RaceFail '09
And I told ‘em about equality, and it’s true either you’re wrong or you’re right. [.....] It don’t matter if you’re black or white. -Michael Jackson, from Black or White
At one a.m. last night I found myself multi-tasking with LJ on the small screen while the DVR’d American Idol replayed in HD on my television. In a weirdly apt confluence, I was catching up on the latest RaceFail ‘09 links at the very moment when a white kid strutted across the stage, singing a song about race-blindness written, performed, and made famous by a black man who’s spent most of his adult life striving to look whiter.
Huh.
There are many reasons I haven’t posted on RaceFail ’09. Right up at the top of the list is my own pride. Yes, I’m owning the unpalatable little nugget of ego whispering in my ear, telling me that amongst all the amazingly eloquent and far-better educated people writing about Racefail ’09, I cannot possibly compose anything fresh, or say anything new. [No, spellcheck, you fucker, I refuse to add RaceFail to the dictionary, and thereby admit that I will need to use it again someday.] Yes, racial injustice pales (ha ha) in comparison to the ego of the online fanfic writer someone who wants to be read and to make people think. Of course, if you’ve followed RaceFail at all, I’m thinking that pronouncement, too, is less than ticker-worthy. In the end, literally reading about the denial of racism-at the very moment when someone starts singing about refusing to acknowledge the power it can exert-was the catalyst I needed to write something of my own, fresh or stale notwithstanding.
Many of the most recent links (and thank [your deity of choice] for metafandom and rydra_wong , because, wow) were about the support posts or their absence from white fandom journals. There were at least a few very significant others that lined up like hapless redshirts, standing alongside the original RaceFail ‘09 perpetrators (eBear, shetterly, cramer, et al) to say that they were angry to have been told that they didn’t necessarily get it. Yes, they were white, but it shouldn’t matter, because we all have our crosses to bear and that means everyone can understand what it’s like to experience racism. Like Michael said, we’re one and the same.
Uh, no. Not exactly.
Until the age of thirteen, the only brown people I’d actually seen were on my television. If you’ve ever seen Hoosiers, you have a good approximation of my hometown. The only diversity there was represented by the Methodists and the Baptists. Being raised by good Christian parents, I was taught NOT to stare, to notice, to show undue curiosity in other people. It wasn’t polite. I was, from youth through my college years which included a serious interracial relationship, one of those people who didn’t “see” race. I only saw what was on the inside, right? Yeah, one of those people. I wanted to be on the right side of goodness, where people don’t treat other people differently for bad reasons. It was best to pretend there was nothing to notice in the first place. I remember self-censoring conversations with Kevin (the boyfriend) to ensure my questions couldn’t be construed as me asking about what it was like to be black, or how being black made life for him or his family different. I believed that a good girlfriend would ignore all of that. I was fascinated by how deep his voice was and how soft his skin was and his cheeky sense of humor, but I thought it would be rude to even acknowledge that his color-and life-were different. I assumed that he would assume that by different I meant inferior. I was afraid of that discussion, and the best course of action I could envision was to ensure we never had to have it.
Note that at the time it never even occurred to me to wonder whether I might be the one to suffer unintentional implications of inferiority if we started comparing the Black life vs. the White one. I'm forced to admit it; realizing the back-handed racism inherent in that approach so long after the fact makes me ashamed (and with that comes the uncomfortable knowledge that if I was unaware of my own racism then, I could just as easily be so today). When things went south with Kevin, I told myself that the looming specter of decades of pilgrimages to my tiny, all-white hometown and a potential grandfather-in-law who still used the word Negro were the cause. It’s only been in the last few years that I stopped to ask myself whether my ignoring Kevin’s race was a bigger problem than my family’s noticing it would have been. I suspect the answer is yes, and that is the point (finally, you say) which brings us back to RaceFail ’09.
Michael Jackson, contrary to his own lyrics, was not either wrong or right, but both. He was right when he said you’re either wrong or you're right. The people denying the existence of something worthy of discussion, or refusing to ascribe significance to the feelings of PoC because, as whites, they didn't mean for anyone to interpret it that way, are very, very wrong. There’s no maybe there; there’s no grey. And there’s no “right” either.
They’re just wrong.
But on the other hand, so was Mr. Jackson (and Kevin’s-white-girlfriend-me) when we said it don’t matter if you’re black or white. Because it does. And it should. Denying that doesn’t just deny the problem, but denies an integral part of who PoC are, and where they’re coming from. It denies that what white people do-and refuse to acknowledge doing-affects PoC, unto even life and livelihood. For whites, even hopeful white allies, to disallow that our whiteness colors [oh, the irony] our own contributions to the discussion renders those contributions ineffective at best, and harmful at worst. It does matter if you’re black or brown or white when joining this discussion; you should notice and acknowledge a participant’s race (and your own) and respect the life experiences-and limitations-that it brings. Doing so is a necessary facet of any real dialog, not a nuisance...and not a taboo to be avoided with one’s boyfriend.
Until we all get together on at least that one very basic point, we won’t learn anything, in this galaxy or any other.
At one a.m. last night I found myself multi-tasking with LJ on the small screen while the DVR’d American Idol replayed in HD on my television. In a weirdly apt confluence, I was catching up on the latest RaceFail ‘09 links at the very moment when a white kid strutted across the stage, singing a song about race-blindness written, performed, and made famous by a black man who’s spent most of his adult life striving to look whiter.
Huh.
There are many reasons I haven’t posted on RaceFail ’09. Right up at the top of the list is my own pride. Yes, I’m owning the unpalatable little nugget of ego whispering in my ear, telling me that amongst all the amazingly eloquent and far-better educated people writing about Racefail ’09, I cannot possibly compose anything fresh, or say anything new. [No, spellcheck, you fucker, I refuse to add RaceFail to the dictionary, and thereby admit that I will need to use it again someday.] Yes, racial injustice pales (ha ha) in comparison to the ego of the online fanfic writer someone who wants to be read and to make people think. Of course, if you’ve followed RaceFail at all, I’m thinking that pronouncement, too, is less than ticker-worthy. In the end, literally reading about the denial of racism-at the very moment when someone starts singing about refusing to acknowledge the power it can exert-was the catalyst I needed to write something of my own, fresh or stale notwithstanding.
Many of the most recent links (and thank [your deity of choice] for metafandom and rydra_wong , because, wow) were about the support posts or their absence from white fandom journals. There were at least a few very significant others that lined up like hapless redshirts, standing alongside the original RaceFail ‘09 perpetrators (eBear, shetterly, cramer, et al) to say that they were angry to have been told that they didn’t necessarily get it. Yes, they were white, but it shouldn’t matter, because we all have our crosses to bear and that means everyone can understand what it’s like to experience racism. Like Michael said, we’re one and the same.
Uh, no. Not exactly.
Until the age of thirteen, the only brown people I’d actually seen were on my television. If you’ve ever seen Hoosiers, you have a good approximation of my hometown. The only diversity there was represented by the Methodists and the Baptists. Being raised by good Christian parents, I was taught NOT to stare, to notice, to show undue curiosity in other people. It wasn’t polite. I was, from youth through my college years which included a serious interracial relationship, one of those people who didn’t “see” race. I only saw what was on the inside, right? Yeah, one of those people. I wanted to be on the right side of goodness, where people don’t treat other people differently for bad reasons. It was best to pretend there was nothing to notice in the first place. I remember self-censoring conversations with Kevin (the boyfriend) to ensure my questions couldn’t be construed as me asking about what it was like to be black, or how being black made life for him or his family different. I believed that a good girlfriend would ignore all of that. I was fascinated by how deep his voice was and how soft his skin was and his cheeky sense of humor, but I thought it would be rude to even acknowledge that his color-and life-were different. I assumed that he would assume that by different I meant inferior. I was afraid of that discussion, and the best course of action I could envision was to ensure we never had to have it.
Note that at the time it never even occurred to me to wonder whether I might be the one to suffer unintentional implications of inferiority if we started comparing the Black life vs. the White one. I'm forced to admit it; realizing the back-handed racism inherent in that approach so long after the fact makes me ashamed (and with that comes the uncomfortable knowledge that if I was unaware of my own racism then, I could just as easily be so today). When things went south with Kevin, I told myself that the looming specter of decades of pilgrimages to my tiny, all-white hometown and a potential grandfather-in-law who still used the word Negro were the cause. It’s only been in the last few years that I stopped to ask myself whether my ignoring Kevin’s race was a bigger problem than my family’s noticing it would have been. I suspect the answer is yes, and that is the point (finally, you say) which brings us back to RaceFail ’09.
Michael Jackson, contrary to his own lyrics, was not either wrong or right, but both. He was right when he said you’re either wrong or you're right. The people denying the existence of something worthy of discussion, or refusing to ascribe significance to the feelings of PoC because, as whites, they didn't mean for anyone to interpret it that way, are very, very wrong. There’s no maybe there; there’s no grey. And there’s no “right” either.
They’re just wrong.
But on the other hand, so was Mr. Jackson (and Kevin’s-white-girlfriend-me) when we said it don’t matter if you’re black or white. Because it does. And it should. Denying that doesn’t just deny the problem, but denies an integral part of who PoC are, and where they’re coming from. It denies that what white people do-and refuse to acknowledge doing-affects PoC, unto even life and livelihood. For whites, even hopeful white allies, to disallow that our whiteness colors [oh, the irony] our own contributions to the discussion renders those contributions ineffective at best, and harmful at worst. It does matter if you’re black or brown or white when joining this discussion; you should notice and acknowledge a participant’s race (and your own) and respect the life experiences-and limitations-that it brings. Doing so is a necessary facet of any real dialog, not a nuisance...and not a taboo to be avoided with one’s boyfriend.
Until we all get together on at least that one very basic point, we won’t learn anything, in this galaxy or any other.