40 Days of Writing, Day 5: The Education of White Folks

As a person of color in the United States, the issue of white supremacy – and its infiltration in every kind of  institution and system – remains quite clear to me.  The issues can be complex, certainly, but sometimes, incidents of racism occur and reveal simple and forgotten points about the danger people of color face when in predominantly white environments.

Like this story that happened in my home state of Ohio where an elementary school teacher thought there was nothing wrong with asking one of her two black students to pose as a slave during a mock slave auction and had the white students poke and prod as if buying him, even going as so far as inspecting the inside of his mouth and testing his muscle strength.

This, in my mental filing system, is categorized under Nightmare, The Ultimate.

This treacherous and psychologically twisted act of a youth educator brings back some not so pleasant memories of my own.

While much less damaging or stunning, I can remember handfuls of incidents growing up in predominantly white classrooms and being asked my opinion because I was not white. “So, Lisa, tell us what is it like to be in interracial dating relationships,” my sociology teacher asked, assuming all kinds of notions that if I were in a relationship that it automatically would be someone who was White or someone of a race other than Filipino. And also assuming that my life is open for discussion for the intellectual advancement of others.

It irked me when well-intentioned white friends would complain that the person of color in their class was socially reserved and wouldn’t share his or her experiences from Nicaragua, China, Mexico, or Africa, “I just really want to learn from them.  Why are they so quiet?” Mhm, I don’t know.  Maybe that person is just like any other person in class — bored to tears perhaps, or an introverted soul, or maybe s/he doesn”t like to talk in class, or maybe s/he doesn’t like you.

Even in professional conferences about dismantling racism in institutions of higher education, even during plenary break out sessions after the speaker just finished a talk about how women of color are often tokenized in mainstream feminist circles and asked to speak simply because of their non-white skin color, someone at my table still asked me, “What’s wrong?  Don’t you have anything to say on this matter? You’re not white and haven’t spoken yet.  I’d love to hear what you’re thinking.”

To which I replied, “I mean, other than the fact that you’re forcing me to speak when the whole presentation was about NOT doing that, I feel fine.” That and I remember thinking, I just don’t feel like talking. It’s early.  I need coffee. Nothing fancy.

Consider the possibility that people of color, especially in predominantly white spheres are neither inspired or scared to talk.  I can’t speak to the minds of what other people are doing or thinking.  I can only speak to my experiences in dealing with people wrapped in the binds of white privilege in education centered environments and how often I was targeted to speak on behalf of my race.  Cultural awareness is not putting someone’s culture and race in the spotlight, nor is is about ignoring it in efforts of sameness and equality.  It’s somewhere in between.

If you are uncomfortable with white supremacy, or history of slavery, or want to learn or teach about it further, consider this point:

People of color/I do not exist to be subject material for enlightenment.  They/I exist because they/we are humans with unique feelings, stories, and ideas.  So, if you’re interested to know about the practices, rituals, and beliefs of a specific culture or race, read a book.  If you’re interested in a person, form a relationship.

And remember that people of color and our lives are not responsible for white people’s education.

The Tale of Two Academics: Marriage, Baby, and One MBA

In my marriage, I wore the tassel in the family.  With every fiber of my being, I would have bet that it would’ve been ME in going back to graduate school and Nick would be at home, baby in one arm, diaper bag in another, and cell phone cradled in the overextended neck.  But, no.  That’s not where life took us.  That’s not where we are right now.

Today was Nick’s first day for his MBA program.  And what a fine choice and privilege it is for us to pursue additional degrees so we can open even more doors to our family’s future.

But, graduate school isn’t what it used to be.  I completed my grad degree in 2004 as a single, newly minted master of psychology and pastoral ministry.   My cohort was roughly 75 students and similar to me: overly addicted to intellectual stimulation with an ever increasing love of the academic life.  We loved the academic world;  surrounded by brainiac professors and manaical graduate assistants, late talks about “my place in the world,” and a fastidious devotion to the pursuit of truth.

That and a lot of alcohol.

But it isn’t 2004 anymore and I’m not a single, Boston bar hopper.  Somewhere in the past six years, my life blew up with marriage, jobs, moving, change, growth, and responsibilities surpassing my individualistic desires.  My pursuit of truth has changed.  From diplomas to diapers.  Discussion to lullaby.  My make-up bag is untouched.  The snazzy going-out purse is now a rather dull grey messenger bag, scattered with pacifiers, a stuffed animal, and a bulb syringe.  I know, it’s dead sexy.

What happened to me?  (And I don’t ask that in a whiny voice, I mean a reflective one…)

I guess the best answer I gave myself today was this:  I learned how to compromise.   In 2004, about 99% of my days were all about me.  Today, 2010, my days are mostly about other people.  And the pursuit of truth is found in the murky waters of everyday life.  The ivory tower does not always have the best view.  That took me about five years to understand.

When a parent goes to graduate school, the entire family goes to graduate school. Even though there’s only one student charged, everyone pays tuition.  Tuition of time, attention, presence, thought, and engagement.  Like a hanging mobile, one piece cannot be moved without the entire plane moving with it.

By 12noon today, I was tired enough to go to bed.  And I had slept plenty the night before.  While Nick is up to his neck in orientation, classes, meetings, and trying to get his footing in a whole new base of knowledge, I am waaaaay over my head with Isaiah and keeping our job-sharing job going. And writing.  And trying to remember to drink water.

I could list the hundred different things that went wrong today.  I could list the thousand things that went right.

Or I could reflect on the hard pill epiphany of the day: behind every hard working parent in gradschool is a harder working parent at home.   And that opportunity – to seek a better place and identity as a family through the means of higher education – is a privilege that has no room for complaints.

**in the car at 5:21pm**

– after explaining at length how my day went –

Me: So, how was it?  Tell me everything.

Nick: I will.  I just feel bad that you had a bad day.

Me:  I didn’t have bad day.  I had a very hard day.  There’s a difference.