race

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(NOTE: check out a more recent version of this poem at the beginning of my TEDx Talk)

First of all, thanks once again to Button Poetry for the massive signal boost. The work that they’ve done over the past two years has been really important, in ways that I don’t think a lot of us are recognizing in the present.

As for this poem, I wrote it after #Ferguson, but it’s more broadly about how we respond to injustice, especially when we’re not directly affected by that injustice. How do white people respond to racial violence? How do men respond to sexual assault statistics? How to wealthy people respond to hunger and homelessness,? Etc.

To be clear, I think there is a continuum of responses– some of the stuff highlighted in this poem is negative, some of it is fine, some of it is positive, a lot of it is connected– but it’s all about highlighting what I think of as “the urgency gap,” how we’re so quick to treat other people’s life-and-death struggles as an intellectual or emotional exercise.

I’m guilty of this too. Part of the reason I wrote this poem is that it’s a reminder to myself that signal-boosting is good and necessary, talking about privilege is good and necessary, writing poems is good and necessary– but we can’t lose sight of the central importance of organizing, working collaboratively to act on these problems. All of those other responses and actions are necessary to support that organizing work, but the issue, as I see it, is that they’re not enough by themselves.

And far too often, they’re all we give.

Related: my post from last week “This is Not a Think  Piece: Turning Outrage into Action from Ferguson to the Twin Cities,” a collection of resources, interviews, links to organizations and more for anyone who wants to get involved in organizing against police brutality.

Related: my post from right after the Zimmerman verdict, about a lot of the same issues.

FULL TEXT:
QUICKSAND

Upon stumbling, by chance, upon a man, waist-deep in quicksand, I need a second to process. After all, this is fiction made flesh; it’s like a cartoon, like going to the zoo and seeing a mermaid. So my first response, naturally, is to tell him:

Hey, um, I’m pretty sure that I read somewhere that quicksand isn’t actually dangerous, that this idea of a patch of sandy water sucking a person down into oblivion is just a tall tale, a trope to build tension in early 1960s westerns. In real life, yeah, I mean, you can get caught in some mud, but it’s not really that hard to get out. So are you sure you’re sinking in quicksand?

He sinks. My words don’t seem to have any effect. So being an open-minded, progressive individual, I reevaluate. Maybe quicksand is real. So what now?

My second response upon stumbling, by chance, upon a man, chest deep in quicksand is, before I actually do anything, to make sure that I have the whole picture. I mean, what was this guy doing out here in the jungle all alone? Did he step into that quicksand on purpose? Was he asking for it? Does he have a criminal record? Maybe I should wait until all the facts come in.

He sinks. And again, being an open-minded, progressive individual, I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt, at least for now. I want to help.

So my third response upon stumbling, by chance, upon a man, neck deep in quicksand is, obviously, to recite a poem. To throw some positive energy his way. To describe, out loud, just how heavy my heart is. I take a piece of paper out of my backpack, and with a pen, I write “quicksand is bad and I am an ALLY to those who fall in it.” I pin that piece of paper to my chest. I take out my phone and I tweet “when are we going to wake up? #quicksand.”

He sinks. And being an open-minded, progressive individual, I decide that this isn’t enough, that we, as a society, need to address the root causes of people sinking in quicksand. So my fourth response upon stumbling, by chance, upon a man, forehead-deep in quicksand, is to take a moment to acknowledge my privilege as someone who is not sinking in quicksand. I vow to take a class, to be more mindful of how I navigate the world.

He sinks. And being an open-minded, progressive individual, I decide that the time for words has passed; now is the time for action. So my fifth response upon stumbling, by chance, upon a man, disappeared into quicksand, is… is…

We can’t allow ourselves to forget what happened here. I know that we need to do something, to put up a sign, to educate people, to build a bridge over this patch of quicksand. I just don’t have any wood. I just have this backpack full of paper and pens and rope; what can one person do?

I imagine my lungs filling with mud. Black earth. Brown water. The hike back to my hotel will be full of reflection. I offer my thoughts, and my prayers. It is the least I can do.

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12/6/14 UPDATE: This was originally posted on 8/27/14, but I want to continue to be able to use it as a resource to share with anyone who wants to get involved with activism around police brutality here in the Twin Cities. Scroll down for a list of links, resources, and organizations (like Black Lives Matter Minneapolis) and feel free to add more!

After officer Darren Wilson killed Michael Brown in Ferguson, MO on August 9, my twitter feed exploded with links, articles, calls to action, commentary and analysis. Right here in the Twin Cities, organizations that had been working on issues of police brutality sprang into action alongside new organizations and concerned individuals; events were planned and executed, and activists of all experience levels got to work answering the question “what now?”

While rallies, marches, social media campaigns and protests can be powerful, their power can only be fully realized when tied to long term organizing campaigns. How can we focus the heightened awareness around police brutality into concrete policy change (like, for example, police body cameras)? How can we plug people who have been radicalized (or at least further politicized) by #Ferguson in to the work that is being done? How can we turn this moment into a movement?

What follows is a collection of interviews, links and resources for anyone in our community who believes that change is needed. Racially-motivated police brutality is a national issue, but from Fong Lee to Terrance Franklin to Al Flowers and beyond, it is also very much a local one. The good news is that we can do something about it.

Upcoming Events:
As mentioned, events alone don’t magically create change. But rallies, marches, protests, benefits, vigils, etc. are rallying points, places for like-minded people to come together. On a more abstract level, they’re about drawing inspiration from collective strength, as well as spreading awareness and getting media attention; on a more concrete level, they’re about getting people connected—they’re entry points into organizing. Regardless of how you feel about the power of protests, these events are where you’re going to meet the people doing the work.

Thursday, August 28, 2014: Solidarity Rally for Mike Brown and All Victims of Police Brutality; organized by the Young People’s Freedom and Justice Party. 6pm at the Hennepin County Government Center in downtown Minneapolis (300 6th St. S.). There’s also a solidarity event in Duluth at the same time.

Thursday, August 28, 2014: “The Future’s Back” open mic and solidarity gathering; organized by Neighborhoods Organizing for Change (NOC), MPIRG and the Common Table, and featuring artists Keno Evol, Sol Rebel, Laurine Chang, The Lioness and Malick Ceesay. 8pm at the Common Table (2001 Riverside Ave.) in Minneapolis.

Thursday, September 4, 2014: Follow-up meeting to the National Moment of Silence #NMOS14 Twin Cities; this event will be a space to discuss “next steps for action, both locally and nationally,” while also making the connections between police brutality and the larger reality of the prison industrial complex, mass imprisonment, the school-to-prison pipeline and more. 5:30pm at the Minneapolis Urban League (2100 Plymouth Ave. N.).

Thursday, September 4, 2014: Unchain Our Children; a Community Affair; a workshop and community dialogue on the school-to-prison pipeline and St. Paul public schools organized by the NAACP St. Paul youth and collegiate branch. 6:30pm at the NAACP St. Paul youth headquarters (781 Selby Ave., St. Paul). Facebook event page link.

Saturday, September 6, 2014: Global Call to Action called by Feminista Jones, who organized the National Moment of Silence. Follow the hashtag on Twitter at #Sept6CTA. (UPDATE: at the rally tonight, they mentioned that the Young People’s Freedom and Justice party would be having a planning meeting to keep things moving on this date at the MPLS Urban League; “Community Forum: Reporting Back from Ferguson”).

While I always encourage people to attend events, I also want to encourage organizations to make sure they have concrete pathways to getting more people involved. The energy at a protest can be incredibly powerful; it’s the organizers’ responsibility to find a way to bottle it, to turn that outrage into action.

Some Context: An Interview with Michelle Gross, President, Communities United Against Police Brutality
One of the most effective ways an individual can create change is by joining an existing organization and bringing their strengths, passions and resources to the table. CUAPB is a local organization explicitly devoted to confronting and dismantling police brutality.

For those who may not know, what is CUAPB’s mission, and what kind of work are you doing right now?
Communities United Against Police Brutality was created in December 2000 to deal with police brutality on an ongoing basis. We work on the day-to-day abuses as well as taking on the more extreme cases. Our overriding goal is to create a climate of resistance to abuse of authority by police organizations and to empower local people with a structure that can take on police brutality and actually bring it to an end. We provide support and advocacy for survivors of police brutality and families of victims so they can reclaim their dignity and join the struggle to end police brutality. We engage in political actions and litigation to change the underlying conditions that lead to police brutality, misconduct and abuse of authority. We educate the community on their rights and on policing issues.

Our hotline continues to receive far more calls than Internal Affairs and the police complaint agency combined. We organize copwatch to document police conduct in the street and courtwatch to document judicial conduct and ensure people receive fair trials. Most recently, we’ve been working on a ballot measure that would require Minneapolis police to carry their own professional liability insurance. The city would pay the base rate for the coverage but officers would pay any additional premiums based on their complaint and claims history. Just as bad drivers pay higher premiums for their insurance, bad cops would pay more and some would eventually become uninsurable. Besides providing individual consequences for misconduct, this measure would save the taxpayers millions in judgments and settlements we now pay for bad policing.

There has been a lot of anger, a lot of grief, and a lot of pain over police brutality recently. What are some ways people might focus their outrage into action? Are there ways someone reading this could plug in to the work CUAPB is doing?
Anger, sadness and frustration are appropriate reactions to the horrific injustices that are happening—not just in Ferguson, but in every community. It’s important, though, that we harness those righteous feelings into effective actions that can actually bring change.

There are many things to be done and many ways to plug into the work. We hold “train the trainer” classes so people can learn how to teach their neighbors and friends about their rights and how to interact safely with police. People can organize copwatch groups in their neighborhoods. They can help provide advocacy for people dealing with the effects of police brutality. They can plan protests and other political actions to put pressure on the politicians. They can help us get our measure on the ballot to increase police accountability.

There are many things people can do, but the most important thing is to pick something and do it. Police brutality is about the most disempowering experience a person can have because when an agent of the state deprives you of your rights and injures your body, you can feel there is no way to fight back. Working collectively with others helps us to regain our dignity and strength.

A lot of people are talking about police brutality in other communities right now; but are there any specific issues we are facing here in the Twin Cities?
Perhaps the most significant issue is the ending of civilian oversight of police. Three years ago, the city abolished the Civilian Review Authority. While that agency never really had the power to properly address complaints, it was at least somewhat independent and board members were quite vocal about the chief’s lack of discipline on their sustained complaints. Now, the only option you have is to go to the police to complain about the police. This has resulted in hundreds of complaints being virtually ignored and Minneapolis cops having free reign to brutalize people with impunity. At the same time, the legislature passed a law criminalizing so-called false reporting of police brutality, making it extremely dangerous to complain about police. We will never be able to stop police brutality unless the community is able to hold cops accountable for their actions.

Is there anything else people should know about your work, or about how we can plug in to that work?
Communities United Against Police Brutality is an all-volunteer group. Despite having no staff and little funding, we are highly effective and have achieved many successes for the community—a class action lawsuit that forced Minneapolis to put cameras in their squad cars, a lawsuit that went to the US appeals court and codified the right to videotape police all over this country, multiple lawsuits forcing police to release complaints against officers and other public data, the founding of several neighborhood copwatch groups, and many other successful actions. We can do even more if more people join the effort. We meet every Saturday at 1:30pm at 4200 Cedar Ave, Minneapolis. Get involved!

Next Steps: An Interview with Saida Mahamud, Organizer with the Young People’s Freedom and Justice Party
Though many organizations are helping to spread the word about Thursday’s solidarity rally, the primary organizer is the Young People’s Freedom and Justice Party, “an alternative party of young people of color in the Twin Cities whose aim is to create a just and democratic society by mobilizing young people and providing them with a platform from which to articulate these ideals.”

Can you talk at all about the Young People’s Freedom & Justice Party?

The Young People’s Freedom and Justice Party first began as a group that would meet once a week to discuss current issues going on at home and abroad, and look at them with a historical perspective. About a month ago, we proposed the idea of becoming a party—but not like all the other parties that have come before us. Our main goal is eliminating this structural system that is forcing people to stay in the current situations that they are in. We believe that capitalism does more damage than good, that it enforces rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer. There are cases where people have made it out of the personal strife that they were in, but the general population is still affected by this. So our party demands equity.
Is there anything people should know about Thursday’s action?
We want people to bring signs that say “No Justice, No Peace, Prosecute the Police.” We don’t want any posters that say “Don’t Shoot,” because we don’t want people to think that we’re victims; we may be victimized, but we’re not victims. We also want people to stop expecting teargas and rubber bullets; if they went to the Trayvon Martin rally or Terrence Franklin rally, they’d know that they were quite peaceful, a lot of people came, and I thought they were well done.

After Thursday, how can people plug in to your work, or at least stay informed?
For now, just be sure to keep checking the event page for Thursday’s event.

Continuing the Work: An Interview with Dua Saleh, Neighborhoods Organizing for Change (NOC) Organizer
While NOC works on a variety of issues, they’ve been one of the most dependable, inspiring organizations in the Twin Cities over the last few years.

What is NOC doing around issues of police brutality, and how can people plug in to that work?
NOC has always been a member led organization, from its inception. Members reach out to us with issues that affect their community and we provide them with the platform and the resources needed to take action. The best way to get looped in to the work that NOC is doing is by becoming a member, so that you yourself can take on an initiative and give back to the community.

A dozen or so NOC members have been working on a multitude of different events and rallies in support of Ferguson, “Hands Up Don’t Shoot” solidarity gatherings, petitioning military proliferation in local police departments, petitioning under practiced disciplinary action for police officers, and more. There are various movements and campaigns led by NOC members coming to fruition inspired by Ferguson. To get involved with our organizing committee, contact us at info@mnnoc.org.

Resources for Organizers and Potential Organizers
Whether you’re part of an established group, or trying to start something yourself, here are links to some organizations and organizing resources:

Black Lives Matter Minneapolis: this has emerged as the go-to spot for information on local actions.

Neighborhoods Organizing for Change (NOC): (see interview with Dua Saleh above)

Coalition for Critical Change: an organization that grew out of the first round of #Ferguson protests and one place to get updated on what happens now.

Communities United Against Police Brutality: (see interview with Michelle Gross above)

The Committee for Professional Policing: Another local organization (also an arm of CUAPB), their website has contact information and some ideas for getting involved.

Twin Cities Save the Kids: Save the Kids (STK) is a grass-roots fully-volunteer organization that is grounded in the values of Hip Hop activism and transformative justice, which advocates for alternatives to, and the end of, incarceration of all youth.

Voices for Racial Justice: Since 1993, we have built a stronger movement for racial justice organizing in Minnesota and beyond. Our mission is to advance racial, cultural, social, and economic justice in Minnesota through organizer and leadership training, strategic convenings and campaigns, and research and policy tools.

Hope Community Center’s SPEAC Program: This is a community organizing training program that isn’t explicitly about police violence, but I’m including it here because a lot of the best organizers I know have been through this. Another resource to have on your radar.

Socialist Alternative: While SA works on a wide range of issues, they have been consistently vocal about police violence. Link goes to their national org site, but they have an active local branch; contact through the website.

Justice for Fong Lee: On July 22, 2006, Hmong teenager Fong Lee was shot and killed by Minneapolis police officer Jason Andersen. The community continues to demand justice for what many see as a police cover-up.

Justice for Terrance Franklin: A group dedicated to seeking “justice for the wrongful death of Terrance Franklin at the hands of the Minneapolis police.”

TakeAction MN: This organization works on a range of issues; this link goes to information on their work around criminal justice reform, including contact info for anyone who wants to get involved.

The Dream Defenders with some practical event organizing tips: The Dream Defenders aren’t local, but are “an organization directed by Black & Brown Youth, who confront systemic inequality by building our collective power.” This practical list of questions to ask and things to be intentional about is a must-read.

The Dream Defenders with “what do to after your vigil; tips for planning a non-violent civil disobedience:” The follow-up to the last point, this series of tweets is about direct action.

Black and Blue: History and Current Manifestations of Policing, Violence and Resistance: Project NIA’s collection of tools, curriculum and resources.

Showing Up for Racial Justice’s Police Brutality Action Kit: This toolkit is set up for white people who want to do more, but features ideas for actions, informational resources, videos and more that may be useful to any organizer.

A recent article on the limitations of “awareness-raising” and the importance of direct action: Written through the lens of Palestinian solidarity activism, this piece explores how and why some marches and protests don’t go far enough, and what can be done instead.

Finally, a note on staying informed: my Twitter feed is overflowing with Ferguson updates and people talking about all this stuff, but yours might not be. While it’s easy to joke about Twitter, it’s been an invaluable resource this month, and I’d definitely encourage checking out the ongoing commentary from people like Elon James White, Dream Defenders, Feminista Jones, PrisonCulture, Syreeta McFadden and Ta-Nehisi Coates, plus locals like Nekima Levy-Pounds, Justin Terrell, and all of the organizations mentioned above.

Over on my Facebook page, Jacqui Germain also had this to say, regarding on-the-ground commentary: “If people are looking for reliable St. Louis-based twitters: @OBS_STL is a local org, @tefpoe is a local organizer & and artist, @Awkward_Duck is a NY organizer in town right now providing pretty regular twitter updates, and @AntonioFrench is the alderman of the ward Ferguson is in & has been updating his twitter pretty regularly too.”

Conclusion: This Is Not the End
There are a lot of resources and ways to get involved illustrated here, but this is by no means an exhaustive list. Other organizations and individuals are doing this work, and there are always new and creative ways to make an impact. If there are good links and resources that I missed, feel free to leave a comment here.

In some sense, our biggest challenge is also our biggest opportunity; with the rise of social media, it’s easier than ever to raise awareness and cultivate outrage around the issues that we care about. Both of these things are good. The challenge/opportunity is to go further, to focus all of that emotional and intellectual energy into concrete, sustainable change.

The way to do that is the same as it’s always been: dive in, get involved, and build with one another.

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Guante & Big Cats featuring Chantz Erolin and Rapper Hooks:
“The Invisible Backpacker of Privilege”
from the album “You Better Weaponize”
directed by PCP

Generally, artists make videos for the songs that they think people will fall in love with. With this one, however, we decided to make a video for what is definitely the most divisive song on the album. “The Invisible Backpacker of Privilege” features me, Chantz Erolin and Rapper Hooks talking about how whiteness functions in indie hip hop and beyond, exploring concepts of appropriation, privilege and responsibility. Good times.

The title of the song is a reference to Peggy McIntosh’s “Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack of Privilege.” The term “backpacker” is casual slang for underground hip hop fan.

Depending on the listener, I’d imagine, it’s either extremely straightforward or quite frustrating and confusing, so I wanted to take this opportunity to dig a little more deeply into what the song is trying to say. Because we live in the future, I’ll use bullet points:

What Privilege Means
The concept of privilege isn’t nearly as complicated or controversial as its critics would have us believe. Basically, our identities impact how we move through the world and how people treat us; some identities (white, male, straight, rich, etc.) confer certain advantages, and/or are seen as either normal or desirable.

In the context of the song, it means that even though hip hop was born out of and is still driven by black musical tradition, whiteness (especially here in Minnesota) carries certain “perks” with it. This may include ease of networking (with white music writers, venue owners, DJs, bloggers, etc.), lack of negative stereotypes, more access to certain spaces (clubs, colleges, etc.), the capacity to potentially sell more CDs to fans who identify with you, the ability to make “edgy” music with a “safe” face on it– the list goes on.

Clearly, this is bigger than hip hop. This song is about using hip hop as a lens through which we can see how privilege functions everywhere. If white privilege exists in a rap scene, what about in a school, or a corporation, or a bank, or the criminal justice system, or in government, or in a thousand other places?

What Privilege Does Not Mean
Privilege does NOT mean that “all white people have an easy life” or that “no rich person has ever worked hard” or that “no woman can ever be as successful as a man.” Literally no one is arguing that. So save your “but I’m white and I had to struggle too” comments. Being oppressed in one identity (race, gender, class, sexual orientation, etc.) doesn’t mean that you can’t be privileged in another. They don’t cancel each other out; they exist simultaneously.

This song is not saying that white rappers will always succeed and rappers of color will always fail; that’s obviously not the case.

But privilege isn’t just about those “perks” that play out on an individual level. It’s also about power. It’s about general trends and patterns. It’s about what gets propped up as normal or desirable and what gets stereotyped as dangerous or bad. Even if there are many successful artists of color, we still have to look at who owns the labels, who profits from radio play/CD sales, who gets to create art on their own terms and who has to follow a format in order to pay their advance back. Even if hipster rap bloggers trip over one another trying to hype up the most “authentic” MCs, we still have to interrogate why they do that– is it a genuine love and appreciation for the culture, or is something else going on? It’s not just about the two dozen artists who make it to the top; hip hop is an ecosystem comprised of millions of people—artists, engineers, promoters, fans, etc.—and this song is about recognizing how privilege plays out at every level.

Especially here in MN (admittedly, this song won’t have the same relevance in every scene, though it will always have some), we need to open our eyes. It’s easy to have a “we’re all just humans, dude” attitude when you refuse to see the persistent trends of who makes it vs. who doesn’t, who gets media attention vs. who gets media support (not the same thing), and how that aforementioned hip hop ecosystem functions. Again, I’m not saying that race is the deciding factor in all of those questions— but it does play a role. To ignore that is dangerous.

“Acknowledging Privilege” is the First Step, Not the Last One
One reason that I’m proud of this song is that I think the three of us did a good job tackling the issue in context; we know that a big part of our audience is actively resistant to this stuff, another big part has never thought about it before, and another big part has thought about it so much that they’re ready to move beyond the privilege framework into more radical places.

Because it’s not like no one’s ever written songs about this before (Macklemore, Murs). But this song is about digging deeper, about “next steps.” So much social justice education focuses on intro’ing concepts of privilege and oppression, and that’s not enough. The question I ask in my verse is “what now?” We could have an academic argument about whether white people should be rapping, but the fact is that white people ARE rapping, so let’s talk about what that means, and what responsibilities come with that.

“Know the history, build community, and put people on” are starting points, at least for me. That’s the baseline. I hope we can continue to build from there. See you in the YouTube comments.

TRANSCRIPT:
[Verse 1: Guante]
I don’t identify as white
But I identify as white enough, to get that indie rap writer buzz
And benefit from, a system set up
For rappers who already have advantages to get love
Think about it, how many music writers are white?
How many bloggers, how many booking agents?
How many college radio DJs?
How many publicists, concert-goers and critics got white faces?
Cause you can watch 8 mile and assume
White rappers got it hard, but it isn’t really true
This is America, even if you’re not racist
Racism’s in the foundation, face it
I’m not saying white people can’t participate
Obviously, I’m just saying please eliminate
The myth that it’s just about hard work and lyrical ability
’cause it’s about responsibility
Know the history, put people on, build community
‘cause not everyone who works hard earns it
And if they ever make you a monument
Scratch your name out, break it, spit on it, burn it
Yo, it’s so messed up how
You talk about whiteness and half your fanbase shuts down
So nod your head, you ain’t got to understand us
Just put your hands up, put your fucking hands up

[Verse 2: Chantz Erolin]
Ayo white kid, yeah, yeah, I hate to say it like this
But I’m trying to help you get enlightened to having light skin
Don’t trip, I don’t hate kids, and someone’s gonna called me racist
But I’m running out of patience so I gotta say this
I know it’s hard for you to see it conceive what it means to be me
Well, not me, but be defined by what society sees
They say I’m to believe
We’re post racial but still, I feel confined by police
This dude called the cops on the crib the other night
Saying that I robbed his wife or well some dude that wasn’t white
Maybe Native, maybe Asian
Either way, three squad cars hit my crib at 3 AM
And no white boy, in no way is that your fault
You may hate pigs and think that profiling is awful
But understand that you would not be in that position
Just for smoking on your porch with your particular pigment
You got the privilege to not having to deal with your race
While my relatives are off putting bleach on their face
I used to wish I was white, but I’m disgusted by skin cream
I was bullied and cried without knowing what chink means
Have severe doubts you’ll be bumping this song or humming along
You’ve been taught that skin color means nothing at all
And whiteness is considered normal and neutral
You may not notice race when them white rappers do shows
It’s crazy in a rap show devoid of brown and black folk
Hearing white kids saying words they should get smacked for
This shit was built on the backs of our oppression
Now you think it’s just your raps that’ll leave impressions? Hands up.

[Verse 3: Rapper Hooks]
Foolish in my glory tap dancing, drinking 40’s
Don’t judge me if you do not know my story
And I’ll do the same, it’s more than just a name, nigga
Mainframe spinning like I’m twister knowing
Most of these listeners won’t understand
Race and change, I guess it’s time to grow up
If you can’t acknowledge how you get here then don’t even show up
The token black leaving heart attacks more righteous than my phonies
speaking stories of my homies
On some things they never knew, they only heard about
Darker than the couch up in my mama’s house
My roots are deeper than these double standards so I’m speaking out
Love it when we’re all connected in the ‘sota
But I can’t respect my brother if he can’t respect my culture
Moving fast like Testarossa growing up
Dream in color, kid
I’m in living color, on my Wayans brothers spit
Hoping that my whiter color brother can relate to this
If you can’t we can see how bad our separation gets
Preaching on the Newest Testament like we’re in Nazareth
Press they love me cause I’m cosigned by my lighter publicist
Knowing that we’re all connected, to police I’ll plead the fifth
No equality in this, if you racist or you hate this
You can give my ass a kiss, please no lipstick on your lips
Cause I don’t wanna change my color, not even a little bit
In the end all I ask is you acknowledge privilege
Cause I promise you, you wouldn’t be poppin’ in ’96

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Originally published at Opine Season

Fun fact: white people’s feelings are magic. They can bring any conversation, meeting or movement to a halt. In a debate, they can outweigh even the most credible, concrete evidence. They can threaten someone’s job. They can even kill. White people’s feelings are one of this country’s most abundant natural resources and important exports.

Because of all this, any conversation about social justice, power, or history is going to naturally settle into orbit around white people’s feelings. And I get it: if we want to really do something about racism in this country, it’s white people who need to change the most, and it’s white people who often have the longest political/spiritual/emotional journey to undertake.

But when social justice education and/or media focuses solely on understanding racism through a white privilege framework, that can recreate the same oppressive structures we’re trying to destroy. When the conversation has such a laser focus around educating white people and carrying their emotional baggage, what potential voices, perspectives or frameworks are missing? We may be moving forward, but how are we defining “we?”

As someone who is both a social justice educator and who identifies as at least somewhat white myself, I’d like to explore some other options. How else can we engage in anti-racist work without having everything be about white people’s feelings? A few possibilities:

Separate Spaces
This kind of work is already happening, but I think it’s worth noting: we can continue to develop programming that is specifically for white people (alongside programming that is specifically for any identity group) rather than relying on the “catch-all” approach that alienates, bores or infuriates so many students (specifically students of color). In these spaces, we can talk about white people’s feelings without having that conversation derail the other work that’s happening. “Caucusing” can sometimes be controversial, but it can also be effective.

Triage
Maybe that’s a strong word, but in social justice education spaces, we can acknowledge that some material is going to make white people (or men, or straight people, or any other privileged group) sad. Or angry. Or guilty, confused, defensive, etc. And we can acknowledge that, and then we can just keep moving. As a facilitator, it’s not your job to “save” anyone. As an educator, you want to get your point across and cultivate understanding, but when all of the energy in the room goes into making a handful of defensive white students feel better, that’s not healthy or productive for the larger group.

Sometimes, Education Isn’t the Answer
Sometimes, the personal/cultural change happens after the institution has already moved on. There may be times when the funding, time and energy poured into “diversity education” initiatives could perhaps be better spent changing the fundamental structure of the institution. We can teach an all-white board of directors about the importance of racially-inclusive language, for example, or we can fight to get people of color on the board of directors. Education is always going to be part of the larger movement toward racial justice, but that doesn’t mean that it is the absolute answer in every scenario. Clearly, education and organizing are not mutually exclusive (just the opposite), but as the saying goes, “the work is not the workshop.”

White People: Do Your Homework
Most of the points on this list are for educators and organizers who work in these spaces. But those of us who are white can do more, proactively, even outside these spaces. Read books. Listen. Suppress the urge to always get defensive about everything. Never rely on someone else to do the emotional dirty work for you, or hold your hand while you do it. Related to this point, one of the most powerful things I read this year was Mia McKenzie’s “No More Allies” piece here.

Brave Spaces vs. Safe Spaces
I’m not sure who came up with this framework, but I think it’s very important. In any social justice education space, it’s worth acknowledging that it’s good to be challenged and to be uncomfortable. Of course, we need to take care of ourselves, but “taking care of yourself” should never mean “sticking your head in the sand to avoid all criticism and/or difficult conversations.”

A common thread in all of these points is that change isn’t predicated on anyone’s feelings; change is the product of collaborative, intentional work. Education matters—and even feelings matter—but only as much as they make that work easier or harder. When all of the energy in an educational campaign or organization is poured into making sure the people who already carry the most privilege aren’t getting their feelings hurt, that hurts movements. We can do better.

Nothing I’m saying here is new; these are ongoing conversations that will continue to shift, evolve and come to new conclusions. I also, clearly, have my own baggage and biases around this topic. Feel free to add to this list, post relevant links, etc.

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Originally published at Opine Season

I met a college student last month who didn’t understand why so many people were angry about blackface (as part of a Halloween costume). Like a lot of people, he just saw it as “dress-up,” not as any kind of provocative or political statement. After we had a conversation about the history of blackface, however, he got it. The problem was that a lack of historical perspective resulted in an incomplete picture.

Without an understanding of how power works, both in the present and historically, of course people are going to set up false equivalencies, push back against discussions of privilege, and refuse to engage with social justice issues. Frequently, if conversations about offensiveness and privilege aren’t also conversations about history and power, they don’t go anywhere.

In my work, I come across the false equivalencies that result from this lack of historical context with alarming regularity. A few common ones:

“If you think ‘Redskins’ is so offensive, why aren’t you also protesting the Vikings?”
Well, “Viking” isn’t a racial slur, first of all. But this also relates to any Indian-themed mascot—Chiefs, Indians, Braves, etc. The larger issue is that Scandinavian people don’t carry with them a centuries-long history of betrayal, oppression and genocide. Scandinavian people aren’t economically, politically and socially marginalized. And Scandinavian people aren’t currently protesting or speaking out about how Viking mascots/logos perpetuate harmful stereotypes and reflect the silencing of Scandinavian voices in other realms.

“How come Johnny Depp shouldn’t play Tonto but it’s okay for Idris Elba to play Heimdall, a Norse god?”
First, there’s the simple matter of numbers. “Whitewashing” characters happens a lot more than the opposite, especially when we’re talking about lead characters (as opposed to extras, comic relief, sidekicks, etc.). Second, the practice of casting white actors over actors of color is connected to a long, painful history of silencing the voices and experiences of people of color, normalizing whiteness and centering our collective mythology around heroes who are white.

I’d be fine (well, fine-ish) with a white Kaneda (in the proposed “Akira” adaptation) or a white Katara (in “The Last Airbender”) if there were a ton of other opportunities for Asian or Indigenous actors to get good work in Hollywood. But there aren’t. There are hardly any. “Colorblind casting” or “just trying to get the best actor for the role” are fine concepts in theory, but they almost always play out in harmful, status-quo-supporting ways.

“Why do people complain about women being objectified in media when men are too?”
Let’s use comics as an example. Yes, Batman has perfect abs. Namor wears some very revealing clothing. Most male superheroes have sculpted, sexy physiques too, just like the women.

But the objectification of women in comics is tied to the objectification of women in real life. Here’s a video game example: Liu Kang and Kitana might both have perfect bodies, lots of exposed flesh and non-existent personalities, but if they were real people, one of them would be making less money for performing the same fatalities.

There are many reasons why men outnumber women by such wide margins in politics, business and positions of power and authority in general. One of them is because women have had to deal with discrimination, paternalism, lack of representation and harmful stereotypes (less capable, too emotional, etc) for thousands of years. They’re also viewed as objects, in part because of how they’re represented in media.

“Why are so many artists speaking out against ‘Miss Saigon’ at the Ordway? That’s just censorship.”
Censorship is about power. A group of concerned citizens trying to convince a multi-million dollar institution to change, or trying to spread the word about the problems with the musical, or protesting outside the theater—none of this is “censorship.” (Be sure to read David Mura’s piece on this here).

Compare this to an educational institution reprimanding an educator who dared to have a discussion about racism in her class. Whether or not you use the word “censorship,” the power dynamics are simply different—and those power dynamics matter.

“I know what it’s like to be oppressed too because one time I was the only white kid in an African-American studies class!”
As all of these examples illustrate, oppression is bigger than “feeling uncomfortable.” It’s about representation, money, and power. It’s about how institutions are structured. It’s about history, and how historical events, trends and attitudes continue to affect the present. Without this larger perspective, conversations about social justice are likely to remain just that: conversations.

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Originally published at Opine Season

Every year in recent memory, October is when progressive writers, bloggers and activists try to convince people that dressing up like a stereotype of someone else’s culture for Halloween is maybe not such a great idea.

There is now an online treasure trove of writing on the subject, and each autumn adds a few more thoughts to chew on, even if the overall message remains the same. Here are a few examples, including this one from my own blog:

Here’s the thing: I know “you weren’t trying to be racist.” I know that “I’m not getting what you were going for.” I know you think your costume is just “riffing on stereotypes” or only represents “one specific character, not an entire race.” But dressing up as a caricature of someone else’s culture is still a terrible, uncreative costume idea and you should have thought of something better.

Thea Lim at Racialicious breaks down the bigger issue:

The reason why “ethnic costumes” are so problematic is because they posit a cultural identity as a costume – they compress the complexity and intricacy of an entire culture into dress-up; into something that anyone (or really, usually someone with class and race privilege) has the right to use for the most superficial purposes.

Adrienne K. at Native Appropriations talks about how this isn’t just politics or PC-policing; it’s about human beings. There is an emotional cost:

Last night I sat with a group of Native undergraduates to discuss their thoughts and ideas about the costume issue, and hearing the comments they face on a daily basis broke my heart. They take the time each year to send out an email called “We are not a costume” to the undergraduate student body–an email that has become known as the “whiny newsletter” to their entitled classmates. They take the time to educate and put themselves out there, only to be shot down by those that refuse to think critically about their choices.Your choices are adversely affecting their college experiences, and that’s hard for me to take without a fight.

Students at Ohio University came up with a powerful poster campaign fighting back, as Jorge Rivas writes in this piece for Colorlines:

“This is happening across the country. It’s not just here in Athens, Ohio,” says Williams, who is the president of a student group at Ohio University called Students Teaching About Racism in Society (STARS). The group, made up of 10 students, has created an educational campaign called “We’re a Culture, Not a Costume” that juxtaposes images like the one Williams saw last year with an actual African-American student. It adds a simple statement: “This is not who I am, and this is not okay.”

And time and time again, there are the same responses:

It’s not a big deal. People are just having fun. Get over yourself.

No matter how many times I hear these responses, I’m baffled. I get that most people don’t have access to high-quality multicultural education or in-depth conversations about oppression. I get that most people, especially people coming from privilege, aren’t constantly engaged with these issues. But this isn’t exactly social justice rocket science.

We’re not talking about reparations or the need for an armed rebellion to overthrow white supremacy here. This is just about having the common decency to not treat someone else’s culture like a prop, to choose one of the millions of other Halloween costume ideas out there rather that one of the few dozen racist ones.

It is mind-boggling to me how this debate is always framed as “why shouldn’t I be allowed to dress up like a stereotype?” as opposed to “why would you want to dress up like a stereotype?” But that’s how power works. Some people get the benefit of the doubt, some don’t.

The burden shouldn’t be on people of color to “prove” that something is offensive; the burden should be on the (overwhelmingly, but not exclusively) white kids who consciously choose to dress as stereotypes to explain their awful choices.

Of course, they will. They will rationalize and whine; they will get defensive and try to derail the conversation. But the pressure to think critically and cultivate empathy will be on them.

And some will get it. Some may only need a little push. I encourage people to re-post any of the articles linked to above; continue this conversation in whatever spaces you have access to. I hate that we have to start with facepalm-inducing stuff like “blackface makeup = bad,” but the conversation around racist Halloween costumes has the potential to be a gateway for so much more. This is never just about Halloween; it’s about whose stories and histories are valued in our society. It’s about how stereotypes dehumanize entire communities and lead to policies and practices that hurt people. It’s about making the connections between the so-called “little things” (like Halloween costumes, but also like Miss Saigon at the Ordway, the name of the football team based in our nation’s capital, and much more) and the larger reality of oppression.

Finally, for the inevitable comments that accompany any piece like this, a few preemptive responses:

If it’s “not that big of a deal,” then it should be super easy for you to just choose a different costume.

If the only way you can “just have some fun” on Halloween is to choose a costume that you know offends people, that is kind of sad.

And if you’re angry that someone has the audacity to point out that your costume is offensive, I guess all I have to say is this:

Get over yourself.

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I’ve been writing a weekly/bi-weekly column for MN-based op-ed co-op Opine Season since March (along with Ricardo Levins Morales, Kao Kalia Yang, Vina Kay and more). I usually re-post them here, but I’ve been so busy with new videos, new music, events and other stuff that I’ve let a few slip by. Just wanted to catch up:

How to Completely Miss the Point in a Conversation About Racism
The day after the Zimmerman verdict, I wrote a piece about white people and anti-racism that got a couple hundred thousand hits and a ton of comments. This piece is the follow-up to that, meant to address some of the critical comments and move the conversation forward.

In Defense of the “PC Police”
If you’ve seen my “A Visit from the PC Police” video, this piece contains a few supplemental thoughts on the power and importance of language.

Both Sides of the “Is Poetry Dead” Debate Miss the Big Picture
Another piece in what feels like an endless series of essays by me trying to position spoken-word as an art form and cultural movement that, you know, matters.

Let’s Vision: What Can the Arts/Activism Scene in the Twin Cities Look Like?
I’m interested in using my column to share thoughts, but also be a platform for you to share yours as well. Check out my ideas about some things I’d like to see our scene do more or do better, and leave some thoughts of your own.

Think Twice Before Telling People to “Shut Up About Miley Cyrus”
On Miley Cyrus, Macklemore, Robin Thicke and why the so-called “little things,” the pop culture moments that everyone gets up in arms about, really do matter.

BONUS: I also reviewed Earl Sweatshirt’s “Doris” over at Reviler.

More to come. Check out my full Opine Season archive here.

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Originally published at Opine Season

“Telling [people of color] they’re obsessed with racism is like telling a drowning person they’re obsessed with swimming.” —Hari Kondabolu (hat tip to Donte Collins)

After a week of comments and conversations, I wanted to address the recurring points that some white people have brought up in the wake of the Zimmerman verdict. Because it’s not just about Trayvon Martin; every time there’s a national conversation about race and racism, white people (yes, I’m generalizing; no, I’m not sorry) tend to have the same kinds of reactions.

Getting wildly, irrationally defensive even though it’s not about you:
My column from last week basically just says “if you’re white and upset about the verdict, here are some things you can do to confront racism in your own life.” That’s it.

But then come the comments: “It’s racist to say that white people are racist!” “Why do we have to make such a big deal out of this?” “I’m white and I paid to go to college so there’s no such thing as white privilege!” “Why do we have to be singled out?“ The people talking about racism are the real racists!” “We’re not all like that!” “I’m so offended!”

White people: “talking about racism” does not equal “attacking you personally.” We desperately need to stop being so insecure every time anyone brings up anything remotely related to race and racism. You don’t have to agree, but to immediately jump into “eyes-closed-and-screaming” mode speaks volumes about you and the kind of world in which you’d prefer to live.

Refusing to acknowledge the role that race plays in our lives
“It wasn’t about race.” That was the most consistent theme in the responses. Time and time again, when there is a racial incident in this country, people of color point to the giant racist elephant rampaging through the room and white people say “oh that’s probably just the wind.”

Is it possible that Zimmerman would have approached a white kid the same way he approached Trayvon Martin? Sure… it’s possible. But the lived experience of millions upon millions of people says that it’s also extremely naïve to believe that.

When people of color talk about racism, they’re not just making things up. There’s no Black Santa who delivers big bags of money to anyone who claims to have been discriminated against. Racial profiling, harassment and discrimination are daily realities for millions of people. To just dismiss that as “whining” or “playing the race card” is unbelievably arrogant.

“Refusing to talk about racism” doesn’t end racism. “Ending racism” ends racism. If your house is on fire, you don’t just ignore the flames away. Maybe a better metaphor is if your neighbors’ house is on fire, you don’t tell them to “stop making such a big deal out of it.” You don’t look the other direction and say “but are you sure it’s on fire?” You help, or you get the hell out of the way.

Focusing on the details and ignoring the big picture:
“Zimmerman was half-Peruvian!” “911 dispatchers don’t have the authority to give orders!” “Trayvon was big and really strong and got in trouble at school!” “Zimmerman had an African-American girlfriend once!” “Since Travyon was right-handed, and standing at x angle, and the moon was at y point in the sky, there’s no way he could have…”

Stop.

I think the biggest misconception about the outrage around the Zimmerman trial is that people are mad about the verdict. To be fair, many are. But many more are mad because Travyon Martin happens every day in this country. It may not always end with a dramatic gun death, but young black and brown men are demonized, profiled, harassed, imprisoned and killed every day for being young black and brown men (and women too, let’s be honest).

The marches and rallies that have been happening recently aren’t just about Trayvon Martin. They’re about the culture that demonizes black and brown youth, assuming that they’re dangerous, threatening, and up-to-no-good. They’re about the lack of accountability and consequences in police brutality cases. They’re about disproportionate minority confinement. They’re about the selective application of the “Stand Your Ground” law. They’re about the gross over-representation of people of color in the criminal justice system. They’re about who is given the benefit of the doubt and who isn’t, time and time again. They’re about the continued de-valuing of black and brown life in this country.

Argue about the specific details of this specific case all you want, but nothing in the above paragraph is up for debate. That’s the big picture that we—especially those of us who identify as white—have to see, if we ever hope to transition from “having a conversation about racism” to “doing something about racism.”

I posted these as a comment on the previous column, but I can’t recommend them enough; absolutely must-read material:

Questlove at NY Magazine

Ta-Nehisi Coates at the Atlantic

Aura Bogado at Colorlines

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Originally published at Opine Season, the night after the Zimmerman verdict, where it maxed out our comment system… though the timestamp here is still July 2013, I’m actually re-posting this here a year later. Be sure to check out the addendum to this piece here.

In the next few days, there are going to be a lot of essays and op-eds attempting to make sense of, or grapple with, or process the Zimmerman verdict, from writers who are better than me. So I want to talk about this from a very specific angle.

This is an open letter to white people, especially to those white people who understand that something terrible has happened, and has been happening, and will continue to happen, but don’t know what to do.

Clearly, something needs to change. But not every problem has a clear-cut, run-out-the-door-and-do-something solution. If you’re angry, or sad, take a second to process. Think about where you fit into this injustice, how you benefit from it, how you’re hurt by it. If that involves prayers, or posting links on Twitter, or having hard conversations, or writing poems, do that. Process.

But it can’t end with “processing.”

If you’re someone who has avoided thinking about white privilege—the unearned advantages that white people benefit from because of how institutions are set up and how history has unfolded—now is a great time to unstick your head from the sand. If Trayvon Martin had been white, he’d still be alive. What better real-world example of white privilege is there? Grappling with how privilege plays out in our own lives is a vital first step to being able to understand what racism is.

But it can’t end with “thinking about our privilege.”

We also need to act on those thoughts, to cultivate an awareness that can permeate our lives and relationships. When people of color share personal stories about racism, our immediate response has to stop being “but I’m not like that.” Just listen. Don’t make someone else’s oppression about you and your feelings. When people of color are angry, we need to stop worrying about the “tone” of their arguments, or trying to derail the conversation with phrases like “it’s not just about race,” or contribute meaningless abstractions like “let’s start a revolution.” When we see unjust or discriminatory practices or attitudes in our workplaces, schools, families or neighborhoods, we need to step up and challenge them. We need to take risks. We need to do better.

But it can’t end with “striving to be a better individual.”

Times like this can feel so hopeless, but it’s important to remember that people are fighting back, and have been fighting back. Racism doesn’t end when you decide to not be racist. It ends when people come together to organize, to work to reshape how our society is put together.

Check out organizations who are doing racial justice work, community organizing trainings, work with youth, and more: the Organizing Apprenticeship Project, MN Neighborhoods Organizing for Change, the Hope Community Center, TruArtSpeaks, Juxtaposition Arts, Justice for Terrance Franklin, Justice for Fong Lee, Communities United Against Police Brutality. There are certainly others (feel free to add more in the comments). Google stuff. Talk to people. Figure out where and how you can plug in.

As a white person, that can be hard. The leaders of any racial justice movement will be, and should be, the people who are most affected by the problem. But that doesn’t mean that white folks should just sit by and watch. Some of the organizations listed above may have ways for you to get involved; some might not. But there’s always something you can do. Organize a discussion group. Learn about good ally behavior. Challenge your Facebook friends. Challenge yourself. Join an organization. Infuse social justice principles into your workplace, or place of worship, or school, or neighborhood. Listen. Understand that Trayvon Martin’s murder was not an isolated incident; start seeing the racism all around you, and start doing something about it.

Above all, stay engaged. As white people, we have the option of not caring. Many don’t.