Reading Ashley Smiley's story this morning on my Facebook news feed, I couldn't help but reflect on my own experiences. As a white, cis-gendered woman, I struggle with how to support Black folks in times like these. My presence, my body, often creates barriers through which meaningful dialogue isn't always possible. But I remain committed to this struggle, so here's one of my own stories to continue this important discussion and invite reflection and insight.
Last year, my friend Jessica, a Black woman from Oakland, became very upset at a conference of community members in W. Oakland organizing against gentrification. Former Oakland Mayor Jean Quan had the audacity to show up, even though predatory lending and foreclosure auctions flourished under her watch. The thing was, the conference was crowded. There was not room for everyone to join the morning session, but the waves parted for the Former Mayor to join the conversation, when they didn't for those like Jessica, who were struggling with displacement in that actual moment.
We stood outside while Jessica screamed at the world, people driving by, people walking by, anyone and anything that moved outside that conference. I checked myself that I wasn't going to be the one to try and silence her emotional display. It was real, it was deep, and as a friend, I needed to let her release a lot of what she was feeling.
As one after another, mostly Black women, tried to calm her down, I tried to reason with them that she needed to release. That we shouldn't calm her, that we shouldn't be scared of her emotions, that she needed support and understanding. The police had driven by several times after we were out there, and I knew them stopping would escalate the situation more than stop it. PTSD for folks who have dealt with police before, is a real thing. Do I let her scream and yell with the threat of them stopping? Do I try and silence the emotions that she can't contain any longer? What the hell do I do? How can I remain conscious of my privilege, my body, in this moment?
It was interesting to watch the faces of the men and women I engaged with, hearing a white woman say that we were going to stand back, listen, and let Jessica release because she had every right to be upset. They agreed on such a deep level, while at the same time were worried about how the perception of a 'crazy Black lady yelling and screaming outside the community center' might keep people from coming in; I imagine they may have also had to stifle their own intense emotions to avoid being labeled the 'angry Black person' at some point in their own lives. Some continued to try to get Jessica to be quiet, while others began to build bridges by listening to what she was saying and then seeking points of connection.
We were not kept from attending the other sessions. In fact, many of the people outside talking and listening to Jessica were encouraging her to get in and share her emotions and situation to the people in the space. This community found a way to allow for a public emotional outburst, that made everyone uncomfortable - even me, at times - and tried to turn it into something productive.
At lunch, we were eating with our children and friends. Again, the Mayor passes by, triggering Jessica. Jessica stood in the road (which was blocked off for the lunch festivities) unleashing a barrage of criticism at Quan for being at the conference when Quan wasn't willing to do the work to help keep Black people in Oakland when she had the POWER to do something...For Quan cheering on the encampment in downtown Oakland during the Occupy movement, then sending the police and the Department of Homeland Security to assault and evict us with tear gas.
After a few moments, the shocked bystanders and people sitting outside eating, were really listening to what Jessica was yelling and many of them found themselves agreeing. People began applauding and saying "yea!" after Jessica's points. Quan left the area. And Jessica received a round of applause for calling out the Former Mayor, for telling it from her heart, for speaking truth to power.
I took a risk, by trying to keep everyone from shutting down Jessica's outbursts that morning. It was awkward as heck, approaching the Black women who were coordinating the conference to engage them on how we could allow for my friend's emotions to be okay in that space. I learned a lot about my own privilege and was reminded how we toe the line of offense and disrespect so often. This experience reaffirmed my belief that compassionate communication and a commitment to mindful listening have power that is intimidating, awkward, and potentially, totally transformative.
That day could have definitely ended differently. It could have ended with my friend arrested, her child taken away, or even her being injured or killed. We have to be willing to listen and support without penalizing or criminalizing the very real emotional experiences of Black people in America. James Baldwin said, "to be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage all the time." In most de-escalation training, the first steps are about being present as a listener. Holding back judgment, listening with eyes, ears, and hearts, and validating others' experiences are some good strategies.
Would love to hear others' strategies and stories of support. We MUST be present and supportive of one another, especially in times of crisis, in order to build this better way we so often talk about.
Saturday, September 24, 2016
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
The Power of Shuffling Songs on Tough Mornings
There be no shelter here
The front line is everywhere
There be no shelter here
The front line is everywhere...
Zach De La Rocha screams these words to me as I drive across Las Vegas, the most artificial city in America, and my new home of 3 months. The music is up LOUD. I'm sitting in traffic near the Strip, and I imagine that the people in cars around me are probably pissed off that they have to sit next to my car. I'm hard of hearing and it was borderline too loud for me. Electric guitar and pounding drums fill the air. The bass line is catchy and my fingers play the steering wheel, and for the first time today, I feel strong.
Almost happy.
Almost.
As a white woman in America, I should be able to get in my car and go about my errands, without too many worries. I'm not worried about being pulled over. Being followed around the stores I frequent. Having the police called to supervise my purchases. It's relatively boring most days, being a white lady driving a hybrid.
But, as a white woman committed to anti-racist life in America, part of my duty in these times, is to bear witness. To not look away. To not detach from the reality facing my Black friends. To be present. To listen. To understand. This means, not turning off the computer because it's breaking my heart, yet again, today. To keep trying to talk to my white friends and family about this crisis and to remind them that while they criticize folks' protest styles, there are dead bodies in the street. Now is not the time to sit and figure out the PERFECT way for Black people in America to express their discomfort at the system of apartheid we force on them. Now is the time for good people to say, "Enough!"
The story of Terence Crutcher has hit especially close to home. He was leaving a Music Appreciation class at a local community college when his car broke down. Before I watched a video or looked at his picture... I knew Terence...without actually knowing Terence. After ten years of teaching Communication in SF Bay Area community colleges, Terence would have fit right into my classroom. Big, middle-aged Black man, out to get the letters that might prove something to someone. He would have blown people away during his speeches. It happened every time. When Osa got up and performed Pulp Fiction, I was worried Campus Safety would crash through the door to "protect" us from one of the best oral interpretations most of us had ever seen. The man had skills! When Michael did his Informative on Michael Jackson (cause most of these young kids didn't know enough about him when pressed), he had another student queue up the music, so he could throw open the classroom door to the first few beats of Billie Jean and moonwalk into the room to start his speech. His singular glove sparkling as he hit every signature Michael Jackson dance move for a class full of 18 and 19 year olds, holding their phones to record this man being so outlandish for them.
I smile when I think of the stereotypes broken and stomped on in my classroom each term. The ways people from total different walks of life, could get up and give a speech to one another, letting each other in to see a different way of thinking, of being, of existing in the world. It was a privilege to teach community college Communication Studies for the last decade.
But one of the reasons I left, was because I have a high level of empathy. I know... I don't talk about this a lot. As a highly empathic person, I often shield myself. And people think you're a little weird when you tell them you can feel pain that others are having, or anxiety, or stress... so you just don't bring it up at parties. But whatever. It's relevant to the post, because even though I have the white privilege to ignore or look away from the steady stream of public lynchings, my body won't allow me.
I remember being a teenager and seeing what happened to Rodney King. I grew up in a mostly white community and I didn't know a lot of Black people then. I didn't understand police brutality wasn't new. It was just caught on video tape and made public for the first time. It felt new, and viscerally, I couldn't watch it. It physically hurt.
I remember years later, hearing the story of Amadou Diallo, and realizing that this wasn't just an LAPD thing. 41 shots. Can you even imagine what that kind of assault feels like on the body? For standing on your porch? For reaching for your ID?
Oscar Grant, who was shot on the Fruitvale BART station platform on New Year's Eve. My students knew him. One was his cousin.
My awakening has been deep, on a visceral level. I may not be a Black person in America, but I can feel the anxiety and pain of our neighbors grieving right now for people they don't actually know, yet somehow could be anyone they do know. I don't believe in essentializing cultures but I do believe in DNA memory. Cultural groups, especially those who experience severe social trauma - genocide, enslavement, colonization - carry the pain AND the resilience of their ancestors for generations. It's something I think most white people recognize with Black folks. There's an unspoken solidarity between Black folks...that they know they are in this together.
It's been a LONG time since I changed my profile picture on Facebook to a Black rectangle. I did this to demonstrate my own solidarity with #blacklivesmatter and to recognize the ongoing grief and lack of justice in Black communities.
For these are my friends and former students and friends of former students being shot in the streets by those who we entrust to protect us. And today, the pain of losing Terence, feels like the pain of losing one of my favorite students. I am feeling pain and grief on an overwhelming level and this essay has been percolating in me since this morning. I am feeling anger at watching another Black body lay on the ground dying, ignored. I am feeling the anxiety from friends who aren't sure if they want to leave the house today.
The waves of pain and grief come and go, like tides these days. It's hard to cope most days and I'm over here trying to keep it together for my friends whose bodies are treated as "threat" and "suspect" daily...When a friend is so depressed they don't leave the house for a few days because Korryn Gaines' story was too close to their own worst nightmare. It hurts. I can't make it better. It's my pain too. It's our pain. And just as how you may have earlier questioned my ability to feel this...I'll throw that question right back to my white friends and family who believe I inundate their FB feeds with "depressing" stuff - How can you not feel this?? How can you check out?!
But just as our ancestors felt the pain of lives taken too soon and terror at what lay outside, they also felt the hope and strength of those who gave them life. They pushed forward to make progress for us today. With sheer determination and a strong amount of anger and resentment, folks continued this march toward liberation and integration. And so shall we.
It is a worthy fight. It is not an easy fight. But it is so worth it. I've seen what a group of diverse people can do when they have the tools and space to communicate and build new communities. We are on a righteous path.
And we will not let things continue to be 'business as usual.' We will disrupt and inconvenience the status quo until something changes. We will stand tall to death threats and we will honor our dead by fighting back, by resisting those who would continue to inflict terror (and those who ignore those who inflict terror) on people within their own communities.
As Assata said, and as my brothers and sisters in #BLM continue to echo:
It is our duty to fight for our freedom.
It is our duty to win.
We must love each other and support each other.
We have nothing to lose but our chains.
As I passed the Strip and headed toward the more residential part of Las Vegas where I live, my music shuffled to the next song.
I see them coming after my soul
Wanting to take control...
But I, I'm not afraid, no....
And it occurred to me, another confirmation that sometimes life does provide the necessary soundtrack for the day you might be having. I cruised along singing with Etana, tears streaming down my face, thinking, "fuck you, Betty. Fuck you."
The front line is everywhere
There be no shelter here
The front line is everywhere...
Zach De La Rocha screams these words to me as I drive across Las Vegas, the most artificial city in America, and my new home of 3 months. The music is up LOUD. I'm sitting in traffic near the Strip, and I imagine that the people in cars around me are probably pissed off that they have to sit next to my car. I'm hard of hearing and it was borderline too loud for me. Electric guitar and pounding drums fill the air. The bass line is catchy and my fingers play the steering wheel, and for the first time today, I feel strong.
Almost happy.
Almost.
As a white woman in America, I should be able to get in my car and go about my errands, without too many worries. I'm not worried about being pulled over. Being followed around the stores I frequent. Having the police called to supervise my purchases. It's relatively boring most days, being a white lady driving a hybrid.
But, as a white woman committed to anti-racist life in America, part of my duty in these times, is to bear witness. To not look away. To not detach from the reality facing my Black friends. To be present. To listen. To understand. This means, not turning off the computer because it's breaking my heart, yet again, today. To keep trying to talk to my white friends and family about this crisis and to remind them that while they criticize folks' protest styles, there are dead bodies in the street. Now is not the time to sit and figure out the PERFECT way for Black people in America to express their discomfort at the system of apartheid we force on them. Now is the time for good people to say, "Enough!"
The story of Terence Crutcher has hit especially close to home. He was leaving a Music Appreciation class at a local community college when his car broke down. Before I watched a video or looked at his picture... I knew Terence...without actually knowing Terence. After ten years of teaching Communication in SF Bay Area community colleges, Terence would have fit right into my classroom. Big, middle-aged Black man, out to get the letters that might prove something to someone. He would have blown people away during his speeches. It happened every time. When Osa got up and performed Pulp Fiction, I was worried Campus Safety would crash through the door to "protect" us from one of the best oral interpretations most of us had ever seen. The man had skills! When Michael did his Informative on Michael Jackson (cause most of these young kids didn't know enough about him when pressed), he had another student queue up the music, so he could throw open the classroom door to the first few beats of Billie Jean and moonwalk into the room to start his speech. His singular glove sparkling as he hit every signature Michael Jackson dance move for a class full of 18 and 19 year olds, holding their phones to record this man being so outlandish for them.
I smile when I think of the stereotypes broken and stomped on in my classroom each term. The ways people from total different walks of life, could get up and give a speech to one another, letting each other in to see a different way of thinking, of being, of existing in the world. It was a privilege to teach community college Communication Studies for the last decade.
But one of the reasons I left, was because I have a high level of empathy. I know... I don't talk about this a lot. As a highly empathic person, I often shield myself. And people think you're a little weird when you tell them you can feel pain that others are having, or anxiety, or stress... so you just don't bring it up at parties. But whatever. It's relevant to the post, because even though I have the white privilege to ignore or look away from the steady stream of public lynchings, my body won't allow me.
I remember being a teenager and seeing what happened to Rodney King. I grew up in a mostly white community and I didn't know a lot of Black people then. I didn't understand police brutality wasn't new. It was just caught on video tape and made public for the first time. It felt new, and viscerally, I couldn't watch it. It physically hurt.
I remember years later, hearing the story of Amadou Diallo, and realizing that this wasn't just an LAPD thing. 41 shots. Can you even imagine what that kind of assault feels like on the body? For standing on your porch? For reaching for your ID?
Oscar Grant, who was shot on the Fruitvale BART station platform on New Year's Eve. My students knew him. One was his cousin.
My awakening has been deep, on a visceral level. I may not be a Black person in America, but I can feel the anxiety and pain of our neighbors grieving right now for people they don't actually know, yet somehow could be anyone they do know. I don't believe in essentializing cultures but I do believe in DNA memory. Cultural groups, especially those who experience severe social trauma - genocide, enslavement, colonization - carry the pain AND the resilience of their ancestors for generations. It's something I think most white people recognize with Black folks. There's an unspoken solidarity between Black folks...that they know they are in this together.
It's been a LONG time since I changed my profile picture on Facebook to a Black rectangle. I did this to demonstrate my own solidarity with #blacklivesmatter and to recognize the ongoing grief and lack of justice in Black communities.
For these are my friends and former students and friends of former students being shot in the streets by those who we entrust to protect us. And today, the pain of losing Terence, feels like the pain of losing one of my favorite students. I am feeling pain and grief on an overwhelming level and this essay has been percolating in me since this morning. I am feeling anger at watching another Black body lay on the ground dying, ignored. I am feeling the anxiety from friends who aren't sure if they want to leave the house today.
The waves of pain and grief come and go, like tides these days. It's hard to cope most days and I'm over here trying to keep it together for my friends whose bodies are treated as "threat" and "suspect" daily...When a friend is so depressed they don't leave the house for a few days because Korryn Gaines' story was too close to their own worst nightmare. It hurts. I can't make it better. It's my pain too. It's our pain. And just as how you may have earlier questioned my ability to feel this...I'll throw that question right back to my white friends and family who believe I inundate their FB feeds with "depressing" stuff - How can you not feel this?? How can you check out?!
But just as our ancestors felt the pain of lives taken too soon and terror at what lay outside, they also felt the hope and strength of those who gave them life. They pushed forward to make progress for us today. With sheer determination and a strong amount of anger and resentment, folks continued this march toward liberation and integration. And so shall we.
It is a worthy fight. It is not an easy fight. But it is so worth it. I've seen what a group of diverse people can do when they have the tools and space to communicate and build new communities. We are on a righteous path.
And we will not let things continue to be 'business as usual.' We will disrupt and inconvenience the status quo until something changes. We will stand tall to death threats and we will honor our dead by fighting back, by resisting those who would continue to inflict terror (and those who ignore those who inflict terror) on people within their own communities.
As Assata said, and as my brothers and sisters in #BLM continue to echo:
It is our duty to fight for our freedom.
It is our duty to win.
We must love each other and support each other.
We have nothing to lose but our chains.
As I passed the Strip and headed toward the more residential part of Las Vegas where I live, my music shuffled to the next song.
I see them coming after my soul
Wanting to take control...
But I, I'm not afraid, no....
And it occurred to me, another confirmation that sometimes life does provide the necessary soundtrack for the day you might be having. I cruised along singing with Etana, tears streaming down my face, thinking, "fuck you, Betty. Fuck you."
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