that he is not a grain of seed but a man) and allowed to leave the hospital, he immediately comes back very trembling and scared – there is a chicken outside the door and he is afraid that it will eat him.
“Dear fellow,” says his doctor, “you know very well that you are not a grain of seed but a man.”
“Of course I know that,” replies the patient, “but does the chicken know it?”
The point of the story is that, sooner or later, finding out the truth of the marginalized person changes you. It changes the way you relate to the world. Perhaps before, like the man who thought he was a grain of seed, you thought you were superior to what lay behind the Door of the Marginalized. And now you know you aren’t, and neither is the rest of society. You’re “cured.”
But there’s a problem.
Just as the man is worried that the chicken won’t recognize the person is no longer a seed, the newly enlightened person may become worried due to the (usually accurate) reality that most of society will still think that those behind the Door of the Marginalized belong there.
And the realization that society is not as enlightened as you are can force you to make very tough choices and sacrifices, and that’s where, I think, the going gets rough.
For example — take the movie Remember the Titans. Coach Boone is the first black coach of a half black, half white football team in racist 1971 Virginia. His white assistant coach, Coach Yoast, initially has doubts about the black coach, but eventually begins to respect Coach Boone (who goes on to lead his team to a perfect season). The door was opened up. Coach Boone defied all stereotypes. Coach Yoast ventured into Boone’s world, admired him, went to bat for him. Eventually, he let his daughter spend the night at Coach Boone’s house.
That night, an angry group of white people drive by and throw a brick into Coach Boone’s house, with a threat on it (it’s unclear at first whether the brick was a bomb, which heightens the sense of danger surrounding the incident). Coach Boone shows the brick off to the media the next and announces he won’t be intimidated; he is determined to kick down the door of racism that is forcing him to be a second class citizen, and will go on living his life the exact same way.
But Coach Yoast is uncomfortable as Coach Boone defies would-be attackers to the press. This was more than he bargained for. This was The Next Step.
His marginalization and Coach Boone’s marginalization was beginning to merge. It’s a frightening time for Yoast, and he pulls Coach Boone aside on a stairway to express his concerns.
[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aviqy5lttOA[/youtube]
This is what I hear from some white people when I start getting serious about speaking out. The injustice bothers them, because they are part of our same humanity. But then there’s also the fact that we can talk loudly in places where they want to save face; we have less to lose. So they protest…do you really have to talk so loud? We like you. We admire you. But when you act belligerant, when you speak out strongly, it makes things more difficult. It makes things tougher. You’re making it harder to affiliate with you; it’s making us look bad.
And I get it.
I totally do. I get it. I’ve been there regarding other marginalized groups. You’re not racist. But other people are, and you have to deal with them day in, day out. You go, perhaps unwillingly, from being a spectator to a participant, from being the lawyer representing the client to being locked up in the jail with them. But it bothers you when they rattle the cages, especially since you know that you could step out from behind them any time you pleased.
It’s a difficult transition. And I can see that very few people are willing to take it to that next level.
One reason is that, admit it or not, (going back to the black-white dynamic as an example) the white person perhaps enjoys being white. They enjoy the privileges that being white affords them in general society, and are hesitant to give that up. They care about black individuals, don’t get me wrong — like a rich man might care for a beggar enough to give him some money. But the care given highlights a hierarchy that the privileged person often can’t help but feel.
And I get that, because I feel it — when I give a beggar $5, I do it out of genuine concern. But that also makes me appreciate my nice, warm bed a little more.
Most marginalized groups will pick up on this dynamic. So, no matter how much you connect to them, the likelihood is high (and I’ve noticed this is a shock, too) that you will almost always be resented by the marginalized group, because even when you bend over backwards to care for, say, black people, you’re always doing it from a better position — the fact that you’re reaching backwards underlines the fact that you’re reaching backwards.
This position creates a catch-22. The white person who really tries to help blacks will be resented by blacks for the inescapably superior position in society they have, and resented by whites for catering so much to the marginalized concerns of black people. You’re resented by blacks and resented by whites. It’s hard as hell.
Most white people didn’t sign up for this part of When Things Get Tough. Most of them only signed up for appreciating black people, getting to know them. And that’s awesome. But then the backlash…many aren’t prepared for that.
So…from that angle, a lot of it makes sense. And I’ve heard, from white people caught in that Catch 22, the anxious urging for an answer as to what to do about it.
That’s really a hard one.
For Coach Yoast, the moment came later in the film.
During the movie, it is learned that Coach Boone will be fired the first game his team loses. Coach Boone has been winning all season, and this is the regional championship game — the game before the state championship. The referee is making bad calls on purpose so that Coach Boone’s team, the Titans, will lose.
Coach Yoast has a choice. He knows (based on a conversation at the beginning of the clip) that if he says nothing, Boone will be fired, he will replace Boone as Head Coach, and he will be inducted into the Hall of Fame.
On the other hand, he can expose that there is a conspiracy behind the calls. It might get him into trouble, too. He could lose his career and reputation over it. And he won’t be Head Coach or be inducted into the Hall of Fame.
He hesitates. It’s a lot to sacrifice. And then he turns, sees his daughter in the stands upset about the bad call, looks back at the game, and gets the courage to walk over to the referee and threaten to go to the press if the game is not called fairly (about 2:15 below).
[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QezX4y-M1_0[/youtube]
And I think that he made that decision because, perhaps, he saw the future. The way things should be for the next generation. It was about what he wanted to accomplish, where he wanted to go, and the fact that he was invested in the team more than he was in his privileged position.
He used his privilege to lose his privilege. And, in the (admittedly somewhat fictional) story, he never gets into the Hall of Fame. But he had a lifelong relationship with Coach Boone.
And thinking about the story, which rings true, I keep hitting upon the word “love.”
“Love” is a stupid word, in ways. It’s manipulative, vague, and ill-defined in the English language. But when you see it, that’s the only thing you can call it, really. I think what distinguishes it from other emotions — like courage, bravery, empathy — is that if you love a group of people, there’s no ego attached to it. You can brag about how you feel courageous, or brave, or empathetic. But you can’t brag about love, because when you say you love someone you’re admitting that there is something valuable about the other person, not yourself.
It’s also beyond your control; it’s not really something that you can force. It’s just something you feel that can get you to do courageous stuff without feeling courageous, that can make you empathize — not as charity but as a need within yourself. It’s…completely and totally about someone else.
If I knew how to create it, I would tell you. But I don’t have a concrete way to make it, although I think that’s the answer to racism. I know it starts with knowledge, seeing the beauty in other people, common goals. But that spark lies…somewhere beyond it.
And it’s also a beautiful way to be more a part of the world.
But then there’s the hard part — the realization that even if you love someone, there’s no guarantee that they’ll love you back, or trust that your love is real. Especially if someone’s trust has been broken time, and time, and time again. Most members of marginalized groups have experienced people intrigued by them at first…and then have those people treat them like a tourist spot or a beggar they pass when times get rough or (perhaps ironically) when they don’t receive the trust they think they are deserved. Black people, for example, have experienced this cycle for 400 years. So the trust is especially hard to earn.
And on top of this is the unfortunate truth that we all have one life, and we have to decide how we’re going to live it. Is it worth it to trust, in spite of being let down time and time and time again? Is it worth it to love strangers at the expense of missing out on privilege? Trust doesn’t guarantee that you won’t be irreparably hurt, and love doesn’t guarantee you respect, influence, or that you’ll pay the bills.
So these are really tough questions.
I don’t have the answers for you.
But you do.
Thanks for reading.
[Image courtesy of Backbone Campaign under CCL 2.0]