Racism's Big Picture

Animus and Systemic Racism

The current hand wringing and head scratching in this country over the definition of “racism,” most particularly in terms of personal beliefs and behaviors, is a rather curious phenomenon. It is curious not because it is an odd topic for discussion –  we Americans have long needed to discuss what racism is, how it is expressed, why it is both “natural” and naturally harmful, as well as what we can do to eradicate it. It is curious because defining racism is actually not all that hard. Nor, quite frankly, is it hard to recognize where it is found and how it expresses itself.  The recent death of Toni Morrison, an American writer of unparalleled force and dignity, whose work consistently shed light on the costs and consequences of racism, might well occasion such a long overdue discussion of racism in America.

What we usually mean by “racism” is simply “personal animus,” dislike of another person due to that person’s racial differences: skin color, facial features, language, social behaviors and habits, religion or religious expression, and so forth. There are a lot of things that can be considered to be race characteristics, even things that have nothing to do with race per se. Personal animus is usually considered in terms of one to one. Consequently, if I personally don’t “dislike” a person as an individual based on these racial features, then I would likely conclude that I am not racist. This is where the President and his apologists appear to be coming from. So if we ask the question, “Is the President a racist?” we will have to rely on what he claims. This action is problematic, of course, because we can’t see his thoughts and because his commentary is often disconnected from what we traditionally regard as factual reality.  As regards the issue of his personal animus, we just can’t tell from the outside.

 

 

If that were all racism involved, our discussion would end there, with what in boxing is called a “split decision.” But there is, in fact, more to it. Racism is more than just a one to one issue. There is, for example, systemic racism or institutional racism, in which “well-meaning” and “law abiding” people, even people without specific personal animus, behave in ways that support prejudicial behaviors. This is likely to happen between groups, as we see with issues of the disagreement over the border wall. No one has suggested the United States build a border wall along the Atlantic seaboard to keep out unwanted immigrants from Europe. Beyond the obvious fact that such a wall is not practical, we really have no need or desire to keep out Europeans. In fact, the idea should strike us as absurd. Notably we are talking in this instance about white people, like many of us.  If those same people were struggling to cross the southern border in order to flee persecution, that is, if white Europeans were at the southern border we would be having a different conversation over the border wall than we have had during the last three (plus) years. We are not likely to experience either the heated rhetoric or the pumped-up anxieties. We would, in fact, take an entirely different approach to the problem.

Systemic racism also appears in language habits and in the use of symbols. When I was a child in the 1950s, what we call the “n word” was generally understood to be impolite if not problematic – not that the northern white communities that I grew up in understood its harsh ramifications. My family did not use the word because my parents, to their credit, regarded it as disrespectful. But others people did use it both as a descriptive term and as an epithet. Part of our education as a culture and as a society since that time has involved the general removal of this term from pervasive, common use. I am noting here a reduction in use of the term, not, sadly, its eradication. Nevertheless, our success at limiting use of the “n” word would suggest that we white Americans can improve our behavior with regard to race – if we are sufficiently motivated.

Widespread condemnation of the “n word” leads me to another point with a bearing on the wider issues of systemic racism – the use of symbolic and coded language. There are many examples available, but “law and order” will serve. At face value, that is to say, literally speaking, why wouldn’t we all be in favor of “law and order”? We all want or at least benefit from stability and consistency, which is one primary meaning of the term. Additionally, the phrase also suggests an unquestionable legitimacy, a reliable system of knowns. “Of course,” we would say, “I am a law and order kind of person.” 

But once we scratch the surface of “law and order” to see what it signifies practically or historically we discover that “law and order” has been used as code language for an often punitive application of policing, as well as rationale for control by various “authorities.” From this starting point, historically speaking, we discover that the law and order position is used to preserve the status quo, whatever that might be at any particular moment in history. We also discover that the application of law and order, given this starting point, comes down most frequently and most heavily on minorities, on the poor, on the powerless and the unconventional.

To put it differently, the experience of most African Americans with regard to law and order is enormously different from the experience of middle class and affluent whites. Often, the difference is significant enough that we might think the term had two quite distinct literal meanings. It does. But, then, that is the nature of systemic racism, isn’t it.

Or, if you will, consider the “black lives matter” slogan that has become ubiquitous in recent weeks. There were two prominent reactions to this movement. Some have called the BLM folks "terrorist," which, of course, is neither true nor reasonable. Others, especially in the white community, have countered with the more generous slogan, “ALL lives matter.” The only reasonable response to “All lives matter” is affirmation: “Of course, all lives matter!” 

 Unfortunately, that is not the point. The point is that in our country, white lives DO matter because the system works fairly consistently in favor of whites. White lives are already affirmed by the system. When was the last time you read about or saw on the news cops shooting a white person who had been stopped for a broken tail light? or cops gang tackling and squeezing the life out of a white person passing a bogus $20 bill or for selling cigarettes on the street?

But in the same system, black lives are cheap. Black folks are far less valuable if we are to judge from how often minor encounters between police and black males especially end in death. In that context, then, insisting that “all lives matter” effectively hides the egregious excesses of the current law-and-order system of policing in America. Insisting that “black lives” have value, significance, meaning clearly is the corrective our system needs.

 

    While we are pondering how this particular response to “black lives matter” sheds light on “all lives matter,” let’s consider one more implication of “all lives matter.” Since “all lives matter” is a natural and often immediate response of white folks who would describe themselves as “conservative” and “conservatively Christian,” how is it that our (yes, I am white too) concern for “all lives” has serious limits? We value the lives of folks living in our communities, but find ourselves reluctant to extend that valuing to the mostly brown folks who have streamed to our borders looking for sanctuary from oppression, brutality, poverty, and death in the countries they fled?  Do those lives matter? Clearly they don’t matter much to us, but do they matter to God? Are they included in Christ’s mandate that specifies “the least of these”? What if they are just looking for “opportunity” for their children? Is that reason enough to set out on thousand mile treks to our border?

 

There are almost too many examples of how this strand of systemic racism works to fit into our conversation. We value the lives (and, significantly, the property) of folks in white neighborhoods but not of the black jogger or the black teenager in a hoody using these streets to get home?

I am not suggesting there are easy answers to questions like these. But I hope the links I have sketched demonstrate in some important way, that “systemic racism” is real, it is deep, it is deeply entrenched in all our systems, and it needs to be addressed for what it is.  The arrogant killing of George Floyd – and others of his or ANY color – is only the most obvious fruit of a system built on racist assumptions and practices and institutions that we continue to benefit from, whether we think we are racist or not.

We, the People

These are difficult times. 

Not only are we deep into efforts to contain and eradicate Covid-19 and the economic damage that attends these efforts, but now we are also experiencing an unexpected level of civil unrest in our cities. The issue is all-too-familiar: the death of a yet another black man, George Floyd, at the hands of white police officers. 

I am old enough to have seen many events like this before. After each killing, after grieving the senseless loss of a particular life, after mourning over the cloud that settles again over the black community, I hope and pray that things will be different now, that the people who need to understand and change will understand and change.

From where I watch this national trauma unfold, it seems obvious that the rash of demonstrations spurred by this police killing are not like demonstrations I have seen before. Yes, they were sparked by the senseless, unnecessary, and damnable act itself; and, yes, protest against racism is the central element of all the demonstrations. 

But there are enormous differences too. I find myself reminded over and over of the “police riots” of 1968 in Chicago at the Democratic National Convention. Those clashes between Chicago Police and protesters were as much about the exclusion of whole categories of citizens from the political process as they were about opposition to the Vietnam War or in support of the Civil Rights movement.

The current demonstrations and protests – and, yes, the looting and burning too – have quickly absorbed many issues in addition to Floyd’s killing. Many of these “other issues” are local grievances regarding official injustice. This fact alone should tell us something about what is really going on. 

Racism sparked by Floyd’s killing is at the heart of these demonstrations, but they are also clearly about the conditions that made his death a common occurrence. The protests are about the political order that promotes and tolerates use of deadly force. What we used to call “the Establishment” is not sufficiently responsive to the needs of citizens.

While one would expect the black community to come out in protest, and it has, we are also seeing many white folks coming out in protest. And these protests are happening around the world, not just in American cities with our history of racial violence and injustice. This phenomenon, too, would affirm that the concerns of the protesters are global, that they are multi-generational and multi-racial. That protests have erupted in cities around the world suggests that the world is watching and that they want us to be better than the killings would indicate we are.

But there are some good signs too: this is the first time I can remember when members of police departments, including chiefs and mayors of cities have expressed sympathy and sometimes solidarity with the rightful aims of peaceful demonstrators. It does not happen everywhere, but in the old days it never happened.

Probably the biggest difference now from racial demonstrations and protests earlier in my life-time, say in the 1960s, is the toxic atmosphere at the top of our government that seems to encourage aggressive police action. I am speaking of the President and his self-serving drive to un-make the necessary functioning of a government. 

It is not necessary to detail this point about the President. I will simply note that the racist nature of this administration is embodied in its “Make America Great Again” slogan. If you are African American, Asian American, Hispanic American or any other “non-white” resident, what “great” era would you like to see recreated? What era is the slogan referring to? Prior to 2016, what would that era of former “greatness” be like for you?

A second significant difference between what I view on the streets now from the 1960s is me. Before beginning college in 1967, I knew exactly one African-American, a classmate whom I did not know well. And I knew no Asians. Zero. Today I know and have worked with many. Having friends in the black, brown, and Asian communities by itself has revolutionized my understanding of racism and its pernicious effects.

If we are going to see serious improvement in race relations, these calls for systemic change need to be taken seriously. The changes will have to begin with the tangible step of voting. Citizens of all ages must make voting a top priority. And as much as we need change at the top, we must also take seriously local elections that affect city, county, state, and congressional offices as well. 

These down ballot races are crucially part of the system that needs to be changed. If they are not taken seriously, the groundswell of multi-racial support for meaningful change will find itself choked out. 

And anything short of systemic change will amount to denial of justice for George Floyd.

Once, When the School Year Vanished

Students who are watching the end of their school year disappear -- along with its celebrations and class trips and gatherings -- must be disappointed if not disillusioned by the unexpected shock waves of the Covid-19 pandemic. The excitement of not having to "go" to school surely wore off quickly. Now we find many wondering, rightly so, whether "normal" will ever be normal again.

We are, without doubt, living through unusual times under unusual circumstances. But it might be helpful to remember that the experience of watching a school year unexpectedly vanish is not unique.

Fifty years ago, in the spring of 1970, students of my generation had a similar experience. Across the country, student protests against the war in Vietnam had been flaring up for many months, campus buildings had been "occupied" by student groups demanding an end to American military action in Asia and demanding changes to the status quo. Violence and vandalism gave the protests a nasty edge. Our University was relatively quiet in those days although events in Vietnam and on other campuses across the country kept us focused on our country's unrest and on the pressing questions themselves.

Fifty years ago we were finishing our junior year at the University of New Hampshire. Donna and I were engaged to be married in June. Ahead of that we were lining up summer jobs, finding a place to live, and chasing down the hundred separate details that had to be pursued individually in those  dark times before the internet. Trying to make life-shaping decisions can be nerve-wracking in the best of times, but few would have thought those were the best of times.

As tensions on campus began to ratchet up week by week, some students started boycotting classes in favor of discussion groups we called "rap sessions." Sympathetic and like-minded professors cancelled their own classes and volunteered to participate. A kind of alternative curriculum sprang up around issues we felt more urgent for our lives than normal academics. There were sessions on racism and women's rights as well as on the complicated politics of war.

Yes, there was a lot of shared ignorance, but there were also energized and vital discussions as we tried to figure out how to think about the challenges facing our generation.  Most of us were less consumed with the political ideologies confronting each other. Rather most of us were anxious and confused about what would happen next and whether we, as young people, could possibly have any say in it.

In an effort to be close to what was happening, to learn first hand, I joined the university newspaper and began writing about rap sessions I was assigned to.

Then in early May, news spread rapidly around campus that the Ohio National Guard had fired on students at Kent State, killing several. Classes that had continued to meet abruptly stopped meeting. Our sense of fear became tangible. For all practical purposes, the University ceased to function. We had joined the student strike without trying to. Rumors spread that New Hampshire's Governor, Mel Thompson, had called up the National Guard. Armed troops were rumored to be ready at the Armory five miles away.

A makeshift memorial to the slain Kent State students sprang up spontaneously -- mostly stones and candles and signs and flowers. A little more than a week after white students were shot at Kent State, black students were shot and killed at Jackson State in what was being called a police riot, a recently coined term. What would we ever do if the National Guard arrived on our campus with weapons?

We continued to hold rap sessions and rallies to hear student leaders speak. It was hard to know what would happen tomorrow, let alone imagine  how the country might ever return to normal. What had become clear in all that uncertainty is that life and death issues were being "played" by those in positions of power to advance their political ends. At some point, word came down from the University administration that there would be no final exams and that graduation ceremonies would be cancelled.

Then, almost as if we had been given permission to leave, the campus emptied out. The makeshift stone memorial, which had become the center for evening bonfires and rallies, remained. But banners were taken down. Graffiti was painted over. Junk from the weeks of rallies and meetings was raked up and hauled off. Lawns were fixed. Unsure of what else was called for, I started my summer job early. In mid-June we were married on schedule.

That fall we returned to classes for our senior year. Fifty years on we lean on what we learned from that experience.

Even in these days of quarantine, chaos and fear again cloud the future, but it is the quiet fundamental lessons that matter.  There are many things to be said -- in another essay, perhaps -- about the abuses of power on many levels.  But in this moment, when the stability of our school year has become distant and uncertain, I am more interested in one simple lesson, a reminder from fifty years ago: Life does go on. And we know there will be opportunities, yet to come, to make something good from these lost months.