During the question-and-answer period that followed, a White woman stood up and explained that she was considering adopting a Latinx child but lived in a small rural community that was entirely White. She was impressed by the mother’s efforts to create a Latinx network for her child but expressed doubts that she herself could do so. She said she would feel too uncomfortable placing herself in a situation where she would be one of few Whites. She didn’t think she could do it.
I thought this was an amazing statement. How could this White adult seriously consider placing a small child in a situation where the child would be in the minority all the time, while the idea of spending a few hours as a “minority” was too daunting for her? Had I been the social worker doing the home study in that case, I would not have recommended an interracial placement. The prospective mother was apparently not ready to risk the discomfort required to help a child of color negotiate a racist environment. The kind of reluctance to engage in diverse communities that that prospective parent expressed back then is still being articulated today.
Transracial adoptee Chad Goller-Sojourner is a playwright and solo performer who writes and speaks about his identity development journey. “In college he began what he calls a ‘descent into blackness and out of whiteness.’ He describes it as a journey, giving up the privileges he claimed as a child of white parents and learning to accept his identity independent of them. He added Sojourner to his name.”70
Adopted in 1972, he gives his parents credit for doing the best they could to prepare him for his life as a Black man. They were among the first in his community to adopt transracially; in that sense they were pioneers. He says today’s adoptive parents can and should do better. “I don’t have a checklist,” he says, “but if I did, it would sound something like this: if you don’t have any close friends or people who look like your kid before you adopt a kid, then why are you adopting that kid? Your child should not be your first black friend.”71
The successful adoption of children of color by White parents requires those parents to be willing to experience the close encounters with racism that their children—and they as parents—will have, and to be prepared to talk to their children about them. Ultimately they need to examine their own identities as White people, going beyond the idea of raising a child of color in a White family to a new understanding of themselves and their children as members of a multiracial family.
The creation of well-adjusted multiracial families, whether through adoption or through the union of parents of different racial backgrounds, is clearly possible, but it’s not automatic. Considerable examination of one’s own racial identity is required. Adults willing to do the personal work required to confront racism and stretch their own cultural boundaries increase the possibility that they will have the reward of watching their children emerge into adulthood with a positive sense of their identities intact.
PART V
Breaking the Silence
TEN
Embracing a Cross-Racial Dialogue
“We were struggling for the words.”
SOME PEOPLE SAY THERE IS TOO MUCH TALK ABOUT RACE AND RACISM in the United States. I say that there is not enough. The twenty-year history I recounted in the prologue and the many examples throughout the preceding chapters highlight the pervasiveness of our problem. We need to continually break the silence about racism whenever we can.1 We need to talk about it at home, at school, in our houses of worship, in our workplaces, in our community groups. But talk does not mean idle chatter. It means meaningful, productive dialogue to raise consciousness and lead to effective action and social change. But how do we start? This is the question my students and workshop participants ask me. “How do I engage in meaningful dialogue about racial issues? How do I get past my fear? How do I get past my anger? Am I willing to take the risk of speaking up? Can I trust that there will be others to listen and support me? Will it even make a difference? Is it worth the effort?”
The Paralysis of Fear
Fear is a powerful emotion, one that immobilizes, traps words in our throats, and stills our tongues. Like a deer on the highway, frozen in the panic induced by the lights of an oncoming car, when we are afraid it seems that we cannot think, we cannot speak, we cannot move.
What do we fear? Isolation from friends and family, ostracism for speaking of things that generate discomfort, rejection by those who may be offended by what we have to say, the loss of privilege or status for speaking in support of those who have been marginalized by society, physical harm caused by the irrational wrath of those who disagree with your stance? My students readily admitted their fears in their journals and essays. Some White students were afraid of their own ignorance, afraid that because of their limited experience with people of color they might ask a naive question or make an offensive remark that could provoke the anger of the people of color around them.
“Yes, there is fear,” one White woman wrote, “the fear of speaking is overwhelming. I do not feel, for me, that it is fear of rejection from people of my race, but anger and disdain from people of color. The ones who I am fighting for.” In my response to this woman’s comment, I explained that she needs to fight for herself, not for people of color. After all, she has been damaged by the cycle of racism, too, though perhaps this is less obvious. If she speaks because she needs to speak, perhaps then it would be less important whether the people of color are appreciative of her comments. She seemed to understand my comment, but the fear remained.
Another student, a White woman in her late thirties, wrote about her fears when trying to speak honestly about her understanding of racism.
Fear requires us to be honest with not only others, but with ourselves. Often this much honesty is difficult for many of us, for it would permit our insecurities and ignorance to surface, thus opening the floodgate to our vulnerabilities. This position is difficult for most of us when [we are] in the company of entrusted friends and family. I can imagine fear heightening when [we are] in the company of those we hardly know. Hence, rather than publicly admit our weaknesses, we remain silent.
These students are not alone in their fear-induced silence. Christine Sleeter, a White woman who has written extensively about multicultural education and antiracist teaching, writes in her classic 1994 autobiographical essay:
I first noticed White silence about racism about 15 years ago, although I was not able to name it as such. I recall realizing after having shared many meals with African American friends while teaching in Seattle, that racism and race-related issues were fairly common topics of dinner-table conversation, which African Americans talked about quite openly. It struck me that I could not think of a single instance in which racism had been a topic of dinner-table conversation in White contexts. Race-related issues sometimes came up, but not racism.2
Instead, Sleeter argues, White people often speak in a kind of racial code, using communication patterns with each other that encourage a kind of White racial bonding. These communication patterns include race-related asides in conversations, strategic eye contact, jokes, and other comments that assert an “us-them” boundary. Sleeter observes, “These kinds of interactions seem to serve the purpose of defining racial lines, and inviting individuals to either declare their solidarity or mark themselves as deviant. Depending on the degree of deviance, one runs the risk of losing the other individual’s approval, friendship and company.”3
The fear of the isolation that comes from this kind of deviance is a powerful silencer. My students, young and old, often talked about this kind of fear, experienced not only with friends but with colleagues or employers in work settings. For instance, Lynn struggled when her employer casually used racial slurs in conversation with her. It was especially troubling to Lynn because her employer’s young children were listening to their conversation. Though she was disturbed by the interaction, Lynn was afraid and then embarrassed by her own silence: “I was completely silent following her comment. I knew that I should say something, to point out t
hat she was being completely inappropriate (especially in front of her children) and that she had really offended me. But I just sat there with a stupid forced half-smile on my face.”
How could she respond to this, she asked? What would it cost her to speak? Would it mean momentary discomfort or could it really mean losing her job? And what did her silence cost her on a personal level?
Because of the White culture of silence about racism, my White students often had little experience engaging in dialogue about racial issues. They had not had much practice at overcoming their inhibitions to speak. They noticed that the students of color spoke about racism more frequently, and they assumed they did so more easily. One White woman observed,
In our class discussion when White students were speaking, we sounded so naive and so “young” about what we were discussing. It was almost like we were struggling for the words to explain ourselves and were even speaking much slower than the students of color. The students of color, on the other hand, were extremely well aware of what to say and of what they wanted to express. It dawned on me that these students had dealt with this long before I ever thought about racism. Since last fall, racism has been a totally new concept to me, almost like I was hearing about it for the first time. For these students, however, the feelings, attitudes and terminology came so easily.
This woman was correct in her observation that most of the people of color in that classroom were more fluent in the discourse of racism and more aware of its personal impact on their lives than perhaps she was. But she was wrong that their participation was easy. They were also afraid.
I am reminded of an article I read when my own children were in school. It was written by Kirsten Mullen, a Black parent who needed to speak to her child’s White teachers about issues of racial insensitivity at his school. She wrote, “I was terrified the first time I brought up the subject of race at my son’s school. My palms were clammy, my heart was racing, and I could not have done it without rehearsing in the bathroom mirror.”4 She was afraid, but who would advocate for her son if she didn’t? She could not afford the cost of silence.
An Asian American woman in my class also wrote about the difficulty of speaking:
The process of talking about this issue is not easy. We people of color can’t always make it easier for White people to talk about race relations because sometimes they need to break away from that familiar and safe ground of being neutral or silent.… I understand that [some are] trying but sometimes they need to take bigger steps and more risks. As an Asian in America, I am always taking risks when I share my experiences of racism; however, the dominant culture expects it of me. They think I like talking about how my parents are laughed at at work or how my older sister is forced to take [cancer-causing] birth control pills because she is on welfare. Even though I am embarrassed and sometimes get too emotional about these issues, I talk about them because I want to be honest about how I feel.
She had fears, but who would tell her story if she didn’t? For many people of color, learning to break the silence is a survival issue. To remain silent would be to disconnect from her own experience, to swallow and internalize her own oppression. The cost of silence is too high.
Sometimes we fear our own anger and frustration, the chance of losing control or perhaps collapsing into despair should our words, yet again, fall on deaf ears. A Black woman wrote:
One thing that I struggle with as an individual when it comes to discussions about race is the fact that I tend to give up. When I start to think, “He or she will never understand me. What is the point?” I have practically defeated myself. No human can ever fully understand the experiences and feelings of another, and I must remind myself that progress, although often slow and painful, can be made.
A very powerful example of racial dialogue between a multiracial group of men can be seen in the award-winning video The Color of Fear.5 One of the most memorable moments in the film is when Victor, an African American man, begins to shout angrily at David, a White man, who continually invalidates what Victor has said about his experiences with racism. After viewing the video in my class, several students of color wrote about how much they identified with Victor’s anger and how relieved they were to see that it could be expressed without disastrous consequences. An Asian American woman wrote:
I don’t know if I’ll ever see a more powerful, moving, on-the-money movie in my life!… Victor really said it all. He verbalized all I’ve ever felt or will feel so eloquently and so convincingly. When he first started speaking, he was so calm and I did not expect anything remotely close to what he exhibited. When he started shouting, my initial reaction was of discomfort. Part of that discomfort stemmed from watching him just going nuts on David. But there was something else that was embedded inside of me. I kept thinking throughout the whole movie and I finally figured it out at the end. Victor’s rage and anger was mine as well. Those emotions that I had hoped to keep inside forever and ever because I didn’t know if I was justified in feeling that way. I had no words or evidence, solid evidence, to prove to myself or others that I had an absolute RIGHT to scream and yell and be angry for so many things.
The anger and frustration of people of color, even when received in smaller doses, is hard for some White people to tolerate. One White woman needed to vent her own frustrations before she could listen to the frustration and anger of people of color. She wrote:
Often I feel that because I am White, my feelings are disregarded or looked down upon in racial dialogues. I feel that my efforts are unappreciated.… I also realize that it is these feelings which make me want to withdraw from the fight against racism altogether.… [However,] I acknowledge the need for White students to listen to minority students when they express anger against the system which has failed them without taking this communication as a personal attack.
Indeed, this is what one young woman of color hoped for: “When I’m participating in a cross-racial dialogue, I prefer that the people I’m interacting with understand why I react the way that I do. When I say that I want understanding, it does not mean that I’m looking for sympathy. I merely want people to know why I’m angry and not to be offended by it.”
In order for there to be meaningful dialogue, fear, whether of anger or isolation, must eventually give way to risk and trust. A leap of faith must be made. It is not easy, and it requires being willing to push past one’s fear. Wrote one student, “At times it feels too risky… but I think if people remain equally committed, it can get easier. It’s a very stressful process, but I think the consequences of not exploring racial issues are ultimately far more damaging.”
The Psychological Cost of Silence
As a society, we pay a price for our silence. Unchallenged personal, cultural, and institutional racism results in the loss of human potential, lowered productivity, and a rising tide of fear and violence in our society. Individually, racism stifles our own growth and development. It clouds our vision and distorts our perceptions. It alienates us not only from others but also from ourselves and our own experiences.
Jean Baker Miller’s paper “Connections, Disconnections and Violations” offers a helpful framework for seeing how this self-alienation takes place.6 As Miller describes, when we have meaningful experiences, we usually seek to share those experiences with someone else. In doing so, we hope to be heard and understood, to feel validated by the other. When we do not feel heard, we feel invalidated, and a relational disconnection has taken place. We may try again, persisting in our efforts to be heard, or we may choose to disconnect from that person. If there are others available who will listen and affirm us, disconnection from those who won’t may be the best alternative. But if disconnection means what Miller calls “condemned isolation,” then we will do whatever we have to in order to remain in connection with others. That may mean denying our own experiences of racism, selectively screening things out of our consciousness so that we can continue our relationships with reduced discomfort. As a person of color,
to remain silent and deny my own experience with racism may be an important coping strategy in some contexts, but it may also lead to the self-blame and self-doubt of internalized oppression.7
The consequences are different but also damaging for Whites. As we have seen, many Whites have been encouraged by their culture of silence to disconnect from their racial experiences. When White children make racial observations, they are often silenced by their parents, who feel uncomfortable and unsure of how to respond. With time, the observed contradictions between parental attitudes and behaviors or between societal messages about meritocracy and visible inequities become difficult to process in a culture of silence. In order to prevent chronic discomfort, Whites may learn not to notice.
But in not noticing, one loses opportunities for greater insight into oneself and one’s experience. A significant dimension of who one is in the world, one’s Whiteness, remains uninvestigated and perceptions of daily experience are routinely distorted. Privilege goes unnoticed, and all but the most blatant acts of racial bigotry are ignored. Not noticing requires energy. Exactly how much energy is used up in this way becomes apparent with the opportunity to explore those silenced perceptions. It is as though a blockage has been removed and energy is released.
Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? Page 37
