Consciousness and Conversation

Last class, we spent some much deserved time exploring questions surrounding where we should put our efforts in addressing racial injustices. Some argue that efforts should be placed primarily on changing others’ consciousness – others’ racist thoughts and feelings – while some say that it is only worthwhile to focus on oneself and one’s own consciousness. Others argued that appeals to change consciousness are futile. No matter what thoughts, ideas, and perceptions occupy people’s minds, there still exists a system of racism outside of individuals’ minds. Changing, and perhaps dismantling, that system is where our priorities lie. 

While I’d like to say that a combination of all of these is what’s necessary, this blog will focus on consciousness, it being what I think is a prerequisite for action against the system of racism and the institutions through which it acts.

Michelle Alexander prefaces her book by noting: “I have a specific audience in mind – people who care deeply about racial justice. It is my hope and prayer that this book empowers you and allows you so speak your truth with greater conviction, credibility, and courage”. This book is written, then, in order that we better understand the truth of racism and are able to relay it to others more effectively. There are two dimensions here. One, expanding our own consciousness, our own understanding of racism so that we may possess a stronger feeling of truth and conviction; and two, extending that understanding unto others.

Furthering one’s consciousness, Alexander would argue, is necessary to change the hearts and minds of others. The questions that ensue are:

• ·         How do we increase our understanding of racism?
• ·         How is this book doing that?

For one, applying methods of history, sociology, and philosophy to the study of race all contribute to a greater understanding of how racism works and why it occurs. I now know that there are cities where 80% of black men are under the control of the criminal justice system. I know that the presence of crack in black neighborhoods is very much due to economic troubles black communities have endured after industrial jobs moved abroad. I know that Reagan and Nixon are both assholes, and that their campaigns revolved around trying to get the largest amount of votes possible. I know that Bill Clinton is also an asshole. This new knowledge, the statistics and the understanding of history, strengthens my ability to “speak my truth with greater conviction, credibility, and courage” and it strengthens my desire to do so.

Stories, art, personal experiences, and many other things also contribute to our understanding of racism. What they all have in common is that in strengthening our awareness of the workings of racism, we are able to have a greater impact on those around us. And although it might not be the best form of activism, conversation – with friends and family and others – is one form of activism, and it is one that if done with conviction and truth, can change minds and foster the care and empathy necessary for change. 

An Invented People

In this chapter, Taylor introduces the idea that a “racial fantasyland” has been created which determines our perceptions of people based on their race. He notes that this racial fantasyland has been “officially sanctioned” and that just because it is officially sanctioned – meaning that it is the widely accepted way of seeing people who embody a particular race – does not mean that it is real; in fact, it is very far from “actual reality” and it has forced us into very problematic ways of thinking about people such as “inventing” people. This blog post will be an exploration of the implications of the racial fantasyland, of what it causes us to do, of what it means to “invent” people, and the implications of being able to create such an, in the words of Charles Mills, “invented delusional world”.

Before even thinking about how this racial fantasyland forces us into inventing people, it is important to note the fact that we can invent people. The fact that such distorted realities can be created, invented, is rather frightening, to say the least. This possibility to fall under such, for lack of a better word, lies, should serve as a reminder that our thoughts and perceptions, along with the stories through which we see the world, must be constantly subjected to analysis and skepticism. It should also serve as a reminder that we are often the embodiment of such thoughts and perceptions and stories because they are often being perpetuated and normalized (the fact that they are normalized is probably the scariest part of it all because often what is normal is seen as true and any attempt to stray from normal is incredibly difficult). So, with those two reminders – which can be summed up as the awareness that we are a part of the racial fantasyland – we can begin to explore how this racial fantasyland clouds people, living breathing people, behind an invention we create of them.

So how does this racial fantasyland play out? In simplest terms, it forces us to see certain things when we see people from a certain race. Because the racial fantasyland has invented blacks as being “essentially bound up with  their bodies” there has been incredible focus on Michelle Obama’s muscle and size. Because Latino immigrants have been invented as thieves, we don’t allow them into “our” country (our is in quotations because the reasons for it being our country are arbitrary and embedded in this racial fantasyland). It is clear in these cases that our invention of the identities people has enormous influence on how we treat them. If they were seen as they are, not as their invented selves, perhaps Latino immigration would be addressed in a different matter, and perhaps Michelle Obama, the person, won’t be reduced to her physical appearance.

It is clear, then, that these practices are indeed frightening. Our inventions of people greatly affect how we treat them and interact with them. The ease with which these inventions are created and spread is also grounds for much concern. It reveals the strength of such social pressures and ideologies in determining how we see people (and therefore how we treat them). Awareness of the racial fantasyland and the forces behind its creation and perpetuation lead us to a set of new questions. How can we escape it? And where are we escaping to?

Although it is question of which I have not arrived at the answer (and I’m not so sure anyone can arrive at the answer), it is a crucial question to ask and to explore. Charles Mills points out that the racial fantasyland, the “officially sanctioned reality”, is divergent from “actual reality”. Of course, the question that ensues is “what is the actual reality through which we should see people?” I suppose the actual reality is not a particular way of seeing people within a racial group, of seeing blacks as criminals, nor as seeing them as angels. Switching the perception of blacks from a negative one to a positive one still clouds them; it is still an invention of them. I suppose then that seeing the actual reality consists of not inventing people’s identity but to see them as people.

The Goal?

This post will be a response, or rather a exploration, of Taylor's last question in the chapter. He asks, "should we abolish races"? In other words, "even if races are social constructs, might they not be problematic constructs? And shouldn't we strive for the eliminativist's ultimate aim?" (118)

Before thinking about these questions, I think it is important to note that Taylor makes an argument about the usefulness of race-thinking that is, simply, right. Race-thinking allows us to see how people are treated based on their race and more importantly, how systems of power operate racially. Essentially, what race-thinking allows us to do is to take a certain social phenomenon, let's say poverty, and see it as racialized. So instead of thinking, "Shit, there are a lot of people under the poverty line", with race-thinking we can think, "Shit, 20% of Latinos, African Americans, and Native Americans under the poverty line". In fact, this example illustrates that not thinking in terms of race is, in fact, dangerous. It might cause us to become blind to the role race plays in determining one's socioeconomic status (or other things like relationship capital).

So, now that we have established that race-thinking is useful and necessary because we live in a racialized society, we are left with what to do about a post-racialized society. In other words, are we using race-thinking in order to move past a racialized society? It's usefulness is directly related to the fact that systems of power exist that affect different races hierarchically. So what if these systems of power ceased to exist? What would be the usefulness of race-thinking? Would it still be necessary or useful? More importantly, would it be ethical or desirable? And in the midst of thinking about these questions, we are also left with the seemingly unanswerable question. Is it even possible?

So, in thinking about Taylor's question, it is obvious that I have simply aroused more questions. Although it seems like I have accomplished nothing, being that from one question I've given birth to many more, these questions have led me to a new, you guessed it, question (a more important one). Because, at first glance, it may seem that these questions are unimportant. I mean, why focus on the future? Isn't the fact that race-thinking currently helps us tackle racial inequality enough? Who cares about what the "ideal" is, as long as we know this is helping us right now? (Taylor's writing seems to be rubbing off on me. I'm asking myself questions and answering them)

But I do think these questions are important. And I do think that looking into the future is important (not that it should be our main focus). But in looking into the future, we are essentially asking ourselves, "what do we want? What is our goal?" And although this goal doesn't have to be concrete, in the sense that it cannot change or be flexible, having some kind of goal gives us direction. And it gives us the sense that we are moving somewhere. Without it (and by it I mean a rough sense of what the goal is), we might lose direction and we might not now what we want or what we're fighting for.

Love Letter to Myself

This post is a reaction to the article, Love Letter to White People by Joe Osmundson (the one that Codey sent us last week). These articles were difficult to read and even more difficult, were the implications and realizations I was left with.

I've always been sure about not being a racist. I grew up in a racist family and went to racist schools. Early on in high school, I began to question the things my family would say about black people, that they're lazy, poor, violent, and rather do drugs than go to school and work hard. It was easy for me to question and it made perfect intuitive sense to me that all of it was, to put it frankly, bullshit. My stance as a "non-racist" grew even stronger last year (my first year of college) because I started delving more deeply to systemic forms of racism (mass incarceration, gentrification, etc.). I started reading more about white privilege, about decarcerate movements, and thinking about what I could do. Determined to do the little I could to address racial inequality, I was more sure than ever. I was not a racist.

While reading Osmundson's article, he seemed to be shouting a single message. "Be honest with yourself! Love yourself so much that you can come to terms with yourself!" Seriously, I felt as if every paragraph had this as its central theme. But what did I have to be honest about? Yeah, sure, I'm a white man with white privilege (and some could consider me racist for that) but I was aware of it and actively trying to fight against it. And it's not like I was racist on a personal level either, I didn't think black people are lazy or violent. So, again, what did I have to be honest about?

Towards the end of the article, Osmundson admits, "I don't think I have all the answers. I am still fucked up". This raised an ocean of questions, each wave pounding harder than the last. He's still fucked up? How? He has so much knowledge about race and how the education, housing, and prison systems affect people of color. Heck, he's writing this article. How can he still be fucked up? I was done being fucked up back in high school, wasn't I? And of course, the question that followed, the question that felt like a tsunami compared to the previous waves of questions was, "Am I still fucked up?"

My mind raced through my memories. I thought of my black friends growing up. I thought of how I thought of them. But, nothing. I could not see any specific possibly racist thoughts or judgements I had. Then, for some reason unknown to me, I thought about my recent trip up to Ursinus from Miami (and seriously, I have no idea why this thought popped into my head). I came up on the greyhound bus. At one of the stops, a man with a long beard and a look as if he hadn't showered in weeks boarded (I later found out he was homeless). The bus driver was being awfully rude to him and many passengers didn't let him sit next to them because he smelled bad. Noticing this, I invited him to sit next to me. Who was I to judge this man because of his appearance and smell? He sat down next to me and we immediately struck a conversation (mostly about how he's treated because he's homeless) and I was completely comfortable.

In thinking about this story, I forgot to mention something. The man was white. What if he was black, I thought? Would I still have invited him to sit next to me? Would I still have spoken to him the way I did? Would I have been as comfortable around him? 

It is striking, even gut-wrenching, how easy it was for me to answer those questions. The answer? A resounding no, a no that seemed that bounce around my head, as if a pinball were bouncing and hitting every corner in my head. And here, I begin my love letter.


Dear Me,

You still don't have all the answers. But I love you. And it is because I love you that I can tell you this: You're still fucked up.

Love,
Me