Dear Spokane: A Letter To My Hometown About Being Thrust Into the Spotlight of American Race Relations

Today hurts.

Spokane, WA is a small city that prides itself on being a "great place to raise a family." The kind of place that's rarely in the news. So when Twitter and Facebook blew up today with news that Rachel Dolezal, the president of Spokane's NAACP chapter has been presenting herself as black, when she is actually white, a lot of you probably wanted to turn off the internet for a few days. Within hours (minutes, maybe) derisive memes and Twitter hashtags popped up. At least one commentator pulled out the classic "Is Spokane so white that...?"

I've seen a lot of folks in my hometown on social media just pretending the scandal hasn't happened, and others asking that people not rush to judgment, or why the media isn't focusing on some positive news about our city.

If we don't turn away, though, this could be a real moment to open our minds and better understand the real racial crisis happening in our country.

Twelve years ago this month, I moved from Spokane to one of the most diverse cities in America. I was pretty dumb about diversity at that time. Not maliciously so. I was just ignorant, from growing up in a place where all of the faces I saw were white. I was constantly afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing when the topic of race came up. Over time, working in an organization that is dedicated to social justice, I began to build my consciousness of the world beyond the one in which I'd been raised.

I see this same fear in some of my friends on social media today. If we talk about race, will we say something stupid? Will we make things worse? We feel that way because one of the ways that white culture maintains its privileged status is to train white children that even talking about race is racist, thus erasing the existence of our fellow citizens who are not white.

Talking has to begin. 

It can be harmful talk if we don't do it with care, however. But it can also move all of us forward. Below are a few principles that have helped me open myself to conversations about race (these ideas are specifically directed at my white friends; as a white person I don't have any right to speak to other communities about what they should do):

1) Be an active listener. 
White people need to listen to black people in this moment. We need to hear the real pain that Rachel Dolezal's actions have caused. If you want some places to start, you can try Jonathan Capeheart's piece,  or this interview with Mitzi Miller. But sitting back and being quiet doesn't mean ignoring the story. We have to seek out and listen to voices of the black community throughout the country, including in Spokane.

2) Acknowledge white privilege.
Living in a place like Spokane, where the overwhelming number of people are white, it is easy not to feel privileged. Particularly since it's a working class town, the idea of "privilege" seems hard to fathom. However, even (or especially) in a predominantly white area, whiteness confers privilege - privilege like seeing oneself represented in the media in a positive way, seeing your own history in history books, not being singled out by the police time and time again. Rachel Dolezal has white privilege in that at any time, she could have chosen to be perceived as white, functionally erasing the experiences of those who don't have that choice. And as a prominent civic voice for the black community, she stole the opportunity for others to speak their truths. 

3) Learn more about race in this country.
In a town like Spokane (and any town, really) it's easy to go through your entire school career without ever really understanding much about the history of discrimination in our country, or the experiences and stories of people who aren't like us. We think we aren't "racist" because we haven't said or done anything that seems discriminatory. However, racism is deeply rooted in every system in our country, including housing, medical care, education, politics. With the internet, there are plenty of places to learn more. (mic.com's Identities page is just one). There are some great books out there too. It's a classic, but it's a classic for a reason: Beverly Tatum's Why Are All The Black Kids Sitting Together In the Cafeteria is a good primer on how racial identity develops.

4) Talk.
It's hard to talk about these things. In fact, as I've been writing this, I've wondered if I should stop typing; I've had a thousand doubts about what friends might think of these words. We're afraid of being judged. As I said before, it's hard to talk about race because the perpetuation of the system of racial privilege depends upon us remaining quiet. It depends upon us saying "race doesn't matter" or "race had nothing to do with it." Confronted with a story like Rachel Dolezal's, in which we absolutely can't say that, the temptation is to say: "Let's just wait until it's out of the spotlight." Find people you feel comfortable with to begin the conversation. Find people who will call you out if you say something that might be a micro-aggression, who will learn with you as you find answers. 

Until we talk about race and racism, our silence equals consent to a system that marginalizes our fellow humans. Ending that consent is worth a little embarrassment or fumbling as we begin to grow our understanding.

What Are Police For? And Other Questions Of Justice and Protest

It would be lovely if it were true...

If you happen to be four or five years old (target audience for this blog) I can predict at least one thing you will do in school this year: you will learn about "community helpers." You will learn how firefighters save kittens, how doctors give scary shots that keep you healthy, and how police officers can help you if get lost.

"Community helper." Sounds quaint, doesn't it?

Let's consider police officers. Without the context of knowing what most police officers actually do , if I was to imagine someone who has the job of "helping" to ensure community safety, I would imagine someone who deeply knows the people of the community, investigates situations that would cause breaches in safety of community members (such as unlighted areas, abandoned houses, etc.), and works with other community leaders (clergy, doctors, teachers) to address threats to the community's well-being.  These community safety helpers would understand the context of the community and the history of its residents.

Maybe there was a time when some of these things happened, when beat cops walked the streets and whistled happy tunes. I know that there are many amazing programs going on throughout America to bring back community policing, support the mental health needs of communities through police actions, and more. 

It's time to face facts, though. These types of programs are not the norm. North America is in crisis today, and part of the reason is that  we have military forces trained on our citizens.

I imagine (hope) if you're living in the United States, you're familiar with the situation in Ferguson, MO. A young Black man got into an altercation with a police officer and was shot to death. The details are clouded in controversy, but what we do know is that the young man, Michael Brown, was unarmed. Despite conflicting witness testimonies that should have signaled the need for a trial to suss out the truth of the situation, and despite the very low burden of proof when it comes to indictment, the officer was not charged by a grand jury.

Given that grand juries almost always return an indictment, the message was clear: if a Black man is killed by the cops, he probably deserved it.

(The many, many internet comments I have read over the past few days have confirmed that lots of Americans believe that defying the police means that you asked for your own death.)

At the same time as this has been going on, protests have ignited in Mexico over the disappearance of 43 students who were taken into police custody and then reportedly handed over to a criminal syndicate and killed.

If I sit back and listen, I can hear the blustering objections. How could the convoluted tale of the death of Mike Brown be compared to the obvious sins committed by the Mexican police?

And to that, I answer: what are police for, if not to ensure the safety of the community? to help the community, as our little ones learn during their social studies time?

Instead, our police have become a military force, set to enforce systems that do not serve the community. As income inequality grows, I expect this will only get worse. And this will put the men and women who join police forces because they actually do want to help the community in the tenuous position of protecting systems that are not serving the best interests of middle- and lower-income people of any race, but particularly people of color.

Americans are deeply divided in how we think about the police.

When I've gone through jury selection, they have asked us, "do you believe someone is more likely to tell the truth just because they are in law enforcement?" Having been raised with a healthy skepticism of authority, this question has seemed odd to me. Yet the last few days have brought home the number of people, mostly White, who unequivocally believe that police accounts of events are true (even when, in the case of Ferguson officer Darren Wilson, they contradict the physical evidence of the case, and, you know, basic math.)

On the flip side, many Black Americans mistrust police forces and the courts. Which is hardly surprising, when you think about the numbers of Black men who are incarcerated compared to Whites; when you think about stop-and-frisk policies and racial profiling in traffic stops; drug laws that provide greater penalties for drugs that are used more often in Black communities than White;
school police who begin ticketing Black and Latin@ youth at greater rates, putting them in contact with the justice system at an early age ... the list goes on and on. 

Again I ask, what are police for? What is a justice system that protects injustice?

I'm a pacifist. In fact, I'm such an extreme pacifist, that I don't watch sports because I believe they contribute to a culture of war. I don't believe in violent revolution. 

Yet I understand the impulse that drives the violence we've seen over the past few days. When faced with a system that is patently tyrannical - when the police force can kill an unarmed citizen and then be protected from even a serious inquiry into whether it was appropriate force, and your city is filled with paramilitary forces, then what do you do? What do you do with that much rage when all promises for uncovering the truth and for safety are broken, when the state clearly communicates that you are not worth justice?

If you believe that we must come together in order to invert systems of power in our country, as I do, and you believe that these actions must be non-violent, one thing you can do is look over the list of 198 non-violent methods of protest and persuasion that fill the armory of peaceful protest. Ask yourself, which of these am I uniquely positioned to do? Non-violent action is not just about street protests. It consists of writing (like this blog), art, symbolic acts, theater and film, consumer actions, non-cooperation ... well, there are 198 (and that list was created before social media, so there are definitely more things you could do). If you disagree with what is happening in our country, if you want a justice system that is fair for all Americans, then do what you can to subvert the current paradigm.  You can be like my friend Jamar, who is sharing petitions on Facebook to influence Congress to require body cams for police officers. Or my friend Ceci, who is using art to comment on the situation in Mexico. Or Dhathri, who is urging others to participate in Black Friday boycotts.

But what we can't do is ignore the opportunity presented to us to ask for the police force and justice system we need, so we don't have to explain to our pre-schoolers that we were wrong when we told them about those community helpers.

Funeral Blues for Ferguson, Missouri

"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos ..."

                                                        W.H. Auden

These words keep running through my head as news rolls in about Ferguson, MO. It feels like everything should just STOP and pay attention to what's happening. I read the news, Twitter, so choked up that I can hardly breathe.

But the world just keeps going.  At least, it does for White America. I see a sharp division between my White and Black friends in how much headspace this story is getting. I'm not talking about everyone, but let's be really real for a second: I've seen more Facebook coverage of the ice-bucket challenge than the fact that real tyranny is happening not just in Ferguson, but throughout the U.S. 

And I've been thinking a lot about two little guys I know, just on the cusp of teenagerhood. They are best friends. They love Minecraft, rap music, and have secret crushes on girls. I'll call them H and J. H is White. J is Black.

They are going to do a lot of dumb stuff over the next few years. That's what you do when you're a teenaged boy. It's the result of a partly-developed frontal lobe, a growing body, and more freedom.

But the results of those dumb teenaged choices could be harrowingly different. 

J is more likely to be stopped for things like walking and driving than his friend H.

When he is, he is more likely to be subjected to unconstitutional searches.

If, during these searches, he resists, he is more likely to have force used against him.

J is more likely to be arrested, and if he is, to be convicted, and sentenced more harshly.

The list goes on.

And it can all start with just ... walking down the street.

Memphis, 1968

I've seen a lot of articles like "10 (or 12 or 8) things White people can do about Ferguson." I don't have any good advice. But what I know we have to stop doing? We have to stop acting as if there is ANY justification for killing a young unarmed Black or Brown boy in the street. 

Not his clothes.

Not his past crimes.

Not Facebook photos of that boy doing dumb, teenaged stuff.

Not holding something in his hand, be it a cell phone or Skittles.

Not talking back to authority figures.

When we try to argue about whether that boy was a good boy, or a troublemaker, or a scholar, or a criminal, what we are really saying is this: Black lives only matter to us if they conform to some standard that we White folks have set up.

A boy is dead. Not just one boy... but many.Many more are in prison.

Let's mourn that, and that turn our eyes to the justice that is the only thing that will bring peace.

I'm sorry... was I standing in the way of your privilege?

The other day I was at Spec's, which is this giant liquor store we have in Texas. It's more than just a liquor store - it's your one-stop-shop for entertaining. Do you need (for some reason) Kahlua, a single-malt scotch of the finest quality, a prickly pear, a frozen pizza, and a roasted duck? And you want to pay discount prices? Then Spec's is the place. (Seriously. It's a miracle.)

As you can imagine, such a fantastical magic land is usually packed, particularly on the weekends. On this Friday afternoon in question, several folks, including myself, were patiently waiting at the check out. It's one of those places where they have one line that feeds into all of the check out stands. As we were waiting, a man walked up to one of the customer service employees (they have lots of knowledgeable folks to assist you in picking out whatever you need; they are real experts. Did I mention that this place is amazing?).

The man had a bottle of champagne in his hand.

"Is there a way I can just pay for this one bottle?" he asked.

Meaning, without standing in line like all of these people.

This stuck out to me because not too long ago read an article about such a situation at the post office, discussing how in these situations White men are acting on their White male privilege without even thinking about it. In that article, though, the man who tried to cut to the front of the line at the post office was denied and sent to his rightful place in line.

At the liquor store, however, the employee tried to put off the man for a moment, but the man continued to press, and so he was ushered to another check out that had just opened, passing by the women and people of color who had been waiting in line (there were no other White men in line). None of us said anything.

In a nutshell, this is White male privilege at work.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, you might be thinking. You are reading way too much into this situation. After all, the guy was probably busy. Maybe he was late for something.

Sure, of course. Maybe we were all busy and late for something, but we waited in line.

Let's play out the situation if it was a little different. What if I, a White woman, had been the one asking. After all, I only had five things in my basket, and several people in front of me were buying cases of liquor.

First off, women are socialized not to ask for favors that inconvenience others - so it's pretty unlikely that I would do so. In fact, if there was some urgent, urgent reason I couldn't wait (I don't know, like an alien invasion?) I think it's more likely that I would actually leave the store without buying something than actually believe I should go to the front of the line. 

But I do know what happened one time recently when I was the airport, in the security line, and I heard the announcement that my flight was boarding. I was nearly at the front of the line, and I asked the woman in front of me if I could bypass her, as my flight was boarding. I received a hate-filled look from another woman. She did let me go ahead in line (after all, women are also socialized to say yes, even when it inconveniences us), but when it turned out we were on the same flight, she gave me the bitch, you are out of line look - the one that women use to regulate other women who aren't following norms. To this day, I still feel sort of guilty that I even asked for this favor.

That's your problem, you might be thinking.

Of course, I can't know what it feels like to be a person of color, and so I don't want to speak to as if I could. But I will say, I think most of us know that if the man at the liquor store had been Black, it's a lot less likely that he would have gotten his own lane opened for him. That doesn't mean that Black men don't have male privilege, but intersectionality makes it complicated.

It seems like when it comes to privilege, a lot of the "advice" out there is for those who don't have privilege to be more like the dominant culture. For women, it's about how they can be more like dudes. Men are successful because they're confident, says The Atlantic.  Women can learn to take more risks and be more confident. "Lean in" and ask for more, says Sheryl Sandberg. And when it comes to White privilege, many seem to believe that the answer is in teaching children of color in "successful schools" to be facsimiles of some weird version of WASP life, wearing polo shirts with khakis and sitting up perfectly straight with their hands folded and unmoving.

Well, what if the answer isn't leaning in? What if we need to look in the mirror, and when our privilege is hurting others, try to lean out a little bit? Not just teaching girls to take risks but also teaching boys to be more nurturing and considerate of others? Teaching White children about their privilege and at the same time affirming the value of cultures other than European, making schools places where success doesn't mean "White and male."

 To do that, we need to change the big systems of society of course. My whole career is dedicated to that. But I also believe that when it comes to ending oppression we have to sweat the small stuff, the moments in line at the store, the tiny words we use that put people down, the eye rolls that tell others they aren't doing life right. We're definitely going to get it wrong a lot of the time, miss opportunities, make mistakes. I do it all the time when it comes to my own privilege. But when we're not even willing to consider that our small actions actually do have weight to those with whom we have to stand in those lines, then all the governmental change or policy papers in the world won't make a difference.

I'll have that with pepperoni, mushrooms, and bigotry

Last week I had a small group of new teachers over to my house for a "community dinner." I work with (mostly) young adults who are going to be teaching in schools in neighborhoods that are predominantly low-income, with populations that are majority African-American and Hispanic. Few of the teachers I work with actually live in the communities where we teach, and so the theme of the dinner was to get to know the community a bit. We also have parent and family dinners where they meet the kids we work with - this is just the very beginning of their training experience.

The teachers were coming over in about 30 minutes, so I called the local pizza place for delivery. 

"You're not in our delivery area," said the (none too polite) woman on the other end of the phone.

"I'm looking at your online map right now. I am in the delivery area."

"No. You're not in our delivery area."

"But I'm three minutes away."

"You're not in the delivery area."

This went on for a few minutes and then I hung up because now the teachers were on their way and we needed food. There were no other pizza places that delivered nearby, so I had to call a national chain that I am not particularly fond of.

The whole time, a knot was beginning to develop in the pit of my stomach.  The longer I thought about it, the more I realized that it wasn't some kind of technical glitch that had led to my house being "outside the delivery area" that I was clearly in. It was redlining, pure and simple.

As a White, middle class person, part of my privilege is that I don't even need to know that there is a word like "redlining." It means, businesses draw a "red line" through neighborhoods where they will refuse to do business, because these neighborhoods are deemed to be unsafe or unprofitable. The decision of which neighborhoods won't be served is based upon the income and race of the people who live in that neighborhood. In the case of my neighborhood, the population is primarily low income, majority Hispanic.

When I emailed the pizza place, they told me that they don't deliver to my neighborhood because of "two incidents" that happened when they first opened. The safety of the drivers comes first, they said. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Discrimination isn't an inconvenience, I said.

This case was particularly egregious, in my mind, because of the characteristics of the neighborhood. Create a mental picture, if you will: I live on a long, two block stretch of road between a major thoroughfare and a sub-division. The sub-division isn't technically gated, but there's a big entrance sign and a very clear dividing line between the "nice" side of the tracks (figuratively speaking... there are no actual tracks, but there is a street) and the "wrong side of the tracks."  The school where our teachers work is right on the dividing line. Kids on the "wrong" (i.e. my) side of the street mostly attend that school. Kids in the sub-division mostly attend private and magnet schools outside the neighborhood.

I did a little research - called driving to the end of my street -- and got the addresses of the two houses that stand across the street from each other - one inside the sub-division and one outside. I put them into the pizza place's online ordering system. The result? You guessed it. The one inside the sub-division has delivery available. The one outside - not so much.

If safety was really the concern, then both houses should be on the undeliverable list. They are literally across the street from each other. There is nothing that makes one "safer" than the other -- except one house probably costs 150,000 more than the other.

This incident has made me think a lot about my privilege as a White person and what my role is as a resident of this neighborhood. You see, the fact that I'm shocked an incensed by this is part of my privilege. I haven't had to deal with this day in and day out my entire life. And I can't hide from the fact that this discrimination is racial, and not just about class (although it is about class too). I have lived in working class, predominantly-White neighborhoods throughout most of my adult life. Many people have wondered if the places I've chosen to live are safe. But I never dealt with this until I moved to a neighborhood where the majority of the residents are people of color. 

At my work, we talk a lot about what it means to be passively racist vs. actively anti-racist. As a White person, I can't escape the fact that I benefit from a system of privilege that oppresses my fellow humans based on the color of their skin. So I figured in this situation I had three choices:

1) Most passively racist: Shrug.

2) Also passively racist: Email the owner of the pizza place and express dissatisfaction but couch it solely in terms of class, never mentioning the word "race" because it is too loaded.

3) Anti-racist: Email the owner of the pizza place and frankly question his business choices as racist and classist.

I chose the third one, and am still waiting to hear back after our latest back-and-forth. I don't kid myself that this is enough.  I think that there may be more to be done here if our person-to-person interaction doesn't result in anything, like complaining through the Better Business Bureau. Obviously, I need to do more research to figure this out. 

Because of my work, I think of racism often in systemic terms. This is necessary because of the kind of change we are working to create - we deal at a systems level.  However, the most upsetting thing about this for me has been the idea that someone could drive down my street and look at the families and kids, the pets and the garden gnomes and the bicycles, and think - "these people are criminals. I'm not safe here." And then cross the street, and say "Whew, glad I made it into the safe zone." As many times as I experience this kind of thinking, it never loses its sting.