The Assault on Communities of Color : Exploring the Realities of Race-Based Violence 9781475819748, 9781475819724

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The Assault on Communities of Color

The Assault on Communities of Color Exploring the Realities of Race-Based Violence Kenneth Fasching-Varner and Nicholas Daniel Hartlep (Eds.) Contributing Editors: Lori Martin, Cleveland Hayes, Roland Mitchell, and Chaunda Allen-Mitchell

ROWMAN & LITTLEFIELD Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Rowman & Littlefield A wholly owned subsidiary of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com Unit A, Whitacre Mews, 26-34 Stannary Street, London SE11 4AB Copyright © 2015 by Rowman & Littlefield All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available ISBN 978-1-4758-1972-4 (cloth : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-4758-1973-1 (pbk. : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-4758-1974-8 (electronic) TM The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to those who fight against the assault on communities of color.

Contents

Foreword: Breathe: Notes on White Supremacy and the Fierce Urgency of Now Rick Ayers and William Ayers Red Riding Hoodie Lillie Lindsay

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By Means of Introduction: An Open Letter

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Peace: A Six Year Old St. Louisan Speaks Bryce Davis Bohon

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I: The Mythical Post-Racial America 1 Complicating Black and Brown Solidarity: Racial Positioning and Repositioning in “Post-Racial America” Jason G. Irizarry and Jonathan Rosa 2 The Opposite of a Great Lie: Racism, Capitalism, and Education Policy Knowing Our History Brad Kershner 3 Apartheid and Symbolic Violence in the New Latin@ South: Reflections and Implications René Antrop-González 4 I Get Angry: The Quandary of Post-Racialism Chezare A. Warren 5 Ferguson and the Violence of “It’s-All-About-Me” White Liberalism Paul C. Gorski vii

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6 “I Need to Check with Corporate” Dana L. Bickmore 7 Skittles, AriZona Iced Tea, and Cigarettes: The Price of Black Lives in a “Post-Racial” America Leigh Jefferson Griffin 8 Are We Post-Post-Race Yet?: Moving Beyond the Black-White Binary towards a Mestiza/o Consciousness Amanda R. Martinez and Robert Gutierrez-Perez 9 Contradicting Realities in the Mythical Post-Racial: America Blinded to Matters of Color? Melinda Jackson and Dari Green 10 What Divides Black America? Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor II: Racism and Violence Against Minority and Minoritized Communities 11 Normalizing Black Death: Michael Brown, Marissa Alexander, Dred Scott, and the Apartheid State David O. Stovall 12 Viewing Barack Obama through Racist Stereotypes Christine Sleeter 13 When Michael’s Death Means Our Own Children’s Death: Critical Race Parenting in a Time of Racial Extermination Cheryl E. Matias and Roberto Montoya 14 Respectability Politics and Acts of Violence ReAnna S. Roby and Theodorea Regina Berry 15 Countering Postcolonial Assaults on Black American Life Horace R. Hall 16 We Can’t Breathe: The Impacts of Police Brutality on Women of Color Subini Ancy Annamma 17 Killing Me Softly: How Violence Comes from the Curriculum We Teach Susan Anne Cridland-Hughes and LaGarrett J. King 18 The Sketch Factor: “Bad Neighborhood” Narratives as Discursive Violence Robin DiAngelo 19 Racial Justice in America: Alternative Universes Dewey M. Clayton

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20 The Death of Amir De’Mani Brooks: Counseling Psychologists’ Response to Racism and Violence against Black Communities Lisa B. Haileab and Ivory A. Toldson III: The Black Male Experience in the United States 21 Save Our Black Males: I Should Not Have to Celebrate That My Son Lived to See the Age of Thirty-Five Donna Y. Ford 22 What If My Trayvon Came Home?: Teaching a Wretched Truth about Breathing While Black Howard C. Stevenson and Kelsey Jones 23 A Black Male Body—Normalcy, Never Again: Gone in Ninety Seconds Larry C. Bryant 24 Michael Brown and the Shared Ambivalence of Black and Brown America Cassandra D. Chaney 25 Echoes of “People Stealers”: Trauma Revisited Shirley Mthethwa-Sommers 26 And to Make Matters Worse Lori Latrice Martin and Jahaan Chandler 27 And You Wonder Why I Am an Angry Black Man Cleveland Hayes 28 Desensationalizing Black Males: Navigating and Deconstructing Extreme Imageries of Black Males and Masculinities Roderick L. Carey 29 If The System’s Broke . . . Donna Vukelich-Selva 30 Grey Hoodies, Baggy Jeans, and Brown Skin: The Violence against Black Males via Signs and Signifiers Joni Boyd Acuff IV: The Fight for Equity: Communities Speak Up and Out 31 To Be Men and Women: The Black Struggle for Justice Continues Paul D. Grant and Carl A. Grant 32 Educational Research and Institutionalized Oppression Lisa (Leigh) Patel

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33 Necessary and Insufficient: Teaching and Writing in a Violent World Audrey Lensmire 34 The Insidiousness of Indifference to Black Injury in White America Christine Clark 35 Resisting the Dehumanization of Youth of Color: On the Death of Big Mike, “Illegal” Your Leaders and Proud Utes Enrique Alemán Jr. 36 A Call for Compassion: An African American St. Louis Family’s Reflections on Ferguson Dannielle Joy Davis, Christopher Aaron Deanes, Jason S. Davis, Linda M. Davis, & Eilleen Buckner 37 Living the Silence: An Impediment to Culture and Equity Adonay A. Montes 38 New-Freedom School Movement Issac M. Carter 39 Dreaming of Revolution: My Struggle to Understand the Assault on Blackness Rochelle Brock 40 Postmodern Fire Hoses: Media Recollections from Southern California Shirley R. Steinberg Afterword: Ferguson, Florida, and Fruitvale: A Requiem for Black Males in the Key of F-Minor Fred A. Bonner II About the Editors and Contributors

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Foreword Breathe: Notes on White Supremacy and the Fierce Urgency of Now Rick Ayers and William Ayers

Hope is on the march and love is on the move: this is the Movement, so get moving! An angry and loving movement-in-the-making is rising up in neighborhoods and streets across the land, mobilized to set the justice agenda for these times. Sparked by the killings of Mike Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, and Eric Garner on Staten Island and the subsequent findings in late 2014 by criminal justice officials that no one besides the victims themselves bore any responsibility for their deaths, the Movement exploded onto the scene and blew open a vast public space for organizing, education, and dialogue. Led decisively by determined African American youth who are exemplary activists and popular educators, the Movement has invited the widest participation and the open expression of the full range of community grievances. Mike Brown’s body, defiled and left to lie in the street for hours, Eric Garner’s desperate pleading—“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe,” over and over eleven times—these became recognizable emblems of police occupation and official state terror and plunder against selected communities. And now Americans are offered a high-level education and some essential clarity on race and oppression, the links between racial injustice and economic exploitation, the correlation of a violent system abroad and a colonial practice at home. We know now—and it has been true from the start, but there are no excuses for public ignorance any longer—about the serial killing of unarmed Black people at the hands of armed and trigger-happy police, and we know xi

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their names: Trayvon Martin, Amadou Dialo, Timothy Stansbury, Tamir Rice, John Crawford, Alex Nieto, Aura Rosser, Eleanore Bumpers, Oscar Grant, Sean Bell, Fred Hampton, Victor Steen, Timothy Russell, Mark Clark, Orlando Barlow, Aaron Cambel . . . it does not end. Because we now know that every twenty-eight hours, a Black person is slain by law enforcement and security services with guns; we know that African Americans are twice as likely to be arrested and four times more likely to have force used while being arrested than whites; we know that Black people are much more likely to die at the hands of police than are whites. We also know that when the federal levees failed in New Orleans in 2005, it was not only that the segregated Black areas were hardest hit, but also that cops fired on unarmed Black people over and over. We know that the massive shuttering of public schools in Chicago under orders from the mayor were almost all serving Black families and neighborhoods. We know that Black babies die at more than twice the rate of white babies in the first months of life. We know that there are more African American men in prison, on probation, or on parole today than were enslaved in 1850 and that on any given day tens of thousands of men, overwhelmingly Black and Latino, are held in the torturous condition known as solitary confinement. We know that in the past twenty years the amount states have spent on prisons has risen six times the rate spent on higher education. And we know that Troy Davis was executed by the state of Georgia in 2011 in spite of overwhelming evidence of his innocence. Each of these hard examples is an expression of white supremacy right now, today. These are patterns, institutional expressions, not a few miscarriages of justice in a normally fair system, nor a couple of bad apples in an otherwise healthy barrel, nor a bit of bigotry in a post-racial America. This is an extension of white supremacy, an evil that transforms over time and in changing conditions, but maintains a singular function that lies at the heart of our history—the super-exploitation of an intentionally separated and isolated group of people. After 250 years of slavery, 90 years of official Jim Crow, 60 years of “separate but equal,” 35 years of official state-sanctioned redlining, 20 years of mass incarceration, we have arrived here: Black people are still deemed a criminal class; Black bodies are still treated by officials with power as less valuable; Black lives are still expendable. It is worth harvesting our history: Harriett Tubman was a criminal, and so were Nat Turner and Denmark Vesey, Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X and Marcus Garvey, Angela Davis and James Foreman. Frederick Douglass opened a talk to abolitionists by noting that he was appearing before them with a stolen body—his own. He famously issued an angry and stirring speech in 1852 called “What to the Slave Is the 4th of July?” and in 2014 one passage rings with particular urgency:

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Whether we turn to the declarations of the past, or to the professions of the present, the conduct of the nation seems equally hideous and revolting. America is false to the past, false to the present, and solemnly binds herself to be false to the future.

After Trayvon Martin’s death, a gesture of outrage and solidarity spread across the land, and people of goodwill donned hoodies; after Mike Brown’s murder justice-seeking people said, “Hands up, don’t shoot!” and, after Eric Garner was choked to death, chanted “I can’t breathe!” And the cohering, crystallizing sentiment has become a simple phrase with massive implications pointing toward profound and radical changes: Black Lives Matter! Recognizing the full humanity of Black people once meant urgently fighting to end the North Atlantic slave trade, and everyone of goodwill fought that fight; the battle to abolish slavery altogether drew the next generation of freedom fighters. Now we are all certain we would have been abolitionists, of course, but we are living here and now, not there and then. The long and noble struggle against American apartheid achieved its greatest victories decades ago, and again, it is easy enough to celebrate the Civil Rights Movement and to declare proudly which side we are on in that great upheaval. But that settles nothing for now. These milestones and partial victories did not defeat the system of white supremacy and colonial exploitation; what is to be done? If the structure of oppression retains certain fundamental features, so do the principles of the liberation struggle. One of the crucial demands, raised by Black abolitionists, civil rights organizers, and now anti–police violence activists, is for Black and Brown leadership, the importance of the colonized people themselves, to control their own destiny and shape their own struggle. A corollary to this is the insistence that white people remove the patronizing mask of beneficence and reject the ultimately controlling stance of do-good charity, check their own privilege, and learn to act as allies. This means identification with, as opposed to identification of; it means solidarity, not service. Countless discussions and actions of the last decades have sharpened and clarified these insights and understandings and now have bubbled up to the surface as this crucial Movement blossoms anew. The freedom fight today is gathering energy and insight, focus and direction from the streets, from the wisdom of youth, and from the experiences of the people right now. It is a fight against police violence, the colonial-like occupation of communities of color replete with surveillance cameras on every corner and military gear everywhere. It is a fight against the so-called war on drugs, broken-windows interventions, stop and frisk, racial profiling, and repeated identity checks. It is a fight against mass incarceration and the enveloping paradigm of punishment, the unnatural disaster of prisons springing up like weeds in every corner of the American landscape, aggressive,

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resilient, and resistant, a carceral system powered by its own self-justifying internal logic and mechanisms, a vast prison-industrial gulag with a distinct racial caste, an engulfing and transforming system choking us to death, destroying our collective futures, limiting our sense of hope and possibility. Lift every voice and sing, say the courageous justice seekers and freedom fighters in the streets and communities across the land today, let earth and heaven ring. Black lives matter. The freedom struggle today is also in part a fight for decent public schools for all people, schools that serve rather than punish, that open rather than close down options and choices, and that are built on a deep embrace of our common humanity and the fullest recognition of the dignity and value of each human being. The twentieth-century campaign against segregation in schools—a struggle aimed at equal access to resources—is (and must be declared) a failure. What we have now is a system and policies that allow the existence of one set of meagerly funded schools for the descendants of formerly enslaved people that are walled off from generously funded schools available to the children of wealthy white people, a curriculum of privilege for wealthy whites that allows initiative and invention, and a curriculum of control that force-feeds children of color a steady diet of obedience and passivity. On November 4, 2008, after years of barriers breached and breakthroughs won, this country—with its terrible traditions of racial oppression and white supremacy—elected an African American to the highest office in the land; ironically that astonishing achievement also marked the abrupt end of a certain definition of the multicultural movement in education and elsewhere. We won, and simultaneously, it was over—multiculturalism everywhere, access to everything but with institutionalized racism entirely intact and white supremacy flourishing. What we see is a Noah’s Ark kind of multicultural accomplishment—two of each, and the rest can drown. Moving a few exceptional candidates into some sort of a middle class is illusion and cooptation; it cannot constitute progress if the fundamental oppressive conditions remain. The Fifteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, ratified in 1870 at the height of Radical Black Reconstruction, stated, “The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.” This was a powerful victory brought about by decades of abolitionist action, the self-activity, resistance, and general strike and flight of enslaved people, and finally the great Civil War, or the War of Liberation, a reminder—and we need to be reminded in good times as well as bad—of another provocative and incendiary statement from the incomparable Frederick Douglass: “Power concedes nothing without a demand; it never has and it never will.” With the withdrawal of federal troops in 1877 (the rotten compromise that

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won Rutherford Hayes the presidency, lost the Republican Party its soul, and plunged the nation backward as it reversed the gains of that long and bloody Civil War) combined with a range of new laws and legal sanctions as well as the opening of a mass campaign of terror against recently liberated Blacks, white supremacy reasserted itself with a vengeance. But white supremacy is a system of profit, and bigotry flows from that system as explanation and justification. The system spawns prejudice, not the other way around—bigotry is not the cause of institutional racism, but its result. Slavery built the country, and theories of inferiority and superiority justified that massive exploitation, a brutal and unprecedented crime against humanity. The source of Jim Crow segregation for decades and racial separation today is not mean ideas but harsh reality: folks are cast out in order that the powerful can exploit and plunder them. We typically use the word racism to mean two quite different things: on the one hand, racial prejudice or backward ideas and, on the other hand, institutional expressions of systemic racial hierarchies. So commentators label Donald Sterling and Cliven Bundy racists because of their ignorant bigotry and unguarded remarks, and anyone a bit more careful in speech and personal behavior is magically off the hook, but this is a conceptual mistake. The Wall Street moguls who engineered the vast plundering of Black wealth in the 2008 collapse are practicing a form of white supremacy that Cliven Bundy cannot even dream of, and Donald Sterling’s real estate dealings were more far-reaching and harmful to African Americans than his ignorant comments. While activism in the Movement is reaching new heights, the truths of colonial state repression are not new: violence is as American as cherry pie, deep in the DNA of a nation founded on conquest and theft, the genocide of indigenous peoples, and the enslavement of Africans. The power of the State has always been in the business of violence—inventing and stockpiling weapons, training thousands to wield them, invading, conquering, occupying. Even such spectacles as police funerals, which take over vast public spaces and command media obeisance, serve to legitimize violence. The truth is that mine and construction workers risk death at a rate between two and three times higher than police officers, but the police project an image of being under siege. While leaders exaggerate the danger of police work, the narrative of heroism is meant to stifle criticism and enforce obedience. Far from seeking common ground, people like Patrick Lynch, president of New York’s Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association, proclaim their hostility to the communities they patrol as well as to any effort to stop State violence. They put forward a false equivalency, suggesting that a police officer shot by someone mentally deranged or someone committing a crime is the same as an armed agent of the State killing innocent Black and Brown people with no consequences.

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But when we speak of State violence, we are not trying to get these agents to unlearn racism. Power in the hands of the community would spell the end of police as a colonizing force. Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) organizers asserted fifty years ago that “our freedom will not wait until the ideas in a white man’s head change; we need power over our lives so this white man, whatever his mentality, cannot harm us.” We should question whether the serial killings of Black people by armed enforcers are symptoms of a criminal justice system not working or if they are evidence that the system is working exactly as it is supposed to. The whole edifice of laws has inscribed the supremacy of private property, the power of the 1 percent, the privileges of white people, and the regime of repression and control for subject peoples. When the institutions of society—police and prisons, schools and housing and transportation and employment and health care—are perfected to maintain the conditions of subjugation, then the status quo itself is a form of violence against the oppressed and the marginalized. The solution is not simply to make them work “better.” The solution has to be to tear down the whole thing, rethink and rebuild in new ways. If the violence of the State and its ability to escalate endlessly is terrifying, we should also consider: What keeps the repressive police forces up at night? What worries the Pentagon? What fears and doubts and concerns do they have? And it turns out they have plenty to worry about. They call it “asymmetrical warfare”: the State has the capacity to apply ever greater levels of violence, and whatever forces emerge in resistance, the State retaliates with more powerful blows. But the problem is blunt: they never win. Yes, if it is World War II and they are up against a similar war machine, like Nazi Germany’s, they can win, they can beat that. But in every war since then, when they are faced not with tanks and airplanes but with poor people in flip-flops and light clothing, they have been defeated: Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan. They simply cannot defeat people who are fighting for their own homes and communities. So the increased application of force is not an expression of powerful dominance; it is, rather, a sign of weakness and a proof of impotence—the pitiful helpless giant beached by its own arrogance. The more violence the State unleashes, the more it becomes apparent that it has no way to win. Yes, it can, of course, inflict pain, horrible and searing and awful pain. But it cannot win. And as the resistance moves from reactive and spontaneous to organized and strategic, the power of the Movement knows no bounds. The war of the flea. In education, too, we see asymmetrical warfare. Certainly the corporations and foundations and government agencies have the big megaphones, the dollars, the laws on their side. But what they do not have is communities, teachers, and students. And they do not have any moral ground to stand on so

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they become noisier and more extravagant in their threats and claims. But we are not weak in this regard; we are strong. “When we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard nor welcomed,” wrote the visionary poet Audre Lorde. “But when we are silent we are still afraid.” It’s better, then, she argues, to speak out and act up, to engage and dive headfirst into the struggle. Activism is the best antidote to hopelessness and despair. Since all life is risk, stepping forward affords at least the hope of something better, and stepping up is the signature of every activist and agitator, every organizer and popular educator. The youth-in-the-lead today show the way: they see a possible world, and they invite us to find or imagine or tease out or map or invent a world that could be but is not yet. This is the Movement. So get moving.

Red Riding Hoodie Lillie Lindsay

Let me tell the story of a goodie goodie A shortie by the name of Red Riding Hoodie She would take her Big Mama food for supper Make sure she was good and get up with her One evening she and granny were watching television She said, “Big Mama may I have permission to leave, I will come right back.” Little Red just wanted to buy some snacks Granny gave her a look of concern She called Little Red very close to her, She said, “Little Red, please listen good.” When walking throughout the neighborhood, I don’t want you to say a word, Get your snacks, and get back here girl. Granny was a little concerned, It was not quite night, but she was worried, She was not worried about the birds or the bees, There was a crazy woodcutter, a vigilante. He walked around with an ax, Late into the night you would hear the wood crack. Everyone thought he was a nut, He thought he was protecting with every tree that he cut, Every tree that fell to the ground, Made such a terrible sound, Their last sight would be the ax you see, Held on by a piece of wood . . . . . wood just like me. Little Red was on her cell phone, When she used it, she did not feel alone, All she wanted was some candy and tea, She and Granny would get back to watching TV. Out of nowhere came the woodcutter, He saw the Red Hoodie, and knew he had to cut her, xix

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Cut her life short, “Racoon,” he sang. He thought, “She is a member of the Pyru Bloods gang.” The next part gets confusing, He told Little Red he would give her a bruising, All we know is her life was lost, He went back to the woods . . . . . . to the woods, So he could gather his thoughts. Next he built a website, He said people, give me money, Give me money if you like the way I smoked a child down in cold blood, Then the money, the money, the money did flood. Next, he stood before the magistrate, He said, “Please your honor I just can’t wait in a cell with a criminal element.” The judge said, “Dude, that is irrelevant.” Then they called, Then they called, Then they called in the witnesses. She couldn’t read cursive so they said she was witless. Tell me what kinda, What kinda, What kinda sense is this? When the young lady can speak 4 different languages. They had a jury of his peers, They witnessed carnage, blood and violence They didn’t give him any years, Leaving the nation torn with tears in silence. Emmett was a tree cut down, When he fell, no one else even heard the sound, He made the shelter called civil rights, Our parents took up that fight. Trayvon was a tree as well, He too was cut down, His story I tell, He made a shelter too strong for hate, A beating heart full of love awaits. A shot to the heart couldn’t kill, A spirit of love and goodwill, HE watches us all from above, Now we all stand our ground on love

By Means of Introduction An Open Letter

January 1, 2015 Dear Reader, Communities can be defined in a variety of ways. We might consider individuals who live in close proximity to one another or individuals who share similar interests, values, beliefs, and/or ascribed statuses as a community. Ascribed statuses, such as race and ethnicity, profoundly impact our lived experiences, not just as individuals, but also as members of a community. Much like community, race and ethnicity are often significantly challenging to define. For a time, in some parts of the country, being Black has historically meant having at least one drop of African ancestral blood. In other parts of the country, being Black historically meant having at least oneeighth ancestral blood. For decades the United States’ Census Bureau did not allow biracial and multiracial individuals to identify with more than one race. If we understand race and ethnicity to have a complex, yet important, relationship to how community and/or membership in a community is defined, we would conclude that in the United States, race and ethnicity intersect with the concept of community. Grasping this notion has proved difficult. Despite the challenges associated with racial definitions, there are several characteristics that all racial and ethnic minority groups share. Racial and ethnic minority groups, operationally defined as groups with relatively less power and fewer life chances than the dominant groups, are identifiable via several factors. These factors include, but are not limited to, the following: involuntary membership, sense of group solidarity, endogamy, distinguishing physical and cultural characteristics, and suffering inequitable treatment. 1

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Communities of color have faced unequal and inequitable treatment from many sources for decades. The sources of their maltreatment have included everyday citizens and individuals and institutions sworn to serve and protect them, such as the military and police. Beginning with the initial contact between the indigenous peoples of North America and European settlers and continuing with the arrival and settlement of the first group of slaves, the people of African ancestry trafficked to Jamestown, Virginia, assaults on communities of color have been part of the American fabric; something that persists in the contemporary epoch. An assault can be defined as something that causes one to believe, through physical or psychological threats, that harm is to occur and/or following through with psychological or physical harm. Indigenous Americans were physically attacked and forced into servitude, expelled from their land, and nearly exterminated. People of African ancestry were physically attacked by people of European ancestry peddling an ideology of white superiority and Black inferiority, which involved the exploitation of Black labor and Black womanhood for the benefit of rich slave owners and the privilege of less affluent whites who were granted rights and access to wealth, status, and power out of reach to others simply because of the color of their skin. Assaults on communities of color took many forms during antebellum America, including assaults on individual slaves to ensure their compliance with the oppressive system of forced servitude. Assaults on communities of color also included the rape of Black women and oppressive Black codes. It involved the killings of Black men and women for rebelling against the system or for other acts deemed insubordinate. Even after the Civil War ended, assaults on communities of color did not end. The rise of the Ku Klux Klan (KKK), the lynching of Black men, and occurrences of race riots throughout the country provide clear and convincing evidence of the continued assaults on communities of color. From the birthplace of Abraham Lincoln (Springfield, Illinois) to Atlanta, Selma, and beyond, whites engaged in systematic physical attacks on individual Blacks and on the communities where they lived. The Tulsa Race Riots of 1921 serve as a sad, and yet poignant, example of an assault on a Black community. Greenwood was a prosperous Black neighborhood in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in the early part of the twentieth century. The Black community in Tulsa benefited financially from the forced separation of Blacks and whites in America as well as from an oil boom in the area. Neighboring white communities were not faring as well. The success and prosperity the Black community in Tulsa, known as “Black Wall Street,” was experiencing violated the dominant racial ideology of the day. Black communities were not supposed to be more prosperous than white communities. An alleged rape of a white woman was the spark that ignited the riot. Dick Rowland, a young Black man, was accused of sexually assaulting Sarah Page

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in an elevator in broad daylight. While the root cause of the Tulsa Race Riots may appear to be the alleged sexual assault of Page, the taproot was the reality that whites were experiencing less success than the Black residents of Greenwood, which caused interracial animosity. On May 31, 1921, Black Wall Street was attacked. An angry white mob physically attacked the Black residents of Greenwood, ultimately burning the prosperous community of color to the ground. The Tulsa Race Riots of 1921 was just one event in a series of other assaults on communities of color. As the residential segregation between Blacks and whites increased in the 1930s and the 1940s, following the institutionalization of redlining and the exclusion of people of color from the largest single period of asset accumulation and the creation of whiteness and suburbanization, assaults on communities of color continued unrelentingly. Residential segregation facilitated further assaults on communities in unseen ways. People of color have been concentrated in neighborhoods that are marked with blight and that offer few quality educational options and limited access to employment. Their concentration made the declarations of so-called wars on poverty and drugs politically palatable for even the least sympathetic members of the dominant group. The forced separation of people of color from the dominant racial group provided the facade needed to perpetuate the myth of America as a meritocracy. Assaults on communities of color were also identifiable in the brutal beatings of the Blacks, and non-Blacks who were fighting with them, as they tried to exercise their rights as citizens to participate in the political process as voters or to just enjoy an ice cream float at the local five-and-dime restaurant, a theme that Steinberg takes up in her essay for this volume. Assaults on communities of color were evident in the police brutality that ravished urban communities and spawned many riots during the 1970s. Assaults on communities of color were witnessed as guns and drugs found their way onto the streets of many urban areas, and, as a result, hundreds of thousands of Black and Brown men found themselves on their way to correctional facilities, part of a mass incarceration epidemic the world had never seen. Assaults on communities of color best describe the increased presence of law enforcement agents in predominantly minority schools, which has fed the school-toprison or, as we have suggested elsewhere, prison-to-school pipeline. Over the past several decades, the physical attacks against young Black males have pulled the heartstrings of many Americans, causing many to renew or to (re)establish commitments to social justice issues. The physical, and often fatal, attacks on individuals such as Rodney King, Amado Diallo, Abner Louima, Sean Bell, Ramarley Graham, Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, Eric Garner, John Crawford, Ezel Ford, and Michael Brown are, then, justifiably understood as assaults on communities of color in that the individuals were targeted because they were Black, whose members were, and continue

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to be, dehumanized and criminalized. These attacks are the backdrop for many of the authors in this volume. The “good news,” if there is any in this wave of brutality against communities of color, is that people of color are not standing alone, as taken up in the forward of Ayers and Ayers and by many in their essays. While the killings of people of color, and the other examples of assaults on communities of color are race based, coalitional protests against the unequal treatment experienced by people of color, particularly at the hands of law enforcement, are becoming increasingly more common. Individuals from every hue and culture have joined communities of color with membership in the dominant racial group as they staged “die-ins” and demonstrations across the country at colleges, universities, malls, and in major transportation hubs. Highways have been shut down, and even presidents of Ivy League institutions have participated in “die-ins” (e.g., Amy Gutmann, president of the University of Pennsylvania). Elected officials, such as New York City mayor Bill de Blasio and Nashville police chief Steve Anderson, have publicly sympathized with protesters. Mr. de Blasio, a white male, is married to a Black woman, and the couple have biracial children. Anderson, a white male, has publically made clear that protecting everyone in the community is his top priority, even if it conflicts with the racist ideology of some within his community. There are many challenges in fighting against assaults on communities of color. One challenge is to maintain an interracial response to an issue that disproportionately impacts communities of color. Specifically, it is a challenge to keep the commitment of individuals with membership in the dominant group over the long haul. Parallel to this challenge is another challenge: maintaining a response across interdisciplinary professional sectors, such as health care, law enforcement, manufacturing, education, and higher education. Sympathetic whites historically become weary of fighting in support of communities of color because they mistakenly and myopically saw the struggles as largely Black struggles. This perspective is distinct from how many Blacks see the struggles as being part of a larger constellation of struggles for humanity and dignity. We saw this effect during Reconstruction when whites in the North grew weary, and the South returned to its pre-war ways. We also saw this effect after the Civil Rights Movement, when many sympathetic whites of goodwill, and even some relatively affluent Blacks, declared racial discrimination dead. Other examples include when individuals declare the election of President Obama as evidence the United States is post-racial. The editors of this volume vehemently reject the presupposition that the United States has entered a post-racial era. The current struggles for social justice surrounding assaults on communities of color is again at a crossroads as far

Introduction

5

as we can tell. In the face of the widespread belief that America is now postracial, this work is further complicated. In late 2014, following months of protests and speaking back against the assaults on communities of color, two uniformed members of the New York Police Department (NYPD), one Asian and one Hispanic, were ambushed by a Black male who, a few hours prior to the killings in New York City, shot a woman he once dated in Baltimore, Maryland. The shooter, who later took his own life, posted messages on social media that were decidedly antipolice, and he included a sinister post about what he planned to do in New York. The shooter made references to Michael Brown and Eric Garner and took a video at one of the protests in New York. Subsequently, the tone of some supporters changed, largely white supporters, particularly as many came under attack by individuals in law enforcement and those who believe race has declined in significance. Pat Lynch of the NYPD’s union was among the most vocal. Lynch essentially blamed de Blasio (the city’s mayor) and protestors for the deaths of the officers. Some city residents and NYPD officers even signed petitions calling for de Blasio’s resignation, while others physically turned their backs on the mayor as he spoke at the funeral for one of the murdered officers. The assassination of the police officers was, to be sure, a horrific and tragic event that should not have occurred. The sympathies of the nation are with their families and friends. Nonetheless, their deaths should not signal the end of the interracial fight for social justice. The death of the officers should motivate Americans (of every color, culture, and creed) to work together to bring about positive changes that will transform all communities, including communities of color, to create a safer and more just society. Those claiming to be white allies must understand what communities of color already know: the fight for social justice will, necessarily, include many battles. The fight for social justice will not be easy and, in fact, never has been. White supporters must understand that this is not a war declared by communities of color, but rather on communities of color. Communities of color did not enlist, but many have volunteered for service and hope that thousands more will join the fight to combat the militarization, occupation, and assaults on their communities. As activist scholars who study race, ethnicity, and social justice, and as folks who feel committed and called to action, we have turned to the pen, or more aptly, our keyboard, in trying to respond and join in solidarity with all of those who are fighting for equity and justice. Through the brave and steadfast belief in equity of Rowman & Littlefield’s Sue Canavan, our acquisitions editor for this volume, we wanted to speak back cor-ad-cor, or heartto heart, about what we see in terms of the assault on communities of color and the relative silence of the academy, both problematic. To be sure, many academics have turned to Twitter, Facebook and blogs and even engage each

6

Introduction

other in dialogue. When the voices are too passionate, however, the academy has little tolerance, causing many academics to hide behind the protection and comfort of scholarly citations, technical language, and what we as editors feel is an anesthetized and disimpassioned set of voices. While we ourselves, too often and for our own selfish personal or professional gain, participate in the same practices, we wanted to engage colleagues, senior and junior alike, in a series of conversation starters that do not just speak back or speak against, but help people speak for their commitment to equity for all. With this vision in mind The Assault on Communities of Color was born. The Assault on Communities of Color provides a vehicle for the nation’s leading thinkers to assist anyone interested in making sure this moment becomes a movement. The edited volume not only provides an opportunity for us to reflect upon the assaults of communities of color, but the volume also serves to challenge each of us by providing an opportunity for readers to continue the conversation and join or extend the movement that is underway. As editors and contributors to this volume, we speak as a collective that takes seriously the need for a concentrated and powerful dialogue to emerge in the wake of the killing of people of color that illuminates the assault on Black males specifically and communities of color generally, in a powerful and provocative way. This volume is organized into four sections: (1) The Mythical Post-Racial America, (2) Racism and Violence Against Minority and Minoritized Communities, (3) The Black Male Experience in the United States; and (4) The Fight for Equity: Communities Speak Up and Out. The Assault on Communities of Color is not intended for reading in a linear way; we realize that many chapters speak across these artificial section dividers. We also realize that a serious limitation of many academic volumes is the sterilization that occurs through references. We asked contributors to use a more passionate set of voices focusing on how they see the world and how they can contribute to pushing all readers toward more complex interactions and understandings. To that end, we also banned all academic citations from appearing in the chapters and asked contributors to join the editors in making ourselves vulnerable and open to readers. While some chapters do draw on quotes from the media or common knowledge quotes, the chapters do not engage in the academic citationalia practice. Finally, each chapter had a strict limit of two thousand words so that as the reader you would not get lost or distracted through intra-chapter repetition. This approach also ensures that the conversation remains fluid, continuous, and accessible. As Stovall points out in his chapter, no two thousand–word essay will “fix” the ills of racism and the assaults that communities of color experience. That was, in fact, not the goal of the project. Instead, we hope that this volume extends the conversation with a wider net, brings attention to the action folks are already engaged in, and calls others who read the words to deeper contemplation and action with

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respect to social justice and equity. We received over one hundred forty submissions for the forty spaces. What stands before you is what we see as the most comprehensive and high-quality pieces among the submissions. The lesson we learned is that there is interest and need for this type of work, and we hope that more publishers will be as brave as Rowman & Littlefield to engage with different approaches to academic publishing. We hope you reach out to us, the editors, as well as to the chapter contributors. We do not wish to speak at you, but with you, speaking back to not just our realities, but your realities, and the collective wisdom we might generate together in solidarity, building toward equity. With Peace and Love,

Peace A Six Year Old St. Louisan Speaks Bryce Davis Bohon

Peace . . . it’s when you never ever fight at all and when you love each other. Peace is when you are good and never evil. Peace is when you like people and you don’t hate. The next thing about peace is nobody hurts each other. Peace isn’t hurting or killing. Peace is when summer is coming. Peace is when trees grow. Peace is when rainbows rise.

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I

The Mythical Post-Racial America

Chapter One

Complicating Black and Brown Solidarity Racial Positioning and Repositioning in “Post-Racial America” Jason G. Irizarry and Jonathan Rosa

In the wake of the rash of violence against Black males in the United States, there have been multiple calls for Latin@ solidarity with the African American community. These calls are often rooted in uncritical assumptions about the nature of solidarity between these groups. Such assumptions obscure differences within and across groups and suggest that because of shared experiences with racism, we are either natural allies or unwitting enemies. While strategic essentialism can be helpful, we find aspects of this discourse problematic, as the current dominant narrative of Black-Brown unity fails to acknowledge the deep and profound history of solidarity across lines of racial difference among racially minoritized groups. It also assumes that African Americans and Latin@s occupy distinct racialized positions, when in fact the borders between Black and Brown are far more porous and overlapping. While reaching a flashpoint today, violence against young men of color at the hands of law enforcement officials dates back centuries. Law enforcement was routinely complicit in the lynchings and violent deaths of Black and Brown folks in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. Movements arising to combat structural, as well as direct, violence against these communities have been framed as dichotomous struggles when, in fact, Black and Brown solidarity is rooted in the historical fabric of our society. For example, although the prominent route of the underground railroad led from the South to freedom up north in Canada, there were also pathways south to Latin America. In fact, in 1855, Mexicans in Texas assisted more 13

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than four thousand enslaved persons to escape to freedom in Mexico. These alliances continued deep into the Civil Rights Movement and are perhaps most evident in both groups’ efforts toward desegregation (e.g., the Mendez v. Westminster decision in 1947 served as an important precedent for the Brown v. Board of Education decision in 1954). More recently, the murder of Eric Garner, an African American man from Staten Island, New York, at the hands of police officer Daniel Pantaleo was videorecorded and shared with the world by Ramsey Orta, a Puerto Rican man who was close friends with Garner. The details of state-sanctioned violence against communities of color are often rendered opaque, with differing accounts coming from officers and witnesses, conflicting interpretations of evidence, and the demonization of the victims. With this singular act, Mr. Orta provided the world with a clear picture of the systematic violence people of color endure. Despite videotaped evidence of Officer Pantaleo applying a choke hold banned by the New York City Police Department while Eric Garner informed the officers of his inability to breathe more than ten times, the grand jury chose not to indict the officer. Several weeks later, Mr. Orta was indicted for weapons possession, a charge he believes to be an unjust form of retaliation for him filming the murder of Garner. We use these narratives as a point of departure for a critical examination of narratives of allyship and solidarity and the ways that those narratives can serve to reinscribe institutional racism. In this chapter, we pay particular attention to the fluidity that exists between these racial categories, complicating the ways that people of color are positioned and repositioned within the Black-white binary that often dictates racial politics in the United States. Locating this narrative within a socio-historic context and present efforts to “divide and conquer,” we center race in our examination of calls for Black and Brown solidarity; however, we also pay particular attention to how race intersects with other variables and identity categories such as gender, class, language, and lived experience. As we join our fellow academics in this volume to speak out against injustice and, more specifically, respond to lack of value placed on the lives of people of color, it is imperative that we do so in ways that strengthen communities of color and create the discursive space necessary for authentic and robust conversations that aim to challenge and ultimately dismantle racism in the United States. In no way are we trying to diminish the significance of the #Blacklivesmatter movement to impose a Latin@ perspective or redirect the gaze. Rather, we aim to bolster the movement by critiquing oversimplified understandings of allyship across racialized groups, forwarding a framework rooted in shared histories and experiences whereby Latin@s and other minoritized people can continue to participate in the struggle against institutional racism in ways that honor our past, acknowledge our shared experiences in the present, affirm our differences, and increase the magnitude of our collective efforts. In this chapter, we seek

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to complicate and destabilize racial categories, underscoring the fluid, multidimensional, and at times hybrid, aspects of racial identities. We also point to the limits of this fluidity and hybridity for individuals whose racialized bodies become less susceptible to repositioning across contexts. The chapter ends with a call to move from decontextualized narratives of allyship and solidarity to an effort to build from longstanding histories of linked fate and political contestation within and among racialized groups. Concepts such as racial solidarity and allyship are often rooted in misleading ideas about distinctions and allegiances between racial groups. Each of these concepts begins from the notion that members of racial groups have a default position in support of, or opposition to, one another. This dangerous thinking participates in the reproduction of the very forms of animosity that it purports to challenge. By labeling particular individuals as allies and particular acts as examples of solidarity across rigid lines of racial difference, we ignore the systems through which racial distinctions are created and reproduced. If these distinctions are most pronounced in institutional settings and through social processes that are widely denounced, such as prisons and residential segregation, respectively, then we must continually interrogate their construction and reproduction. This interrogation can be applied to widespread calls for Black and Brown solidarity in the aftermath of the killings of Michael Brown and Eric Garner, which characteristically presume upon monolithic, discrete racial categories. That is, “Blackness” and “Brownness” are frequently associated with objectively separate and homogeneous racial identities. Upon closer consideration, Blackness and Brownness can be viewed as infinitely heterogeneous, on the one hand, and intimately intertwined, on the other. In terms of heterogeneity, we can observe disparate forms of Blackness and Brownness, which are inflected by gender, class, nationality, and sexuality, among other factors. In this sense, it should come as no surprise that Blackness cannot be reduced to a single perspective on the contemporary debate surrounding state-sanctioned violence against racialized populations. For example, many Black feminist and/or queer commentators have noted that the contemporary public outcry regarding racialized state-sanctioned violence arose primarily in response to the victimization of cisgender Black males rather than the countless queer and/or women of color who have faced similar forms of violence. These commentators have made crucial contributions to the #Blacklivesmatter campaign; specifically, they have pointed to the processes through which some Black lives are made to matter more than others. This analysis highlights the importance of intersectional views of race and racialization, which reject homogenizing portrayals of a singular Black experience. While African American leaders at local and national levels have powerfully spearheaded the #Blacklivesmatter campaign, other prominent African American figures have been critical of protesters and openly suppor-

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tive of the grand jury’s decision not to indict the police officer who killed Michael Brown. Conversely, while some Latin@ leaders have been noticeably silent in this campaign, many others have been key contributors to efforts toward holding the state accountable for racial injustices perpetrated against African Americans. In fact, the notion that Blackness should be equated exclusively with African Americans and Brownness with Latinidad erases forms of Blackness throughout Latin America and among United States–based Latin@s. Latin American and Latin@ Blacknesses are often experienced in relation to racial logics other than United States–based “one-drop” imaginaries. Thus, the promotion of Black and Brown solidarity contradicts the everyday realities of millions of people for whom notions of Black and Brown correspond neither to distinct racial identities nor distinctive racialized experiences. Latin American and U.S. Latin@ populations that identify with Blackness in ways other than African Americans are at times thought to suffer from denial or self-hate. Yet these populations’ views of race and experiences of racialization are linked to particular histories in which race has been structured in ways that differ from the prevailing U.S. Black-White racial binary. It is from this perspective that Ramsey Orta’s position vis-à-vis Eric Garner should be apprehended. To frame Ramsey Orta’s video documentation of Eric Garner’s killing as a straightforward act of Black and Brown solidarity is to presume that these two men occupied distinct racial positions from the vantage point of the state or disparate experiences of spatial, racial, and class exclusion. In fact, Orta’s arrest shortly after Garner’s killing demonstrates the fallacy of this thinking. In this context, Black-Brown solidarity is not the emergent product of a contemporary advocacy campaign, but instead a fundamental way of life that has been in existence across generations. If Black and Brown are made to appear as distinct racial categories in particular contexts, then this should be analyzed as a product of contingent historical processes rather than naturally occurring, distinctive racial essences. Therefore, we must be wary of accounts that sensationalize Black-Brown rifts as well as those that romanticize interracial unity. Intraracial diversity and interracial solidarity are not coincidental. Since racial differences are social, historical, and ideological constructs, we should expect that they would be contested both within and between groups. Rather than superficial political strategies, these contestations emerge from longstanding stratifications within groups and shared positioning between groups. These considerations of the multiple ways in which race and racialization are articulated in particular contexts notwithstanding, we must also attend to the signs that make particular bodies more and less susceptible to racial repositioning. The emblematic status of certain embodied signs of race, such as skin, hair, eyes, and noses shapes the range of racial categories in relation to which a given individual is recognized. While some people might undergo

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constant racial repositioning, others experience their racial position as a fixed entity. Thus, the effort toward destabilizing racial categories is not an end in itself. Instead, we must track the processes through which some bodies are racially overdetermined regardless of the accompanying signs they display— from clothing to language use to gestures. Rather than placing the onus of racialization on individuals and their presentations of self, this perspective focuses on modes of perception and the systems that produce them as the targets of decolonizing and anti-racist intervention. The future of all racially minoritized communities is intertwined and has been for centuries. Police brutality, racial profiling, deportation, and limited access to resources such as education are but some of the examples of a shared racialized positioning within a white supremacist society. Current narratives of racial solidarity make it seem as if the struggles experienced by some are completely foreign or distinct from those of other racialized minorities. Latin@s’ experiences with racism, albeit nuanced and distinct, share commonality and find resonance in the African American experience and vice versa. Moving forward, we would like to see the discourse evolve to reflect a more complicated and nuanced understanding of the shared struggles of communities of color, with respect to the individualized experiences of particular groups. By not taking alliances or animosities for granted as starting points for analysis, we can not only imagine alternative realities in which racialized group identities are constructed differently but also locate the ways in which people have always contested and reconfigured these differences. This approach leaves us not with the challenge of constructing new bridges between Blackness and Brownness but rather of conceptualizing the co-constitutive nature of the categories and identifying the frictive, intimate ways in which they have been (re)produced and (trans)formed in particular cultural contexts.

Chapter Two

The Opposite of a Great Lie Racism, Capitalism, and Education Policy Knowing Our History Brad Kershner

Five hundred years ago, white people and Black people did not exist. These racial categories were invented in the seventeenth century by wealthy landowners as a means of dividing and conquering poor laborers of different skin colors. The creation of these racial categories impelled poor folk with light skin, whose immediate ancestors came from Europe, to see themselves as superior to poor folk with darker skin, whose immediate ancestors came from Africa. By creating conflict between people with little economic capital, landowning elites devised a way to keep workers from uniting in solidarity against them. Racial categories were invented to inhibit revolution. They were also used as a form of class warfare and as a tool for oppression. They still are. Being poor and oppressed themselves, many whites bought into the oppression of their fellow laborers and over time reinforced and perpetuated the notion of a dark-skinned “Other.” This collective buying-in to the notion of race-based inferiority was used to justify slavery in the United States, even though the concept of race itself was fairly new. Understanding the economic and classist origins of race can allow us to see how these racial categories, and the associations that were propagated with them, would never have taken hold as they did if not for the dynamics of inequality that were already in place in society. Economic oppression and racial oppression are inextricably linked, and the conditions of economic inequality created the conditions for structural racism to flourish.

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Contrary to American mythology, social mobility has always been an exception to the rule of poverty in this country, and life has always been difficult for those not born into a landowning family. Those who have little material wealth have limited options. Those with capital always control the terms of labor. Men of all races have worked for next to nothing for centuries, and following the creation of “Blacks” and “whites” in the seventeenth century, economic “demand” (i.e., ruthless greed) led to a sharp increase in the African slave trade. The creation of hierarchical social categories based on race was so successful in terms of dividing and conquering the poor masses of different colors that the strategy spread to colonies around the world, even where race had not played a factor in social arrangements. Again and again, colonizing elites have established divisions among economically and politically disempowered people and elevated one group over others, getting them to fight each other, thus maintaining an arbitrary social hierarchy as though it were natural and the choice of those involved. This is what happened in Rwanda between the Hutu and Tutsi, which resulted in the wellknown genocide of 1994. Divide and conquer has been happening in the United States for four centuries. No one could have foretold the ways in which the creation of racial categories would influence the processes of social and cultural development over hundreds of years. Things have changed a lot in the past few centuries, but simplistic notions of better or worse break down in light of the interdependent complexities that constitute our shared life experiences. Evolution moves in the direction of increasing complexity; and the goodness of that complexity is not guaranteed. We cannot deny the far-ranging improvements in life conditions for large percentages of the human population over the past few centuries, and it is undoubtedly better (on average) to be Black in the United States today than it was three hundred, two hundred, or one hundred years ago. For instance, there are more educational and employment opportunities, there is less overt violence, and cultural norms are shifting steadily away from sanctioned and explicit acts of prejudice. But neither can we deny the heartbreaking injustices that continue to permeate our daily life, of which the murders of Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown are but noticeable waves in a sea of inequality, paradox, and hypocrisy. These tidal waves of grief are important to the extent that they bring attention to the rising waters of injustice that surround us all. Also, this attention is significant to the extent that it impels constructive action and restorative justice in society. What would such justice require? How should we respond to our current state of affairs, as indelibly connected to both the legacy of race-based slavery and the always-changing, ever-present iterations of income inequality and class warfare?

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COMING TO TERMS WITH ECONOMICS, EDUCATION, AND RACISM The historical linkages between race and class make it impossible to address our current racial or economic problems in isolation. We must think about, talk about, struggle with, and transform our socio-cultural landscape in both racial and economic terms. It is time to speak of these things more consistently, especially when they intersect. We can see the (inter)connections between race and economics when we interrogate how we educate, employ, and police our citizens according to their racial and economic statuses. These racial and economic discrepancies are so deeply rooted in society that attempts to ameliorate them—as in the push to close the “achievement gap” in education—often reinforce and deepen the divides between the haves, the have-nots, and whites and Blacks. Some attention has been given to the “school-to-prison pipeline,” and to the ways in which the War on Drugs has enabled the criminal justice system to operate as a “new Jim Crow” system, but many who seek to reform education fail to acknowledge the ways in which educational reform reinforces both economic and racial injustice. As an urban school leader and a teacher educator, it is this nexus of inequality—education reform—that I have been coming to terms with over the past decade, and which I think holds important lessons for us all. The legacy of educational inequality is impossible to deny. Black slaves attained literacy at the threat of torture. Abolition brought segregation, and separate was never equal. We are still segregated, and we are still unequal. As many are quick to point out, there remains a large “achievement gap” between the educational success of whites and students of color. In many ways, the issue of educational inequality has come to the forefront of our collective consciousness, as many politicians, philanthropists, and voices in the field of education are hyper-focused on the achievement gap. But there are many problems with this framing of the problem, and education reforms that ostensibly aim to close the achievement gap completely confuse and contradict the most fundamental aims and principles of education and equity. In schools across the United States, a focus on the achievement gap has placed enormous pressure on schools to focus on the standardized test scores that serve to quantify that achievement. This has led to a narrowing of curriculum and to a perpetual erosion of what it means to be educated. The equation of educational success with standardized test scores has negatively impacted schools throughout the country, but it has had the most pronounced effect on Black students in urban schools. I have worked in, and researched, these schools, and my take-aways are the same as many others: well-intentioned, dedicated, hardworking educators are effectively forced to narrow curriculum, teach to the test, and enforce behavioristic and authoritarian

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discipline policies in the name of ensuring academic “success.” Charter schools succumb to the demand for “success” by drilling their students to improve test scores and pushing out difficult and low-performing students who return to their local public school. Charters then claim to be more “successful” than those same public schools, which puts pressure on public schools to emulate the “data-driven” practices of the charter schools. This is our current answer to the complex task of educating most of our nation’s children. Meanwhile, many private schools continue to move in the opposite direction, offering project-based education aimed at critical thinking, intellectual independence, and early childhood play. My visits to elite private schools and urban public and charter schools have revealed vastly different approaches to education—differences that only deepen social and economic inequality. Yet many Americans support and seek to expand the reach of such “reforms” in the name of closing the achievement gap. A narrative of Black educational progress vis-à-vis disciplined focus on standardized assessments has replaced the narrative of Black inferiority. But the opposite of a great lie is another great lie. For many, education is seen as a conveyor belt of social progress. By focusing on educational equality, it would seem that we could eventually close the societal gaps of inequity. Yet it is precisely because this notion is so tempting that many of us have fallen prey to misguided and misleading education policies. Who could argue with closing the achievement gap and allowing “no excuses” for unequal success between races? It is very important that we come to see the folly of the education practices and policies that hide behind such misleading rhetoric and to seriously (re)consider the connections between bad policy, race, and money. Our educational systems are not moving in the wrong direction because better policies are unknown. They are moving in the wrong direction for many of the same reasons labor policy moved in the wrong direction four hundred years ago—because they serve the interests of economic elites. As conservative media mogul Rupert Murdoch has pointed out, education represents at least a $500 billion market. To have so much money tied up in the public sphere, removed from the machinations of market-based capitalism, constitutes an enormous problem—and challenge—to many capitalists whose sole desire is to maximize profits. It should not be surprising that there are very powerful people and neoliberal corporations working hard to find a way to profit from the business of education. Capitalism requires the perpetual creation of monetary value to fulfill the demand for economic growth. This means that things that do not have monetary value must be converted and transformed into things that do have monetary value. This is why we are now converting as many services as possible—like education—into monetary ex-

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changes to feed the greed of the market. The goal of neoliberal capitalism is the privatization of everything. As Diane Ravitch has painstakingly documented and explained, the current trajectory of education reform—built on the quantification of educational value, the proliferation of charter schools, and the ongoing “failure” of public schools—is leading toward the increasing privatization of education. No Child Left Behind (NCLB) and Race to the Top (RTTT) have codified systems of evaluation that ensure that “success” for all is literally impossible. The system is rigged against public schools to ensure ongoing “failure,” which allows corporate profiteering in education in the name of addressing this perpetual failure. This marketization and privatization of education is being sold, advertised, and bought (literally and figuratively) as a means of liberation for those whom it is harming the most—Black children. Enveloping the tragedies of murderous police and imprisoned Black fathers is what racism looks like in the twenty-first century—paradoxical and complex, but still rooted in the economic interests of capitalist elites. Insidiously, notions of social justice are being used to perpetuate racial (in)equality. Progressive neoliberalism is a great lie. Over the past thirty years, education reform has become an important example of the contradicting realities of our mythical “post-racial” society. Many people do not see these contradictions and mollifications because they do not interpret the rhetoric of the “achievement gap” in the context of structural racism and economic inequality, are not aware of the actual experience of students of color in urban public and charter schools, and do not necessarily know what the basic principles of teaching, learning, and development are. It is very important that we bring this situation to light in its full context and connect the dots between money, race, power, and education policy in a way that enables positive change to happen. Schools cannot do it alone, but neither can we foster a positive economic and social revolution without attending to the education of the next generation. The opposite of a great lie is a great lie. We need to know our history.

Chapter Three

Apartheid and Symbolic Violence in the New Latin@ South Reflections and Implications René Antrop-González

FROM THE MIDWEST TO THE DEEP SOUTH: WHY I was a faculty member who taught in the second languages program at the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee, for twelve years. My work involved teaching courses to pre-service and in-service teachers who aspired to become certified in bilingual education and/or ESL. I also conducted research centered on describing the schooling experiences of Latin@ students enrolled in urban schools. I was drawn to Milwaukee because of its reputation of being a place that embraced progressive educational movements, especially bilingual education, and its role in marginalized communities. Milwaukee Public Schools, for example, has a number of language-immersion and duallanguage-immersion schools and other types of schools that draw on their students’ first languages and cultures in order for them serve as bridges to acquiring English. Many of these bilingual-education programs implicitly conduct social justice work, as they do not view their students, their families, and/or their communities as deficits that need to be fixed, thrown away, and replaced with a monocultural way of thinking of the world and expressing these thoughts in a dominant language. Hence, these schools engage in efforts to problematize and work against the various forms of symbolic violence and subtractive schooling that often characterize the work of schools in the United States. While I had the honor of working with, and growing from, pre-service and in-service teachers, schools, and community-based organizations in this city, a new opportunity presented itself to me. 25

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I discovered a search for a faculty position at a state college located in rural northwest Georgia. While the thought of living and working in a rural southern town was never an appealing idea to me, I had no choice but to think twice about this particular position for four primary reasons. First, this college was located in a New Latin@ South (NLS) area. NLS areas are defined as areas located in the southern United States that have recently become major destination points for Latin@s. In this particular area known for its abundance of carpet mills, immigrants from México, Guatemala, Honduras, and El Salvador have established themselves and their families in order to work and enjoy a piece of the “American dream.” This town now has a 50 percent Latin@ population that dates back to the 1980s. In fact, many Latin@s can boast of having been born and raised in this area. Second, the college where I now work is an emerging Hispanic serving institution (HSI). A postsecondary institution becomes an HSI when its Latin@ student population reaches 25 percent. Currently, this college has a 23 percent Latin@ student population. As an HSI, the college will qualify for special federal funding with the purpose of recruiting and retaining Latin@ students and offering them additional services, such as dedicated advising and mentorship. Hence, the thought of being part and parcel of shaping this institution’s mission and role as a potential HSI was compelling to me. Third, as a state that is hostile to immigrants without documentation, the thought of working with community-based organizations that were actively involved in fighting for the rights of immigrants without documentation was an opportunity that I relished. Fourth, the prospect of working with teachers who served Latin@ students in schools was exciting. Thus, as a result of applying and interviewing for this faculty position, I was hired. I was on my way to Georgia. At the time of this writing, I have resided here for a year and a half. This chapter is a reflection of my experiences with apartheid and symbolic violence and their implications for this NLS area. REFLECTIONS ON APARTHEID AND SYMBOLIC VIOLENCE IN THE NEW LATIN@ SOUTH Georgia is an English only and Show me your papers state. Consequently, apartheid and symbolic violence are manifested in various ways. First, although this NLS town where I live is comprised of a majority of people of color with a 50 percent Latin@ and a 5 percent African American population, the power structure is not representative of its citizens. Thus, with the exception of one African American male school board member, all members of the city council and school board, the mayor, and the U.S. congressperson are white, male, and Republican. Additionally, Latin@s have not even been appointed to assume important roles. As a clear political manifestation of

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apartheid, Latin@s are simply governed and controlled by the racial minority. Moreover, according to school district data, 70 percent of this area’s public school student population is Latin@. Yet there is very little representation among this school district’s administration and teacher corps. As a result, Latin@ students do not see themselves in their schools’ leadership and teachers. This form of symbolic violence sends the message that Latin@s are only wanted in the carpet mills and other manufacturing work where they labor to support the generation of ample profit margins for their factory owners and upper-level managers. Undoubtedly, this lack of ethnic representation sends a devastating message to students of color; namely, that adults who look like them are not capable of assuming positions of leadership in schools. Because Georgia is an English only state, there is a clear expectation that schools play active roles in making sure that students acquire English at the expense of their first language and culture. This form of schooling works to supplant students’ first language and culture and induces linguistic and cultural amnesia so they forget who they are and where they come from. Colonial schooling is still very much alive and well where I live and work. To make matters worse, unfortunately, there are no schools in this NLS area that have bilingual education programs that work to respect, support, and affirm Latin@ students’ fund of knowledge. Another form of symbolic violence is the police roadblocks frequently conducted in the NLS community where I live. As a Show me your papers state, local police in Georgia have the power to conduct surprise roadblocks in which they ask drivers to produce their licenses. Because immigrants without documentation are not permitted to have licenses in Georgia by law, a police officer has the authority to arrest and detain a Brown person who is not able to produce a license and arrange to have that individual sent to Atlanta for deportation. I have heard many stories from students and other community members of family members being torn away from them with very little hope of being returned to their homes. These legally sanctioned forms of violence that target Latina@s cause brutal psychological trauma. As a result, much fear exists among the undocumented. Another form of symbolic violence that has been legally sanctioned in Georgia since 2011 prohibits Latin@s without documentation from being admitted into the “top 5” University System of Georgia postsecondary institutions (University of Georgia, Georgia State University, Georgia Technical University, Georgia Regents University, and Kennesaw State University). In the state’s remaining postsecondary institutions, students without documentation can be admitted if they pay out-of-state tuition rates, which are cost prohibitive. With a Republican governor and majority Republican legislature, there is very little hope that these New Jim Crow laws will be dismantled in the near future. Certainly, the various forms of apartheid and symbolic

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violence I have described have caused much despair and fear in this NLS community. Nonetheless, there is work to be done with very real implications of hope in the NLS. IMPLICATIONS OF HOPE IN THE NEW LATIN@ SOUTH Although living and political conditions are challenging for Latin@s, and I often become frustrated at what I deem to be a lack of progress where I live, I am inspired to be hopeful thanks to pockets of resistance. One such pocket of resistance is evidenced with the work of La Coalición de Líderes Latinos, Inc. (CLILA). CLILA is an immigrant-rights, community-based organization (CBO) that was founded by América Gruner in 2006. CLILA is an allvolunteer CBO funded by donations and offers adult ESL and U.S. citizenship classes and sponsors immigration policy orientation sessions facilitated by attorneys who are trusted. Additionally, CLILA conducts Latin@ voter registration drives and cultural events. I have the honor of working with CLILA and being witness to the perseverance that its workers consistently display. I have hope that we will inspire additional Latin@s to volunteer their time and energy to this important work. I also have hope that the Latin@ youth who reside in this NLS community will be inspired to demand change and the opportunity to assume positions of power that will positively transform and impact the life chances of people of color. One such group that inspires me is the Latin@ youth I work with in a high school. I have begun to conduct a photovoice project with colleagues in which the youth we work with are armed with cameras in order to document their lives through photography. We are planning to display these pictures in community exhibit spaces where we will invite members of the power structure and be allied with the hope of raising much needed consciousness around the struggles Latin@ youth, their families, and their communities face on an everyday basis. It is also my hope that the Latin@ youth themselves will be moved to make a difference in additional ways as a result of this project. The work we have ahead of us is long and arduous, and the struggles of immigrants without documentation may get worse before they get better. Nonetheless, we must forge ahead in our objective to stop the assaults on our communities of color.

Chapter Four

I Get Angry The Quandary of Post-Racialism Chezare A. Warren

Inquiring whether we live in a post-racial society demands we interrogate whoever decides who lives, who dies, and how jurisprudential sentencing for the use of deadly force is reached. How does society reconcile the disproportionate numbers of murdered Black men? Who ends up shouldering this burden? The family of the murdered, the justice system, or the murdered individuals whose skin color made a white person scared? How does fear shade perceptions of fairness and impartiality among individuals of different races? Unpacking why Blacks are deemed threatening is a significant question. This is especially true if we consider the ways institutions operate that have deadly impact on people of color. When I consider questions such as these, I get angry. The grimace on my face represents the stress that floods my body: a result of the cumulative assaults against Black sons and daughters in the United States for over four hundred years. The intimate details that make up acts of terror against Black bodies may go largely unnoticed, but they remain alive in the stories, behaviors, and apprehensions of my friends and family. Blacks live in an age when racialized life experiences and the deadly consequences of being born Black are broadcast on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Social media transmits our stories in real time, making them accessible to others who may not hear or see them otherwise. Because of this visibility, I am bombarded with examples of how being both Black and male can have life-threatening results. Black folks, already grief stricken by repeated acts of assault, are further violated when they view and read ignorant comments, posts, and memes. These social media leave a residue of abuse that weighs heavily on my mind. 29

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I live with this burden because my skin color ascribes meaning. I cannot afford to be post-racial, even if I tried. Institutions that are supposed to protect all of us do not to seem to care about the perpetual loss of Black life. Is this the quality of a post-racial society? My emotions and rage are not compatible with accepting the state’s murdering of unarmed Black boys. White supremacy is about white people, consciously or unconsciously, using power and privilege to ensure an outcome that is self-beneficial. Is the rhetoric of post-racialism a cover-up for the vicious role modeling offered by white supremacist patriarchal capitalists? “Black-on-Black” crime is an outgrowth of the unnatural conditions whiteness has created. Looting is not exclusively Black behavior. Nor is criminality. In times like these—sluggish economy, high rates of joblessness, and decaying public schools—it is not surprising that disempowered individuals take to the streets and toss bricks. The American dream has been more rhetoric than reality for them. Does being post-racial require a double standard for the dominant group? If yes, then “looting” in the streets is no worse than white CEO’s who loot, steal, and squander people’s 401K and life savings. I get angry. But I am supposed to “know better.” White supremacy tells me that since I am a professor, I do not have much in common with Trayvon Martin or Michael Brown, besides the fact I am Black and male. But, I wear hoodies. I eat Skittles. And I drink iced tea. I also have a caring mother and father. I have walked in the middle of the street, and I have asked a white man, “Why are you following me?” I have been wrongly accused and suspected of wrongdoing. I also have a past that attempts to haunt me at times. The only differences between Martin, Brown, and me is that I have survived and lived another day—a day I have used to write about my frustrations. Martin, Brown, and countless other Black males were less fortunate than I. Do my academic credentials and accomplishments protect me from being judged in the same tragic manner as Martin, Brown, and/or Eric Garner? I am afraid not. Case in point, Henry Louis Gates, an eminent Harvard professor, was suspected of breaking into his own house by police! We live in deeply troubling times, for sure. Post-racialism is a farce, and living beyond race is impossible because it carries meaning; it always has, and it always will. If race were insignificant, white men, Latino men, and Black men would be shot and choked dead by police at similar rates. How we see the world matters just as much, if not more, than what we see in the world. Perception shapes the meaning that we assign to skin color, which in turn influences behavior and decision making regarding those who are different from us. Being “Black” has its own set of assumptions and presuppositions that guide interpersonal interactions. Why was it disconcerting to some people, many white, when President Obama offered empathy to Black parents when he reflected that if he had a son, he

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could easily have been Trayvon? Mr. Obama is a Black man with a Black wife and Black children and comes from the south side of Chicago, a predominantly Black section of the city. His reflection was uncomfortable for many whites because race represents a set of feelings and beliefs that do not change, even when we are looking at the leader of the free world. Images and narratives that do not support existing conceptions of Blackness can be quite jarring for people. To scream we are now post-racial is to deny the legacy of race and racism in the United States. Post-racialism minimizes the deleterious impact racialized legislation, such as slavery, Plessy v. Ferguson, and Jim Crow laws, had and still has on the experiences and freedoms of Black people in this country. To claim that we live in post-racial America is to discount the pain and anguish of the Black families who are left to grapple with the untimely deaths of their loved ones. It also subverts efforts to remember the bravery, blood, and sacrifice of our Black ancestors who built this country. The thought of being post-racial makes me angry. I understand why some people believe being post-racial is commonsensical. We have made progress. But racism happens in our blind spots. It is hard to notice racialized behavior and its hegemonic logic if you are white and have never had to be socialized to notice race’s salience. It is hard to recognize that racism is still a “thing” if you are well educated and economically stable, absolved from the difficulties of living on $8.25 to feed a family of five. How is it that multiple Black boys and men can be fatally assaulted by whites, who serve no time for their crimes? The assault on communities of color is happening to men of color of all socioeconomic backgrounds with varying degrees of educational attainment. I often wonder, am I next? Meanings assigned to Blackness are too often apparitions of fear and intimidation. How can we be post-racial if we are afraid of Black people? If I were white, and considering all that white people have done to nonwhites in the United States, I might be a little bit fearful and intimidated too. Many Black people would agree that we should all move beyond race and racism and make these facts a relic of the past. We want to move on. Events such as the death of an unarmed Black male followed by the exoneration of his white killer, however, make it hard to believe that America really wants to move forward. Much like the bull whip wielded against Black men and women to maintain control of them on the cotton plantation, today the badge and pistol symbolize the whip as for ensuring niggers stay in their place. America watches as police officers lock up Black men to form the New Jim Crow. This is a contemporary reign of power for those who speak out or oppose excessive force. Being silent about such matters in order to move forward is yet another form of violence. Hence, to be post-racial, or to look beyond race to see our shared humanity, denies that people of color are disproportionately disadvantaged by systems and institutions meant to serve them.

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Thus, I am angry. We are angry. Consider this chapter to be one way that I am setting fire to the Eurocentric sensibilities that attempt to insulate me from the ever-present reality and complications, joys, and difficulties of being a Black man in America. And if it can happen to Oscar Grant, Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, Kimani Gray, Kendrec McDade, Timothy Russell, Ervin Jefferson, Amadou Diallo, Timothy Stansbury Jr., Jordan Davis, Sean Bell, Orlando Barlow, Aaron Campbell, Eric Garner, and so many others, it can happen to me. It, mistaken identity, mislabeling as deviant, misinterpretation of my intention to help, and so forth, can happen to me, not because we live in a post-racial society, but because there is a way of reading Black and Brown skin that can have deadly consequences. If you are a white person reading this chapter, do not feel guilty or ashamed. If you have a burden, wear it proudly and do something constructive. Your burden cannot compare to mine. All of us must find our revolutionary voice, and act accordingly. This signals solidarity and support that justice will be served. When we combine our faith, we can overturn oppressive systems that attempt to marginalize those who do not fit into conceptions of “good” and “appropriate.” I invite you to be just as angry as I am. No more looking at a Black president and the advances of Black people in wealth accumulation as signs we are living in some mythical post-racial epoch. Race matters, and it will continue to have meaning. Being different makes us stronger. Ignorance is one of the greatest threats to all of our wellbeing, not emotionally charged Black people “looting” in Ferguson. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are all implicated and impacted. Who really gets to decide who lives and who dies, and who gets a lifetime locked up, literally and figuratively, to reflect on the implications of the crime? There is no Black or white answer to the aforementioned questions. There are Black and white, and Asian, and Latino answers—all of them different and important for creating a more safe, inclusive, and equitable society. If all of our voices matter, then we must take being post-racial off the table for discussion. We, as in those who notice injustice, cannot afford to be quiet. Post-racialism is an attempt to silence people of color and maintain oppressive conditions. It substitutes the pain and fear felt in our physical body over the assault on communities of color with a sort of Kum-bah-ya moment that lulls us to sleep. We will not be distracted. #BlackLivesMatter. We have to stand up! We all have to be angry! No justice, no peace!

Chapter Five

Ferguson and the Violence of “It’s-AllAbout-Me” White Liberalism Paul C. Gorski

The violence always descends in waves. In the wake of the grand jury’s decision not to indict the murderer of Michael Brown, the violence was palpable, wave after wave. It wielded whiteness. Worse, it wielded white liberalism—the kind of whiteness in which the good white people swim, dousing themselves in the safest racial politics, worried if they plunge too deep their hair may get wet. There are countless markers of white liberalism, and they are all laid bare when white supremacy hits the fan. White liberalism is the desire for endless dialogue without a commitment for action. White liberalism is the desire for racial harmony without a commitment to racial justice. White liberalism is a desire to be invited peacefully into a conversation without a commitment to listen or act. White liberalism is a desire to tell people of color the most productive way to advance their liberation. These are waves of violence. The complicity of white liberalism, as much as anything, is the cause of police brutality disproportionately leveled against communities of color. White liberalism is the delusion that white people should be able to enjoy the path toward racial justice. If you are white, you might think I hate white people. I am white, as are my mother, sister, father, and closest friend. My grandmother—the biggest inspiration in my life—is white and Appalachian. White liberalism is being so invested in my self-appointed anti-bias identity, to be so self-involved in my white goodness, that I am unable to bear rightful vitriol pointed at racism without making myself the victim. Somehow it seemed like half the discourse on Facebook about the Ferguson protests was about good white people feeling like they were the targets of hate. 33

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If you are a white liberal, perhaps you will feel better knowing from me, as a white person who has been embedded for a couple of decades with racially and otherwise diverse racial justice movements: Nobody I know who commits her life to racial-justice work or other kinds of justice work sees the world that way. Nobody I know who commits her life to racial justice sees individual white oppressors, liberal or not, as the problem. Nobody. Hell—if it was that simple, racism would be considerably easier to solve. It is much more complex, much scarier, and much more insidious. Not understanding this is violence. And, by the way, if you do feel better about this reality, that is also a sign of white liberalism. What I see is a society in which white people on average gain substantial benefits from their whiteness. Actually, this is not just what I see, it is very well documented, and it is irrefutable. Every system and structure in the United States—law enforcement, criminal justice, education, every single one—protects and benefits white people at the expense of people of color. Irrefutable. African Americans are 15 percent of drug users overall in the United States but 60 percent of people in prison for drug offenses. Irrefutable. The War on Drugs was developed strategically, in part, to target communities of color, especially low-income urban communities, even though white people are more likely to use illicit drugs than people of color. Irrefutable. The education system in the United States is increasingly re-segregating and disproportionately people of color are sent to the most dilapidated, most underfunded schools. Irrefutable. Justifications for this structural violence, which include that parents of color do not care as much about their children’s education and that African Americans commit more crime than white people, are factually false. Factually false. That is right: white people commit proportionately just as many crimes as African Americans, but are less likely to be arrested, less likely to be convicted, and less likely to be sentenced to prison, even if we look across the same types of crimes and people with the same records. These are systems that were designed by wealthy white people, and continue to be controlled by wealthy white people, to the benefit of white and wealthy people. I am not suggesting that every white person working in those systems is purposefully being a racist or even that they are interpersonally bigoted. But the frustration in my work, as a white person doing racial and economic justice stuff, is that because white people benefit from these systems, to more or less of an extent depending on other factors such as their economic situation, their sexual orientation, and the like, most white people do not see these conditions, or at least not their sum implications. And those who do see these conditions or their sum implications can easily ignore or justify them, and in fact pretty much have to do so in order to fit into mainstream ideologies, including liberalism.

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White liberalism is believing, essentially, that a level playing field exists already or thinking that we just need to tweak existing systems into shape. White liberalism is not recognizing that the lack of indictment of Brown’s murderer is the best evidence that the system is working precisely as it was designed to work. That is not necessarily the fault of any individual white person, at least initially, in the sense that we are socialized to see everything as equal because that positions us to blame marginalized communities for not “achieving” to the same extent as white people in school or for being in prison at greater rates than white people. I must have seen a hundred posts on Facebook during the Ferguson protests by white people claiming that African Americans are in prison more than white people and experience disproportionate police brutality because they commit more crimes. A lie has become common sense. That is violence. This violence is also a product of white liberal socialization, and it is not an accident. It allows us, or trains us, to always point our scorn down the power continuum and denigrate the most marginalized people in society rather than looking up the power continuum and asking ourselves whether the world we think we see is real and who benefits from the actual reality. Complicating matters even further, low-income, working-class, and even middle-class white people also are largely screwed by these systems and structures, but they are screwed to a lesser degree than people of color, particularly people of color in their own economic bracket or in lower economic brackets. And again, this is complicated further when we consider issues like gender, sexual orientation, or disability. Working-class and poor white people are not safe from police brutality, either, or from systems that also have been set up to protect wealthier people at the expense of lowerincome people, like the criminal justice and legal systems. But that they are protected to a greater extent than people of color is like a carrot leading them to support the systems that do not even give them a fair shake. White liberalism is aligning with a ruling class to which one does not belong. White liberalism is retreating to one’s socialization, to the easy analysis that protects us as white people from any sort of reflection on how we are complicit in sustaining an irrefutably racist society, not just interpersonally but also structurally. Many of the kindest souls among us are complying with the process of always looking down rather than up the power continuum when we are attempting to understand what is happening around us. That is violence. Returning to my statement that the existing structures of racism are not the fault of individual white people initially, at some point we do have access to the information that would allow us to see things with more complexity. And with that access we make a choice about whether we will engage in this conversation in ways that include us within the circle of oppression or that

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allow us to hide behind our masks of white liberalism. We decide what we do or do not want to acknowledge. Here is the eternal challenge: when things get hot, what do we decide, knowing that “hot” for us might mean feeling temporarily targeted with scorn, even when we are not; “hot” for us will never mean experiencing a lifetime of racism while we are being sold equal opportunity? White liberalism is investing more of our emotional energies in protesting the anger than on the conditions that have made the anger. It is a luxury for white people to experience justified angriness while avoiding the hard work of racial justice. Or, to minimize less peaceful protest as purely about anger rather than recognizing it as an orchestrated statement. Or, to not be astounded by how a vast majority of people of color and other oppressed people remain peaceful even in the face of the most violent forms of oppression. This, to me, is related to a willingness among many white liberals to embrace an illusion of racial harmony even as we have been unwilling to fight for racial justice, which is the only real path to racial harmony. It harkens to Martin Luther King Jr.’s notion that the biggest stumbling block when it comes to eliminating racism is not the KKKer, but the white moderate who, in the end, is more invested in the existing social order than in justice. As long as we as white people can have a conversation about race that is framed in ways to protect the feelings of white people, a lot more white people tend to engage, which helps explain the viral nature of that recent photograph of the African American child hugging the police officer. For these and other reasons, the conversation about Ferguson is not, and cannot become, about the protection of white people’s feelings. No conversation about justice can become that, and the fact that many white people have made it about their feelings, their sense of being targeted individually, is a reflection of the bigger issues that underlie Ferguson and that ensure the conversation goes nowhere. That is part of the way that kind, gentle, caring white people get sucked into the complicity with racism, even when we do not want to be complicit. As a white person, it is my responsibility to find a way to stay engaged in the conversation, to sustain my sense of responsibility, even when, especially when, it gets uncomfortable. Because in the end it is not about me, except to the extent that I am willing to be in a difficult conversation I have no right to control.

Chapter Six

“I Need to Check with Corporate” Dana L. Bickmore

In 1975, I fancied myself a budding intellectual. After two years at a liberal arts college, I perceived myself meaningfully interacting and processing major world philosophies and literature. Yet one of the most impactful literacies affecting my nascent world view was not from the classics, but a dystopian film, Rollerball, starring James Caan. The premise of the film was that a few global corporations had grown powerful enough to control and then replace governments. The board of corporate CEOs negotiated how all aspects of the world would function. In order to manage conflict and individualism and to control the masses, this board developed a game called Rollerball. Each corporation managed one Rollerball team but collectively decided how teams would operate and when teams would win or lose. The masses became passive consumers of a “rigged” game that met basic needs and desires rather than requiring individuals to be actively engaged in meaningful collective dialogue, debate, and decision making. My emerging beliefs in democratic principles, principles that required the messy interactions of “the people” in developing and sustaining the common good were reinforced by this film. Fast forward nearly forty years to a recent experience I had in developing a research project. The study is an investigation of how opening a charter school might affect traditional public schools (TPSs) from the perspectives of the leaders, teachers, and parents of the schools. The plan was to involve four urban elementary schools, three TPSs, and the charter school that would draw from the attendance areas of the three TPSs. I made initial in-person contacts with the four school principals to elicit participation. At each TPS, I entered the building and was greeted by a “gatekeeper” receptionist. Upon my request to talk to the principal, I was guided back to the principal’s office. The three traditional principals had similar responses to my initial request. 37

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They would be willing to participate and support the research once I had gone through the “district’s” research approval process. I then went to the charter school. Although this charter was approved by the local school district and required by law to be a nonprofit organization, the charter board had contracted with a for-profit educational management organization (EMO). The contract meant that the EMO was responsible for all aspects of the school—curriculum, instruction, assessments, and management. When I arrived at the school I went to the exterior doors to the main office, which were locked. I heard a buzz and I again pulled the door and entered into a foyer that was separated from the building with glass walls and another door. The receptionist asked my purpose, I told her, she went back into a room, came out, and said the principal could see me. She then asked for my driver’s license, which she ran through a machine that printed my ID badge. I was then buzzed into the school building. I sat down with the principal and explained the purpose of the research and the commitment I was seeking. She then said, “I will need to check with Corporate.” Below is an excerpt from a reflective research memo written immediately upon returning to my office from the meeting with this charter principal. Why was the word “corporate” so disturbing to me in the context of talking to this principal? The traditional principals had asked me to affirm with the district that it was alright to proceed; why then did getting permission from “corporate” seem so completely different? Maybe it was because the experience did not seem like school to me. Maybe I was initially put off by being buzzed into the building like a prison. Does a word—corporate vs. district— really signify something wholly different or are these both just a representation of a bureaucratic hierarchy where power rests not with those closest to the work but with those nebulously removed from the core interaction with children? I really need to ponder my reaction.

I write this chapter three weeks after the incident. I have had some time to ponder and discuss my experience and reaction with colleagues. Although I have not reached stasis related to my thoughts and feelings, I have come to tentative conclusions. First, language matters. As my colleagues in English point out, word choice represents specific meaning and that meaning carries nuances of thought, mental models, and perceptions. Second, the word “corporate” represents something completely different from what I perceive to be the meaning of schooling. At the crux of traditional schooling are children. The idealized notion of schooling in a democracy is to serve the individual child’s needs and goals and to promote a collective good for society. Colleagues suggest this is a naïve understanding of the real purpose of schools. Those colleagues who examine schooling from a critical lens suggest schools serve those in power to maintain the status quo and perpetuate a class system where people of

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color and the poor are educated to meet economic needs of society and those in power. In other words, schools do not serve the individual or the public good, but the good of those in power. Through this lens, individuals have no meaning, and children are simply cogs in a wheel that rolls to perpetuate inequity. I choose to believe at microlevels, the classroom and the building level that educators think of children as children and engage in their work to serve human beings, doing the best they can to enhance children’s lives and society. In this view, the process of decision making is measured by how schooling has improved student capacity, their lives, and how educators provide service to the community. In contrast, the purpose of for-profit corporations is, in fact, profit. Forprofit EMOs exist to produce a product that consumers will buy. Children are reduced to the product and parents/guardians are courted as consumers. In producing the product, the goal is to do so at the lowest possible cost, maintaining minimum quality to assure consumer “satisfaction.” In education, where personnel are the vast majority of the production cost, the goal would be to reduce personnel costs by perpetually hiring less costly employees, new and inexperienced teachers, and administrators. In addition, there needs to be an economy of scale, meaning standardization of all aspects of production. Production in education equates to curriculum, instruction, assessment, and management. Where the original purpose of charter schools was to promote innovation through autonomy to school-level personnel, the entrance of the corporation has led to less variance at the school level to maintain cost efficiencies. Think McDonald’s. Although there may be some limited variation based on local demands, you know you are in a McDonald’s whether in Beijing or Fargo, North Dakota. Every restaurant is required to adhere to the operational aspects of the corporation. Standardization is not exclusive to for-profit corporations. Not-for-profit EMOs look and act similarly to the for-profit EMOs, using standardization as a means to “sell” their brand. A quick Google search reveals that nonprofit corporations, although required to form for a public good, are not barred from making a profit. Another Google search will indicate that CEOs of the larger not-for-profit EMOs are paid handsomely, often more than state superintendents of schools. As with TPSs, however, I choose to believe that building-level personnel in corporate-run charter schools think in traditional notions of schooling. Most faculty members are there because they want to serve children. The sense of having a “calling” is often what sustains educators in the difficult daily interactions with children in schools. Educators are reduced, however, from being nurturing guides with artistic expressions to being line items in the cost of production. With greater standardization, the value of individualism is stifled. Educators at the building level are ever more required to standardize practice based on corporate demands. These operational stan-

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dards are conceived and transferred far from the local context, with large EMOs operating in multiple states. Thus, as I asked the principal if she would be willing to participate in the study, her answer was not “I would love to” or “Let me think about it” or “I need more information” or “No, my faculty and I do not have the time”: her first response was, “I need to check with Corporate,” Corporate being in another state. What does the growing loss of individual, personalized, contextualized education have to do with the call for chapters in this book—The Assault on Communities of Color? To address this question, one more piece of information related to the EMO story is important. The vast majority of charter schools managed by EMOs, in my experience, are located in urban areas, composed of products and students of color. One of the “selling” points of charter schools, as outlined by law and the popular rhetoric, is that charters are a means to address the failures of traditional public schools in serving the needs of the urban poor and historically underrepresented by introducing the market, choice, and entrepreneurial experimentation to education. It is easier to experiment with poor consumers of color than middle- and upper-middleclass white consumers. It is also easier to corporatize curriculum, instruction, assessment, and management in urban environs of color and poverty. Earlier I used McDonald’s as the example of corporatization. I did so not only because McDonald’s represents a highly standardized corporate model, but because McDonald’s also represents the low end of the market. McDonald’s is not known for its healthy, high-quality food choices. It exists to feed the masses at the lowest possible cost, with the highest possible profit. McDonald’s are often present in less affluent communities of color where options other than fast food are limited. As I noticed in the Hispanic community in which I worked for five years, when McDonald’s moved to this community of color, three locally owned restaurants that provided menus that reflected the culture of the area disappeared. Those colleagues who argue that the current model of schooling is an assault on communities of color because the process maintains class and race inequities might suggest that corporate schooling could be no worse. In some ways, corporate schooling might be a more honest way of socializing students to their supposed place in society. Where local community contexts might have had some influence on principals, teachers, and students, corporate schooling might be just the ticket to completely wipe out individualism and keep products/consumers in their place. If we give poor families of color the false hope of choice between two equally poor alternatives, McDonald’s or Burger King, those in power might continue to maintain their control, with the meaningful and collective dialogue/debate about what is best for children occurring farther and farther from the point of delivery, resting in the hands of a few corporations. EMOs are consolidating, with fewer small noncorporate charter schools opening. As one of our former PhD students told me as

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she tried to open a local single charter school in Louisiana, the state is trying to authorize only those providers with track records—schools run by large EMOs. By corporatizing education and providing the appearance of choice in communities of poverty and color, the hope might be to lessen the likelihood of consumers being actively engaged in meaningful collective decision making. I would suggest that this shift toward corporate control and standardization is yet another more organized assault on communities of color. In other words, give the poor huddled masses the equivalent of educational Rollerball.

Chapter Seven

Skittles, AriZona Iced Tea, and Cigarettes The Price of Black Lives in a “Post-Racial” America Leigh Jefferson Griffin

What is going on? This is the question many people across the country, regardless of their race, are asking in the wake of the highly publicized murders of several Black men and children in the past few years. I say highly publicized to highlight the fact that this has always happened; it just has not been reported as frequently as now. With the election of President Barack Obama, and the advent and proliferation of social media and high technology, the racial awareness of citizens has been heightened. Remember when early Tea Party protests displayed racist images of our president as a monkey and witch doctor? Remember why the Tea Party was founded? Closeted racists are boiling over: How did the United States of America allow a Black person (and I am sure they use another term) win the presidency? White racism, unfortunately, has gone from commentary to declaring open season on Black lives. The reckless disregard for Black lives seen lately across the country is not new; it has been happening for centuries. What is new is that many are taking off their colorblind glasses and beginning to see for the first time that the justice system was not designed to protect citizens; it was made to distance white people from Black people. JIM CROW IS JAMES CROW, ESQ. I grew up in a small town in south Louisiana; I am no stranger to racism and oppression. My parents, who also grew up in south Louisiana and were very 43

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active with the Civil Rights Movement, taught me all the lessons a Black child should know early: follow the rules; do not stop on the highway; pull into a well-lit area or store so you have witnesses; do not talk back to the police; get your education ’cause “they” cannot take that from you; go to an HBCU where you know you will be judged on your merits and not your race; and you have got to be twice as smart to get the same job, etc. I did all these things: I graduated from high school at the top of my class, went to Southern University, graduating with honors, got a job in a top school district, and obtained my master’s degree and moved up the career ladder pretty quickly. Here I am, a rule follower, college graduate, educator, wife, mother: I have made it! Or so I thought. I returned home to a small town in Louisiana recently to visit my dad. I visited a grocery store, armed with my new knowledge, and I was treated like a second-class citizen. A white policeman eyed me suspiciously, a white customer nearly knocked me over with her basket without so much as saying, “Excuse me,” and when I took out my debit card to pay I was asked by the cashier if I was paying with food stamps. The narrative about Black people in this country does not account for how much education you have, how much money you earn, or how good a citizen you are. I asked myself if this was the kind of treatment I had been receiving all along but did not know it. Did I not follow the rules and fulfill the American dream? I have friends with similar stories of mistreatment, and my story is very mild when compared to what others go through, but it happened. Much plays into cases of racial bias and oppression, but I would like to focus on the damned if you do, damned if you don’t aspect of my story. If I manage to be treated so callously, yet I follow the rules and make it into the middle class, what happens to people who are not as lucky? Let us begin in Florida. ARMED WITH SKITTLES, ICED TEA, AND A WINK Trayvon Martin was a Black kid in a middle-class Florida neighborhood. He had Skittles and an AriZona iced tea. He was deemed, by George Zimmerman, to be in the “wrong neighborhood,” and his hoodie made him suspicious (I guess I also looked suspicious in my business attire at the grocery store in my hometown that day). He was pursued by Zimmerman, who was told directly by police not to pursue Martin. When young Martin defended himself, he was killed. Several weeks passed before Zimmerman was even arrested and charged. During the trial, Zimmerman’s defense presented the case that Zimmerman had felt threatened. There was a record of a 9-1-1 operator telling Zimmerman not to pursue Martin, but Zimmerman did anyway. There were witnesses to the incident, and yet the verdict was “not guilty.” Remember Emmitt Till? He was accused of winking at a white woman in a Mississippi convenience store and was subsequently brutally

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beaten, murdered, and left in a river to rot. The verdict for his killers was identical to that of Zimmerman. I guess winking is threatening, too. If not for the push from Till’s mom to have an open casket funeral to show how badly her young son had been beaten, and Trayvon’s parents’ push for justice, both stories would have been buried and long forgotten. Till and Martin did not know that they would be poster children for a revolution. THE MUSIC WAS “TOO LOUD” Jordan Davis and his friends were out for a drive while listening to music. Davis’s killer, Michael Dunn, thought the music was too loud. Dunn told the “punks” to turn the music down. When they did not comply, he opened fire on Davis and his friends, and Davis was killed. Dunn said he felt threatened, so he began to shoot. Dunn even fabricated a story that they shot first and had a gun. Thankfully, the jury saw through lies and found him guilty of homicide, sentencing him to life plus ninety years. Davis’s life was taken too early, but he, too, has a place in this revolution. Davis’s death is placed within a part of the larger narrative that says it is really not the behavior of the Black person, but the fact that they are Black, that is threatening to whites. WALKING IN THE STREET Michael Brown was walking in the street near his home and was told by white police officer Daren Wilson to “get the fuck out of the street.” Things quickly escalated and Brown ended up being shot to death. Wilson said he felt like a five-year-old against Brown. The grand jury consisted of six white men, three white women, two Black women, and one Black man. Nine votes were needed to indict; as was hypothesized by many Blacks outside of the grand jury proceeding, no cause was found to indict Wilson. Since when does someone’s feeling of inadequacy justify their killing someone? How can you trust the police who are supposed to protect you when they begin the conversation with, “Get the fuck out of the street”? Wilson’s command only escalated his encounter with Brown. Though the details leading up to the murder are still unclear, the fact is that jaywalking should not end in death. Would Wilson have spoken so disrespectfully to a white person? Would Wilson have wanted a fellow officer to speak this way to someone in his family, and if so, should the subsequent encounter end in death? If these questions are asked to reasonable people the answers are clear and obvious. Unfortunately, however, in the American justice system, murder only occurs when/if the victim is white.

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TOY GUN IN THE PARK Tamir Rice, a twelve-year-old boy, was killed by a police officer in a park in Cleveland, Ohio. The 9-1-1 caller stated that a guy was waving a gun in a park and scaring everyone. The caller also stated that the gun was probably fake. The 9-1-1 operator did not relay the last part of the message to the police who responded and immediately shot Rice dead. I have watched hundreds of movies where police try to disarm a suspect, but this did not happen in Rice’s case. They responded and immediately shot him. The part about Rice’s murder that is most alarming is that the officer who called it in said the suspect was a twenty-year-old male. Anyone who looks at a picture of Tamir Rice can plainly determine he is a child, not an adult. Somewhere in the American narrative of Black males, their youth has been taken from them. It was not Rice’s behavior (having a toy gun in a park), but the fact that he was Black and male that explains the severity of the police response. Rice’s murder touched my heart because I am married to a Black man and I have a Black son. I pray for them both every day and could not imagine what I would do if anything happened to them. A twelve-year-old is a child incapable of making all of the right decisions. For so many to say that he shouldn’t have had a gun takes away Rice’s humanity; he was an innocent twelve-year-old. Should one mistake and a toy gun cause him to have his life ended prematurely? “I CAN’T BREATHE” Eric Garner, a Black male in New York City, was killed by a police officer executing an illegal chokehold. The coroner ruled Garner’s death a homicide. It is against the law in New York, and contrary to police training, to use chokeholds. Despite the clear law and his training, Daniel Pantaleo, a white police officer, was not indicted. I am so sick and tired of the “police-areputting-their-lives-on-the-line” narrative. Whose life is most important? A life is a life, and they all matter. Garner repeatedly said he could not breathe, almost a dozen times, but Pantaleo continued the illegal chokehold despite Garner’s pleas. Many people say that if cops had cameras, these deaths would not occur. This position is entirely untrue. In the face of video footage, the law has consistently ruled in favor of white supremacy (cf. Rick Ayers and William Ayers’s foreword in this volume). CONCLUSION The white murderers I have written about in this chapter are alleged to have felt threatened in some way. For now, let us exclude the cases of Emmitt Till,

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Trayvon Martin, and Jordan Davis, whose killers were not police officers. Instead, examine the murders of Michael Brown, Eric Garner, and Tamir Rice—all killed by trained officers of the law. Why did they feel threatened? The narrative that Black people are criminals most likely fueled these officers’ perceptions and shaped their reality. The Jim Crow of the past has become James Crow, Esq., protecting criminals as long as they kill Black people, because Black lives do not matter to the legal system. How do we guard against this system of police brutality? While more training and body cameras can help, they are not silver bullets, and they do not address the underlying problem, as we saw in the case of Eric Garner, where film captured Garner yelling out that he could not breathe. We need, instead, a serious discussion of race without the protection of political correctness, where the discussion integrates both the centuries of issues related to race as well as the current racial landscape we live in My dad always said that he trusted someone in the Klu Klux Klan (KKK) more than the white person next door because at least he knew the KKK member hated him. My father’s statement is testimony of the fundamental distrust Black people have of white people. I pray for my husband, son, and daughter daily. While I hope our middle-class status shields them from racism, experiences like the one I described in my hometown tell me that my wish is highly unlikely. At a minimum, I hope my family does not end up murdered because a white person feels threatened.

Chapter Eight

Are We Post-Post-Race Yet? Moving Beyond the Black-White Binary towards a Mestiza/o Consciousness Amanda R. Martinez and Robert Gutierrez-Perez

Two days before the grand jury decided against indicting Darren Wilson, the police officer who shot and killed Michael Brown, we, as representatives of the Latina/o Communication Studies Division and La Raza Caucus, were united in solidarity at the inaugural intercaucus reception at the National Communication Association’s centennial conference in Chicago. The evening provided additional impetus for us to see ourselves more profoundly across intersectional identity boundaries and reach out to one another for scholarly and social justice endeavors. The well-attended event and the conversations that ensued energized us and served as a symbolic recognition that our respective caucuses desired greater intercaucus solidarity. Post-conference, we patiently awaited the grand jury decision, glued to news and social media. The decision brought tremendous disappointment, anger, heartache, and disbelief. Racial battle fatigue set in from the (micro)aggressions we experienced in the immediate aftermath and in the days to come as we felt numb, yet personally attacked by the lack of justice served. In post-grand jury discussion with others, and reflecting on our respective personal pasts as marginal tokenized “others” in privileged spaces, we asked ourselves: How can we weave what has happened into our professional endeavors? Further, we contemplated how we could use our own positions of marginality as scholars of color, and also our positions of privilege as educated critically conscious representatives of our professional division and caucus, to help affect change and sincerely dedicate

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ourselves to strengthened solidarity. Further, we asked: Are we post-postracial yet? Some say what happened is not about race and that evoking such commentary is inappropriate and unfounded; lest people of color be accused of “playing the race card,” as some would defensively conclude time and again. Surely what happened cannot be about race since we live in a post-racial era, right? Wrong. We have not transcended race as a factor in social hierarchies and everyday interactions. We urge returning to the conversation with a critical eye toward evidence that shows that race is still relevant, and that we do not live in a colorblind, post-racial society. We are tired of explaining that race matters, and we are exhausted from having to defend ourselves from racism cloaked in good intentions. Surveying social media, many would like to believe that these concerns anchored in racial undertones are Black issues alone, depending on microlevel circumstances, and attributed to bad individual choices and a history of interpersonal ill will between police and civilians. But this line of thinking is a misguided shortchanging of the fuller reality. We are all implicated in the recurring history of fatal violence enacted upon bodies of color. The responsibility to remedy this social ill belongs to us all, as humans and as people who harbor empathic sensibilities who have not lost hope in the face of grave disappointment and despair, longing for peace and justice. Media, and its 24-hour news cycle that provides a front seat view to modern day race-laced horrors as they unfold, bombards us. Communication media effects scholarship but also demonstrates that media-disseminated stereotypes promote a skewed picture from reality when compared to crime statistics and population proportions. For instance, despite the fact that violent crime has been on a downward slope since the 1990s, news media prioritize the most sensationalistic, “if it bleeds, it leads,” headlines escalating the most heinous anomalies into public memory as norms. The cultivation of a “mean world syndrome” prevails, and routine news viewers may believe that they are highly likely to be victims of violent crimes as they go about their daily routines. The imagery of the scary, dangerous, violent Black (or Brown) man pervades media genres. Content analyses show that Black men are often overrepresented as violent crime perpetrators, yet underrepresented as victims, particularly at the hands of law enforcement officers, in comparison with the actual statistics. Indeed, Latinos (Latino men, specifically) occupy similar disproportionate negative media imagery in the minds of many, despite the actual incidents of crime committed. In media crime reports the tendency remains to report more background information, including prior arrests, despite relevance when the alleged perpetrator is a person of color than when s/he is white. Audiences tend to associate negative activity with darkness and Black people. The faceless, nameless dark silhouettes displayed in the screen back-

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drops lend meaning as anchors report about crime, thematically connecting dark faces with violence and deviance. The implications for young Black men are striking. Michael Brown and Trayvon Martin are the most recent and powerful case studies for why we need to unite in solidarity as a people more than ever. Given the urgency of our needs, we refuse to conform to the Blackwhite binary that makes the experiences of other people of color invisible. As Latinos, we are intimately connected to and affected by the murders of young and unarmed men of color. As academics interested in Latina/o communication studies, we are cognizant of a long history of police killing young and unarmed Chicanos and Latinos across the country. For our community, this is not new, and through our scholarship, we remember multiple coalitions between Black and Latino communities catalyzed by the deaths of our youth. When I (Robert) was a young man, my father gave me “the talk”; you know, the one about how to “play the game” with the police so that they cannot justify their violence. I was also told how to always carry your identification, so you will not be shipped off to a detention center (a.k.a. the new internment camp). As a woman of color, I (Amanda) have been taught since childhood to work hard at everything and, not just to succeed, but to excel, especially in achieving higher education because that is one thing no one can ever take away, despite prejudices and discriminatory predispositions I may encounter in interactions with others. Occupying a marginal position entails receiving misperceptions, mistranslations, and microaggressions when failing to fit stereotypical molds. I (Amanda) often joke that if I had a dollar for every time someone, usually in casual and polite small talk, reacted (non)verbally in surprise to my education level and occupation, as a petite, young-looking woman of color, I would be free of student loan debt. As a working-class, queer man of color, I (Robert) am often tokenized to satisfy organizational and institutional goals for inclusive excellence, but when I speak or hold a position of power, I am framed as too radical, too queer, or too loud. Too often, these are the messages we hear. Though certainly not on a comparable contextual level, like Brown and Martin, the way others perceive us, regardless of how much truth those perceptions hold, has much to do with how we are then treated. The messages speak directly to whom belongs in what spaces. It is a privilege to fit neatly into dominant and positively viewed identities due to the ability to be seen as you project your own self-image in context. The marginalized in privileged spaces are not often afforded such a simple luxury. When Brown and Martin interacted with those who ultimately took their lives, miscommunication directly impacted the situations based on nonverbal readings and assumptions about each others’ actions, goals, and behavior.

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Communication about racial issues is complex and intersectional, which means our theorizing and transformations surrounding race needs to be as well. For us, a mestiza/o consciousness is a valuable tool to understand the multidimensionality of power structures operating in our everyday lives. A mestiza/o is one who has a mixed-race, mixed-nation, or mixed-ethnic heritage. Through the lived experience of this multiplicity, the mestiza/o develops a “both/and” approach that refuses to choose sides. The constant border crossing position witnesses all sides, and is a political move that utilizes ambiguity to open up spaces of resistance and agency for the marginalized mestiza/o. When confronting racial issues in the classroom, on social media, in scholarship, or in everyday life, we approach these moments with a consciousness that understands large power structures as interlocking. White supremacy, connected to capitalism, is intertwined with patriarchy is linked to heteronormativity and cis privilege, composing a multileveled matrix of domination. In the face of an enormous, ubiquitous system of oppression that, through communication, renders itself invisible in disciplining and controlling, we refuse to be one-issue scholar-activists; the act of dividing is a tool of the master. If domination is interlocking, then there are forms of resistance that are interlocking as well. We actively move through the Black-white binary to lift up and stand in solidarity with the most vulnerable. For instance, transwomen of color are oppressed on multiple levels and intersections. Despite our own individually located positionality, to advocate with transwomen of color is to combat heteronormativity, cisgender and cissexual privilege, class inequality, patriarchy, and white privilege. There is an all-in approach to race that marks success based on the safety and well-being of our most vulnerable community members. By addressing positionalities on the periphery of our own Black and Brown communities, we push back against racist stereotypes, in an intersectional form of resistance that engages multiple oppressions simultaneously. From a space of mestiza/o consciousness, we can honor the complexity of our struggle, and in the process of being in solidarity with those most harmed by white supremacist, capitalist cisheteropatriarchy, we, in fact, help women of color, queer people of color, and Black and Brown men, among others. What now? Some have advocated in favor of peaceful protest, stating that violence is not the answer. We argue, however, that while countering violence with violence may be counterproductive, so too does peaceful, calm, patient protests feel rather insufficient. Some ask us to strive as academics within those spaces of privilege to uplift one another and show and act upon support in meaningful, lasting ways; this is but one strategy we may choose to employ. We are uncomfortable, however, asking others to stay in their ivory towers interacting with only their students, colleagues, and administrators as possible social justice agents. For me, I (Robert) am not only queer

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and Brown, but as a doctoral student I am vulnerable to the prevailing “politeness” and “civility” of the academy; will I be able to get a job if I speak up? For me, I (Amanda) am not yet tenured, and as the only Chicana tenuretrack faculty member at my institution, I am painfully aware of the barriers erected to have “real talk” about race that breed stifled conversations and perpetuate the idea that we live in a blissful, post-racial era. What now? We recognize part of our responsibilities to our various interconnected communities includes working to dismantle preconceived notions about one another. With this approach comes exposing where we learn damaging views of one another, pointing out how such ideas are perpetuated, and, most importantly, focusing on how we can challenge them on a collective level. Given such undeniable proof that race still matters in the U.S., we urge others to keep agitating, keep having uncomfortable conversations, and keep striving to engage communities outside the academy. Each of us is still strategizing, still searching for our next step, and still nervous that our Brown bodies, no matter how we act, educate, and empower ourselves, are still disposable. In this vortex of fears, we have chosen to reach out and work together in this chapter to show our solidarity with each other and other communities on the periphery. To quote Bernadette Calafell, our mentor, we ask ourselves and the world: “When will we all matter?”

Chapter Nine

Contradicting Realities in the Mythical Post-Racial America Blinded to Matters of Color? Melinda Jackson and Dari Green

Race and racism are consistent issues that African Americans experience in the United States. Racism is still embedded in American society and enacted against Black Americans. Blacks in America are marginalized economically, politically, and socially through institutionalized racism that is expressed both implicitly and overtly. The killings of Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown have been among the most recent manifestations of overt racism in America. These cases have been televised on national news stations, and justice has not prevailed. An even deeper tragedy is that these cases are not exceptions to the rule. These cases merely highlight the continued attack on communities of color. Black communities have been subjected to institutionalized racism and discrimination over the course of history in the United States. While conversations have long been had among scholars and conscious citizens, there has been a long-held silence about how institutions and individuals should understand, engage, and change racism in America. Some have expressed beliefs that the unfortunate events faced by Blacks in America that have received media attention are coincidental and infrequent. Many Blacks do not agree; for many, such incidents actually illuminate the assault on communities of color, more specifically Black males. Many citizens contend that America is a post-racial society. The colorblind attitude that is intertwined with the postracial philosophy diminishes the realities of people of color in today’s societal context by inaccurately assessing history. These contemporary accounts 55

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have revealed that the election of the first Black president, Barack Obama, did not put the final nail in the coffin of racial discrimination. There are contradicting realities in the mythical post-racial America for communities of color. Black communities have experienced some change, but change only occurs when the dominant group has a vested economic interest. The fight by people of color to achieve freedom, fairness, and selfrespect is as old as this country, as U.S. history consistently reveals the need for a subordinate group in order for the dominant group to benefit. Dominant groups continually oppress Black Americans, and each day it seems harder to obtain equality, let alone equity, for Black communities. Many Americans want to believe that Barack Obama’s election was a turning point for racism in America; as in the case of many other historical movements (e.g., the War on Poverty, the Civil Rights Movement, the Voting Rights Act, etc.), however, African Americans have never lived in a time where race did not matter. Racism is an institutional power construct that has been used to oppress people of color since the country’s foundation. There is, therefore, an inherent imbalance of power between oppressed groups and groups that oppress that is likely to continue for as long as America remains a free-market society. The death of Trayvon Martin was not an accident. The deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner are not a reflection of individual bad cops who have not upheld the law. In fact, in each of these cases the perpetrator did what they had been trained or hired to do. Their acquittals were not mistakes. Our democratic republic has functioned this way since its origin, but with merely an evolution in the way that racism manifests itself. Chains were once physical. Then, with time, Jim Crow laws replaced those physical chains, and signs served to segregate oppressors from their oppressees, and police enforced these laws. In the Civil Rights era, people of color united to demand justice and equity and were threatened not only by Klansmen but also suffered at the hands of police torture, in the name of upholding the law of the land. Fastforward fifty years and, while we may no longer see the chains or signs, the effects of racism are still felt. No longer is it legal to consider Black people three-fifths a person, nor it is legal to openly deny service based on one’s race. As has always been the case, though, loopholes have been placed in the law to justify subjugating Blacks to a subsidiary position and treating Black lives with lesser value. A disproportionate number of Black men, for example, are stopped and frisked, and policing is much higher in low-income communities despite similar crime patterns in other areas. Police and “good citizens,” like Zimmerman, choose violence as the answer, suggesting that an absence of legalized enslavement and enforced segregation is no reason to believe that racism or discrimination have ended.

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African Americans lives will never equal those of whites in our highly racialized society. Instead, Blacks will continue to be degraded and labeled as criminals. African Americans are linked to a majority of the violent crimes and make up a disproportionate percentage of all inmates in state and federal correctional facilities. Recidivism rates for people of color remain relatively high, and statistics show that African Americans commit an enormous amount of crime. What is not discussed in those statistics, however, is that police officers are more likely to target lower-income communities where people of color reside, Blacks are disproportionately arrested, charges disproportionately filed, and convictions disproportionately sought for people of color. These disproportionate interactions with law continue creating the vacuum by which Black men are absent from political, economic, and social equity. For many years, Black people have been stigmatized or associated with violent behaviors seen as threatening and aggressive. Young Black males are most often associated with criminal acts. The recent killings of Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, and Eric Garner are three cases that demonstrate how racist notions continually portray these men as thugs whose lives are of lesser worth. It is fair to assume that structural racism has also matriculated into a broader sphere of society, informing individuals’ public opinion of what a criminal looks like. Similarly, these perceptions inform the Black population’s perceptions of the police. Local police officers frequently play a major role in disadvantaged communities and in the everyday life of lowincome Black neighborhoods. The well-known slogan “fuck the police” is often used among these residents due to years of mistreatment and the low level of trust Black communities have with law enforcement and the criminal justice system. “Don’t shoot,” as Michael Brown cried, echoes what Black males are pleading in their daily lives due to society being structured in a way that minimizes not only their life choices but also their life chances. It is ironic the police are as afraid of the communities they serve as the communities are afraid of the police. All this begs the question: How could a system fail us that was never designed to protect us, and what should we do to protect ourselves? In many Black households, young children are taught an etiquette on how to interact with police to avoid being punished, apprehended, or even murdered due to miscommunication. Even so, one cannot yell, “Don’t shoot” or “I can’t breathe” loudly enough to save one’s life in the heat of the moment, and even the quickest feet cannot outrun a bullet. Black communities are both weary and enraged with what appears to be the absence of justice that plagues this nation with respect to race. What will it take to change the patterns of police brutality in Black communities? When will Blacks see their civil rights upheld? If Michael Brown were Darren Wilson, would we be having this conversation? Probably not. Police are

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militarized, and the enemies of these States are Black and Brown peoples. We have been praying, marching, and protesting against racism at the hands of the criminal justice system for decades. The election of the first Black president did not save the life of Michael Brown or Trayvon Martin, because that historical event was not indicative of an abolition of racism. As has been the case in the past, the color of a person’s skin can be the most important factor in whether one is seated in a place of advantage or disadvantage economically, publicly, and civically as history has proven. The judicial and extra-judicial decisions made by majority white Americans illustrate that it is acceptable to murder unarmed citizens of color. Though our hearts go out to the individual families of Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, and Eric Garner, these high-profile cases are not isolated events, and there are countless unnamed victims of such violence. Racism involves power, and power may be used for good or evil. Let us end the abuse of power, which subjugates and exterminates people of color, by choosing to use power toward good, and by continuing dialogue and through continued social action.

Chapter Ten

What Divides Black America? Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor

The rapid development of a movement against police brutality and other manifestations of racial inequality throughout the criminal justice system has further buried the myth that the United States has attained a racial stasis with the election of President Barack Obama. This development has also highlighted sharp divisions among African Americans in the ongoing struggle for racial justice and equality in the United States. Most recently, divisions have appeared in the aftermath of Mike Brown’s death in the small Missouri town of Ferguson. Some protesters, confronted with an overwhelming display of police armed with military-grade equipment, refused to back down from the police, maintained their position on the streets, and in some cases lobbed tear gas canisters back at police who had fired upon them. The fiery scenes that illuminated the hot August nights during the Ferguson rebellion gave an impression that demonstrators were being violent, when in reality it was police instigating the attacks. The nightly standoffs with the police became a framework for understanding the distance between the young protesters on the streets of Ferguson and an older, more established, civil rights leadership that has historically set the parameters of protest in response to state-sanctioned violence. But the focus on violence has distorted the actual debate over the most effective way to stop the crisis of police violence and brutality in Black communities. The invocation of generation as the central division has muted the more substantive division between the Black political elite, and their uncontroverted faith in the American dream, and working-class African Americans whose cynicism about the efficacy of American democracy continues to deepen as their overall condition worsens. The real division being played out in Ferguson, and across Black America in general, is one of class, not age or generation. When African Americans engage in protest, there is a tendency to 59

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immediately invoke the Civil Rights Movement as the guide and framework to understand the dynamics of Black protests. But there have been significant changes over the last fifty years, including the development and hardening of class differences within the Black community. Today the president of the United States is African American, and so is the attorney general. There are literally thousands of Black elected officials across the nation. Despite these changes, conditions for the majority of African Americans are still defined by hardship. This is most evident for the Obama generation, young African Americans who have come of age during the course of his administration. In 2008, and again in 2012, young Black voters aged eighteen to twenty-nine, buoyed by the optimism of promises of hope and change, gave Obama more than 90 percent of their vote. But the last six years have been hard. Black youth unemployment is over 21 percent. Young Black men and boys aged fifteen to nineteen are twenty-one times more likely to be shot by white police officers than their white peers. African Americans were four times more likely to be arrested for possession of marijuana than whites. The disparate treatment compared to whites is only the tip of the iceberg. When the media pointed to a low turnout among registered voters in Ferguson as a culprit in the unequal distribution of political power in the town, they underestimated the extent to which Black Fergusonians may have questioned whether changing the town’s political operatives would stop police harassment, increase job prospects, or put an end to housing discrimination and segregation. This is not simply an expression of hopelessness or supposed apathy; 54 percent of registered Black voters, in fact, turned out to vote for Obama in the 2012 election. In a public rebuke of many of the young protesters who participated in the protests for Mike Brown, the Reverend Al Sharpton, at Brown’s funeral, lectured, And now we get to the 21st century, we get to where we’ve got some positions of power. And you decide it ain’t black no more to be successful. Now, you want to be a “nigger” and call your woman a “ho.” You’ve lost where you’re coming from.

He went on to warn against partaking in any “ghetto pity parties.” This is the kind of description of young Black people that legitimizes the greater scrutiny, surveillance, and other methods of policing that have been the subject of the growing protest movement. This eruption of moralism directed at working-class Black communities cannot simply be reduced to the politics of respectability. To do so would suggest that this upbraiding is only intended to appeal to white people. While there may be some truth to that, this kind of contempt also reflects the postBlack and colorblind ethos of a Black political elite who champion free-

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market capitalism and all the logics assumed with it. In other words, the Black political elite that chastises Black communities is not just showing off for whites, but many of them believe that individual achievement trumps structural inequality. The focus on Black transcendence, however, deflects greater inquiry into persisting structural inequalities that clearly undergird Black experiences. In cities across the United States, the Democratic Party, the home of the vast majority of African American elected officials, has championed the privatization of public services, which has had an overwhelmingly negative impact in Black communities. For example, so-called school reform that champions the privatization of public education through the expansion of charter schools has been largely designed and executed by Arne Duncan, Obama’s secretary of education. One result of greater private control of public education has been a record number of public school closures over the last several years. Not only has this had a detrimental impact on Black students, but it has also displaced thousands of Black teachers who historically have been the backbone of urban public schools. That this process has been led by the Democratic Party has limited the extent to which traditional civil rights organizations have been willing to question, let alone contest, this dangerous direction in public education. In fact, in 2009, civil rights stalwart Al Sharpton toured with Arne Duncan and conservative Republican Newt Gingrich to extol the virtues of corporate control of public education. It is not just public education; the entire public sphere has come under attack as local, state, and federal governments ruthlessly cut and eradicate programs that are intended to mitigate the worst aspects of poverty. Instead, philanthropy in the form of private investment is solicited to fill the service vacuum that has been created. This is and has been a recipe for disaster. African Americans have historically called for greater state regulation of the private sector because the absence of such has meant that discrimination went unchecked. The growing turn to privatization in municipalities across the country has put thousands of Black elected officials at the helm of dismantling the public institutions that ordinary African Americans rely on for their daily survival. Despite the harm done in the communities they represent, the Black political elite has proven to be a willing participant in the dismantling of Black urban spaces. Founded at the end of the 1960s, the Congressional Black Caucus (CBC) has been fully absorbed into the mainstream of American politics, which includes developing close relationships with corporate magnates to ensure a steady source of cash for political purposes. The board of the CBC Foundation includes corporate luminaries of companies such as Walmart, Boeing, Dell, Citigroup, and Verizon. This economic access creates a kind of political conservatism aimed at preserving those relationships. It also explains why mainstream Black liberal organizations like the NAACP, the Urban League, and the CBC, all of which rely on

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corporate donations, are either missing or marginal in the struggle for the fifteen dollar minimum wage in low-wage service industries where most Blacks make their living. Walmart, after all, is the largest Black employer in the United States. These same organizations have been quiet about the efforts to privatize the U.S. Postal Service, even though the USPS had been the largest Black employer, providing high-waged work with good benefits. They have been absent from the fight to save public sector pensions that disproportionately fund the retirement of African Americans. They have been absent from the fight for a bailout of Detroit, with a population that is 85 percent Black, even while the car industry in Detroit was bailed out by the federal government. The agreement that capital must play a more dominate role in the dispersal of public services is so widely accepted within the mainstream of Black politics that the main critique of the president’s most thorough policy initiative directed at addressing Black poverty, My Brother’s Keeper, has been its lack of inclusion of Black girls as a target group. To be sure, the absence of any programmatic attention to the plight of Black girls is worthy of criticism, yet this seemed to miss the larger critique that the only significant policy addressing racial disparities under Obama is a public-private program based on donations from Fortune 500 corporations with little to no public oversight or input and no long-term commitment to transform the communities where poverty, violence, and institutional neglect have deformed the future of the Black people who live there. The price of colorblindness is not only the lack of emphasis on institutional racism as a significant factor shaping the Black experience but also a concomitant reinforcement of a narrative of personal triumph over hardship as the key to success. The Black political class looks at its own successes and concludes that the Black workers and poor still have work to do. Colorblindness, then, is not a passive description of the current political condition; rather, it is actively used to deny the continuing influence of the effects of historic institutional barriers to Black achievement. This combination of political and economic factors dramatically limits the political horizons of the Black political elite. For example, in the midst of the rebellion in Ferguson, Elijah Cummings, Democratic representative from Maryland and leader of the CBC, held up the coming mid-term elections as a next step for the movement. He said, “People need to be reminded that the 2014 elections are very, very, very important. One election could be the determining factor to what kind of legislation we’re able to get through.” This would ring hollow coming on the heels of the previous two election cycles that were also upheld as “critical,” but this is all Cummings had to offer, by way of leadership, on how to resolve the crisis in Ferguson. Voting is not irrelevant, but the suggestion that voting primarily can undo the profound social, political, and economic crises that afflict Black America is either naïve or specious.

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That which threatens the health and safety of Black communities is rarely on the ballot—a fully funded public sector, an end to police brutality, and living-wage jobs with health insurance is a starting point. In fact, the greatest progress made in addressing the issues of police violence and low-wage work has involved grassroots organizing and street protests, not electoral campaigns. A young man in Ferguson, Dontey Carter, captured the frustration of the “Obama Generation,” the betrayal of formal Black politics, and the centrality of struggle in securing the future of African Americans. He said, “I feel in my heart that they failed us. They’re the reason things are like this now. They don’t represent us. That’s why we’re here for a new movement. And we have some warriors out here.”

II

Racism and Violence Against Minority and Minoritized Communities

Chapter Eleven

Normalizing Black Death Michael Brown, Marissa Alexander, Dred Scott, and the Apartheid State David O. Stovall

Riots are the language of the unheard. —Killer Mike

A strange interplay exists between the body and the mind. When my mind thinks something bad is going to happen, my body prepares in order to lessen the impact of the anticipated bad event. But no matter how much I prepare for it—mentally or physically—I can never physically fight my mind. I have become conditioned to internalize tragic news of violence toward people of color; I no longer yell or scream. I respond by staring—I do not know exactly what I am looking at, but I stare for a long time. When I regain my senses, my first response is to curse. The cursing can be loud or a whisper. My immediate reaction leads me to say in my mind: I’m so fucking done with this. Every fucking second I am reminded what it means to live under a façade of progress, when I’m actually STILL living in a slave state. The starkness of my mental reflection originates from my disgust with the normalizing of Blacks’ deaths. The struggle in Ferguson, Missouri, is interconnected with all of the United States and any place on the planet where marginalized, isolated, and dispossessed people reside. When we think of the unrest stemming from the August 9, 2014, murder of Michael Brown to the November 24, 2014, grand jury decision not to indict officer Darren Wilson for murder, there are things that must be put into perspective. If we think for a moment about the murder of Brown, the following scenario (re)plays in my head. 67

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David O. Stovall A white cop sees two Black youth walking in the middle of the sidewalk. He then yells at them to “get the fuck back on the sidewalk.” Because criminality is assumed, dehumanizing language is used to remind the youth that they are ONLY to respond to law enforcement with what is understood as respect. The two teens respond—the cop didn’t like the response and decides to engage the teens. A struggle ensues, resulting in shots being fired from the officer’s service weapon. The officer’s response is not to discharge the weapon to stop or frighten Michael Brown. The intent is to put the “target” down. Brown is no longer human. He is the target. He is state property. If he cannot be contained, he is to be killed. It’s not the right thing to do, but in the jaded eyes of the law, it is the ONLY thing to do. After the murder, to remind the residents of Ferguson of their place, Brown’s body is left to rot in the street for four hours in the sweltering summer sun. The Ferguson Police Department doesn’t treat Brown’s death as it should. He is no longer human. He was never human. He is now discarded property. The residents of Ferguson, Missouri, again, are reminded that they live in a slave state: a mental, physical, and spiritual state of containment and dispossession.

Writing this makes me numb. Leslie McSpadden and Michael Brown Sr. have lost a son. They join millions of African-descended people, across the span of time and place, who have lost children to state-sanctioned violence. They join us from Chicago to Lagos to understand the personal and collective trauma of losing loved ones at the hands of the supposed law. Tragically, this is nothing new. It is normal. Sanctioned. Real. Ferguson, Missouri, like many other cities and municipalities, are minority-ruled in order to create a separate apartheid state. Ferguson is a town of roughly twenty-one thousand people that is 65 percent Black. The city has only one Black city council member, three Black police officers, and a teaching force that is almost entirely white. The lines of race, power, and class are stark. Ferguson, like many other cities, is not a place where everyone got along until the murder of Michael Brown. It is an apartheid state. Brown’s murder reminded its Black residents of this reality. Still numb, I am disgusted by the language of the apartheid state; it’s not hyperbolic. It lives in us. DRED SCOTT, MARISSA ALEXANDER, AND VACATED RIGHTS The 1857 Dred Scott decision of the Supreme Court of the United States declared that Black people had no rights that whites were legally bound to respect. As Dred Scott moved with his owner through the slave states of Alabama, Virginia, and Missouri to two free states, Illinois and Wisconsin, he argued that long-term residence in a free state, coupled with the passing of his owner, would allow him to purchase freedom for himself and his partner, Harriet Robinson. Despite an 1850 Missouri Circuit Court ruling that granted his freedom, local and federal governments felt that it would create a danger-

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ous precedent if Black people could sue their owners for freedom. If their rights were guaranteed in the case law, abolitionists would have a weapon with which to challenge the legality of slavery. Because the circuit court’s decision did not support the law of the land (viz. slavery), it was assumed to be suspect. From the first European-recorded arrival of Africans to the Western Hemisphere in the mid-sixteenth century, Black people in the United States have been perpetually reminded that their rights can be questioned at any given moment. From the Thirteenth Amendment that declared the end of slavery, except in the instance of incarceration, to the Fourteenth Amendment granting due process, except in any involvement with law enforcement and the Fifteenth Amendment that guarantees the right to vote, except if you live in swing states during a presidential election, officers of the court perpetually engage in the process of questioning the rights of Black people. For these reasons, I understand the cases of Marissa Alexander and Michael Brown to be part of a larger legal system that is based not on jurisprudential objectivity but on normative assumptions. In the eyes of the law, this is supposed to happen. Marissa Alexander’s case is equally demonstrative. Eight days after giving birth to her daughter, her estranged husband entered the house and began to threaten her. To protect herself, she retrieved her registered weapon and fired a warning shot. The warning shot did not injure anyone. Alexander was, however, indicted and originally convicted of attempted murder. Despite the fact that she had a restraining order preventing her husband from being on the premises and his being an admitted spouse abuser, Alexander was not deemed to be under the protection of Florida’s Stand Your Ground legislation, which allows registered gun owners to defend themselves with deadly force. The original case was dismissed due to a technicality but was re-tried by the district attorney. In the second iteration of the case, Alexander would face a sixty-year sentence. On November 24, 2014, Alexander elected to take a plea bargain that included a sixty-five-day jail sentence coupled with two years of an adjusted house arrest that would allow her to go to work and to take her children to and from school. In the eyes of the state, Alexander’s case is not a gross misappropriation of justice. Instead, the law revisits and reaffirms the Dred Scott decision of 157 years prior: there are no rights Marissa Alexander has that the state is bound to respect. Technicalities are only understood as preliminary obstacles that obstruct the state from its twisted sense of justice that comes from the death or near death of Black bodies; Marissa Alexander would be in her late eighties after serving her sentence if convicted in the second iteration. If you are Black, be assured that the slave state will find a way to guarantee your demise. This is what the legal system was designed to do. Justice for the marginalized and dispos-

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sessed has come, and will only come, as structural violence inflicted by the state is interrupted. CREATING FUGITIVE SPACES: EDUCATION AND THE FIGHT FOR JOY AND PEACE OF MIND Some may interpret my reflections as simplistic. The law is layered, complex, and deeply contradictory along the lines of race, class, gender, sexual orientation, age, and (dis)ability. There are many silent voices in the Black community who may consider Brown to be a thug. To them, I respond that it is more complex than that. My bottom line is that no young person should pay for any transgression with his or her life. Darren Wilson is a recently resigned police officer with a reputation for violent, aggressive behavior toward Black residents of Ferguson. Angela Corey is a Black woman. She was the district attorney who prosecuted Marissa Alexander’s case, and she ran the office of the prosecution team in the Trayvon Martin case. Both families—Martin’s and Alexander’s—received no justice and have no peace of mind. Nevertheless, the news media still espouses that progress has been made, despite the deepening of poverty for Black and Latin@ families in cities across the United States. As a person who works with young people and families in schools and communities in Chicago, I must take all of these perspectives into account. Our realities do not yield simple answers but, instead, lead to difficult questions that require deep reflection, study, and community building. For me, the writing of this chapter cannot constitute the sole contribution to the larger justice project in education. Where I am humbled by the invitation of the editors of this volume to be a contributor, I am intent on challenging those of us who are employed in the academy. A two-thousand-word book chapter will not free Black people. Academic publishing never was designed to. Scholarly writing, however, can get us to think about how we will join with others. If we are about the business of interrupting and destroying the assault on communities of color, we must understand it as a serious undertaking. Such a task requires us to (un)think, (re)imagine, and (re)think our commitments beyond our scholarship. Producing this document has been a sobering, but affirming, process. In my own struggles as a teacher educator, I am encouraged and humbled by the voices of young activists and organizers who have made a conscious decision to have their voices heard. I am also thankful for the seasoned activists and organizers from earlier generations who have made the decision to support young folks in their responses to the atrocities that bring unwanted trauma to their lives. Both groups have moved tirelessly in a time that forces individu-

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als to either fight or give up. In this struggle against oppression, burning rage must be converted to emotional energy that will build and create. Not in the sense of reform, but to embrace the spirit of the radical imaginary that affirms that something different can be created. It is a fugitive space—a space where building requires tearing down in order to make anew. If I am granted a few more moments on this side of the soil, I will gladly continue this work with those who are willing to wade in this murky, messy, and often contradictory, but necessary, struggle. Assata Shakur is right. We have nothing to lose but our chains.

Chapter Twelve

Viewing Barack Obama through Racist Stereotypes Christine Sleeter

When confronted by a Black man, stereotypes become one set of lenses through which white people interpret him. The less intimately a white person knows individual Black people, the more powerful are the stereotypes. In this chapter I explore how stereotypes of Black men shaped and reshaped the perceptions many white people have had of President Barack Obama, from his candidacy for president in 2008 through 2014. These stereotypes are drawn from the same stock of racist stereotypes that have led to so much ongoing violence against communities of color. In November of 2008, when Barack Obama was elected president of the United States, I was giddy. I had been slow to warm up to him during the campaign because of his embrace of market economy capitalism and his repeated claim that anyone can make it in this society. I see capitalism as structuring inequality into the social system and embracing global capitalism as acquiescing to an increasingly wide social-class divide. Nevertheless, there was much he stood for that I supported, and still do. Besides, I recognize that a critic of capitalism would probably never be electable in the United States. Between 2008 and 2014, President Obama followed through on much of what he said he would do, despite fierce attempts to block his every move. He extended access to health insurance to millions of Americans who were either ineligible for it or unable to afford it. He steered the country out of a recession through the 2009 stimulus package, injection of federal money into the auto industry, and recapitalization of banks. As I write, the U.S. economy is in much better shape than European economies. President Obama ended the war in Iraq and drew down armed forces in Afghanistan, although the 73

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Islamic State is prompting the United States to reverse this work. He has supported and promoted green energy, even while U.S. oil production increased, reignited global warming negotiations, improved food safety, supported equal pay for women, and has come to support equal marriage rights. So I have been puzzled by the extent to which whites, who were previous supporters, have distanced themselves from him, many taking up a narrative of his unpopularity and incompetence. I argue that President Obama, like other Black men, is and has always been viewed through the lens of racial stereotypes. WHITE VOTERS SUPPORT, THEN DESERT OBAMA In 2008, Obama received 43 percent of the white vote, 95 percent of the Black vote, 67 percent of the Hispanic vote, and 62 percent of the Asian vote. In January of 2009, his approval rating was at 58 percent among whites, 92 percent among African Americans, 75 percent among Hispanics. In other words, it appears that even though a majority of whites did not vote for him, a majority of whites nonetheless initially gave him a favorable rating. But by mid-2011, his approval rating had dropped among whites to just 33 percent, among African Americans to 84 percent, and among Hispanics to 48 percent. In the 2012 election, he received 39 percent of the white vote, 93 percent of the Black vote, 71 percent of the Hispanic vote, and 73 percent of the Asian vote. What these data tell me is that a majority of whites were never comfortable with Obama as president, except briefly after his first-term election. In contrast, African Americans, Latinos, and Asians have supported him steadily, except for a drop in Latino ratings over his slowness to protect undocumented immigrants. Yet from late in 2013 through the 2014 mid term election, a narrative that came to dominant news stories was President Obama’s unpopularity. Most commentators simply gave a number. For example, in March of 2014, the popular polls reported that the president’s popularity was in the low forties. Others, by the summer of 2014, used words to characterize him as not being able to lead the country and the “worst” of presidents of the last seventy years. What most commentators did not mention was that white people were the ones abandoning him, particularly members of the white working class, with his approval rating dropping fastest among white non–college graduates. In the United States, we see through the prism of race. However much we believe we are not influenced by racial stereotypes, they saturate society so thoroughly that we cannot escape learning them. I began to ask myself: How does race shape the national narrative about President Obama, and particular-

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ly stereotypes about African American males that are so deeply engrained that white police officers repeatedly kill young Black men, reporting fear for their lives? I was particularly interested in the roughly 10 to 20 percent of Americans who either voted for him in 2008 or at least approved of his early job performance, then abandoned him later. What racial tropes and stereotypes operate that subliminally might have factored into how this group of white people “read” him over time? I will suggest two: the “magical Negro,” gradually replaced by the stereotype of incompetence. THE MAGICAL NEGRO The “magical Negro” is a trope one can find in cinema and television when a very wise person of color steps forward to help white people. He (or she) is portrayed as smart and likeable, such as English teacher Dr. Bob Sweeney in American History X, whose relationship with a neo-Nazi youth eventually leads him to renounce racial hate. Other commentators such as David Ehrenstein have likened many of the roles played by actors such as Morgan Freeman, Denzel Washington, and Will Smith to the magical Negro. I believe many white Americans read Barack Obama, with his message of “hope” and “change we can believe in,” through the magical Negro lens, even if on a subconscious level. Indeed, I am not the first to suggest this reading. The Los Angeles Times in March of 2007 argued that Obama, campaigning with not much of a political track record but much charisma, fit the part of magical Negro in many white imaginations. Indeed, there were huge problems facing the country, the economy being the most glaring. The housing bubble burst in 2007, and as the economy appeared on the brink of collapse, the unemployment rate jumped. Other problems such as the war in Iraq, the cost of energy, and the rising cost of health care needed attention. Far less discussed but always simmering below the surface were race relations. Americans have little capacity to openly address racism, and many white Americans simply wish it would go away on its own. For many white people, the election of President Obama promised a new day. His election demonstrated that we now live in a post-racial society and have elected someone who will fix not only the problems of race but also the economy, the housing market, the jobs picture, and other looming problems. The narrative of America as post-racial gathered momentum as white Americans believed that white people voting for a Black president meant that racism had been overcome.

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OTHER STEREOTYPES KICK IN No individual president can singlehandedly fix a nation’s problems. As unemployment and other problems dragged on, other stereotypes began to kick in. The magical Negro is the only stereotype of Black men that can be considered positive; the rest discredit the intelligence, humanity, and normal human vulnerability. From the beginning of his candidacy, white people on the right drew increasingly on stock stereotypes to attempt to discredit him, painting him as foreign, dangerous, lawless, incompetent, and aligned with the people who “refuse to work.” What of the roughly 10 to 20 percent of Americans, mainly white, who had initially supported Obama, but moved away from him? The main charge that surfaced in news media was incompetence. While the incompetence mantra started on the right and was amplified by Fox News, it spread into mainstream media. For example, on June 28, 2014, NBC’s Today Show featured Dick Cheney’s verdict on the Obama presidency: “Rarely has a U.S. president been so wrong.” PERSISTENTLY DAMAGING IMAGERY OF BLACK MEN Listening to news stories that ignored Obama’s accomplishments despite a consistently hostile House of Representatives, I found myself reminded repeatedly of how commonly white teachers interpret Black boys and youth through the ideology of Black intellectual inferiority. The persistent overrepresentation of Black students in special education is one symptom of this view. On several occasions when I have been in classrooms, I have witnessed, and challenged, white teachers considering referring Black students to special education because their classroom behavior did not jibe with behavior the teacher expected. The ideology of Black intellectual inferiority is routinely applied to African Americans, regardless of how well educated they are. This discourse permeates not only PK–12 education but extends to higher education as well, where the academic ability of students of color is consistently questioned. White people do not want to be regarded as racist, and probably relatively few would openly claim that President Obama is incompetent because he is Black. At the same time, however, we all grow up in a cultural milieu rife with racialized stereotypes that we learn, regardless of whether we believe them or not. In such a context, I believe that many white people are amenable to taking up the mantra of “incompetence” if it is beat loudly enough and long enough, despite the person’s actual accomplishments. I have tried to imagine whether large numbers of mainly white people would desert a white

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president who had accomplished the same things in a hostile political climate. We should consider white people’s reactions to Obama as partially a product of white fears of Black men and white distrust of Black intellectual competence. This, too, represents an assault on communities of color.

Chapter Thirteen

When Michael’s Death Means Our Own Children’s Death Critical Race Parenting in a Time of Racial Extermination Cheryl E. Matias and Roberto Montoya

As the Missouri grand jury decided not to indict Darren Wilson, the white police officer who fatally shot Michael Brown, an unarmed Black teenager, the hearts of social justice advocates experienced yet another social justice letdown. Like Oscar Grant, Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, and Jonathan Ferrell, these killings serve as a reminder of the nonexistent value associated with Black and Brown lives. For many advocates of racial justice, being well-adjusted to injustice is hyper-compounded when we decide to add children to our families; we must decide how to communicate such lasting and persistent atrocities to our children. It is a delicate and deadly path we navigate regarding the upbringing of our children. For many parents of color and parents of children of color, it is a painful onslaught upon the soul and psyche to negotiate and articulate to our children how and why the historic and systemic elimination of young people of color in the United States is not only tolerated but also rationalized. Is it not in a parent’s nature to attempt to keep our children out of harm’s way? And by any means necessary? But for parents of children of color in the United States, this instinct is rife with contradiction, pain, and negotiation. We must make a decision between brutal honesty and willful ignorance when conveying to our children how they will be treated by a white, heterosexual, male-dominated society that far too often sees them as game to be hunted. The hip-hop MC Talib Kweli, in his song, “The Proud,” articulates this by saying: 79

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Cheryl E. Matias and Roberto Montoya I already know the deal but what the fuck do I tell my son? I want him livin right, livin good, respect the rules He’s five years old and he still thinkin cops is cool How do I break the news that when he gets some size He’ll be perceived as a threat or see the fear in they eyes It’s in they job description to terminate the threat So 41 shots to the body is what he can expect

Reverend Thandeka argues that teaching white children to be white and to ignore the racialization process is itself a form of child abuse. Perhaps the same can be argued regarding children of color in that parents abuse their children by not teaching them how to survive amid race, racism, and white supremacy. Despite the similarities, the consequences of not teaching children of color about racialization are far deadlier. If a white parent chooses to raise their child in whiteness, they bestow upon them colorblindness, ignorance, and shame. If parents of color decide on a race-mute approach, the repercussions can be deadly. The focus of the chapter is relative to the authors’ experiences as academics and parents of color to illustrate how white patriarchal supremacist violence affects children, what emotional struggles they face being parents and race scholars, and what is at risk when we give up on the fight for racial justice. The chapter draws from the tradition of critical race theory (CRT) by using two counternarratives to illustrate the pain of dealing with racism with their own children. Therefore, the chapter will shift narrative perspectives accordingly. From these experiences, we seek to introduce components to critical race parenting (CRP). COUNTERNARRATIVE ONE As a Brown-skinned Pinay who grew up in the gang-riddled east side of Los Angeles, a professor of critical studies in race and gender who had to navigate her doctorate under scrutiny of public financial assistance, and now surviving as a single motherscholar with an unforgiving tenure line, nothing pained me more than to talk to my twins about the harsh reality of white patriarchal supremacist violence. Despite the pain I went through to get where I am today, it will never outshine the latent fear, pain, and anger I feel knowing that the safety of my Brown-skinned children rests upon the hardened hearts of racists. Racists are everywhere. They mask themselves behind false smiles claiming that their vote for Obama or their Latino husbands are enough to transform them into some mythical white ally beyond the reaches of racism. The smiling racists who pretend to care for people of color by expressing pity, sympathy, and/or white saviority to mask their deeply embedded sentiments of disgust for people of color, specifically toward Black people via their anti-Black racism. And these false smiles are so important

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because, despite those seemingly innocent white smiles, Black and Brown men are still dying and Black and Brown women are treated like shit. Our colored bodies become as expendable as the capitalistic dollars we use to neo-colonize the world. Plainly, Black and Brown men cannot protect Black and Brown women; a historical reality played out in the movie Crash where the white cop feels up a Black women at the helplessness of her Black husband. Black and Brown mothers cannot protect their Black and Brown children simply because the endarkened pigmentation of our skin is all an officer needs to justify the target they put on our backs. To make matters worse, society does not even fucking care. They see the protests, displays of cries and anger as some baboon-like response, instead of acknowledging the pain of losing a child to institutional extermination. Those who overlook or ignore that pain—expressed through anger or organized protesting—are nothing but the same white folks who once historically and legally deemed Blacks as only three-fifths of a human. To not acknowledge Black and Brown pain is to render their pain not humanly worthy. As a professor, I thought a real discussion about white patriarchal supremacist violence could be delivered smoothly because I had access to precise vocabulary and objective analysis. Yet when I looked upon the eyes of my Brown babies I fell, fell to the depths of despair, fear, and resentment. How could a mother possibly talk objectively when the topic is about protecting the lives of her babies? I was beyond pissed; a grief-ridden sentiment so heart wrenchingly captured in the Pieta, an Italian sculpture that shows the Virgin Mary clutching the lifeless body of her son Jesus Christ. Yet behind the anger, my tears flowed uncontrollably, as they do now just recalling the event, when I had to tell my Brown-skinned son he had to be more careful in this world than his lighter-skinned, chinita sister. I had to straight out say that the police are more likely to shoot him dead because he is Brown. And to say such words cuts so deep into my heart that I was shaking. It was like dying a slow death. No amount of education could have prepared me for that moment. Through my sobs, I saw my twins get scared, for through my fear, they knew this was serious and that Mommy, despite how awesome they believe her to be, could not protect them. There exists a pedagogy of critical race sadness that parents of children of color must be prepared to enact, lest they find themselves at the mercy of an unforgiving, uncaring, policing system that renders our Brown babies useless. Despite being our lives, our heart, and our soul, our babies are rendered as nothing more than a societal scapegoat used to label thugs, whores, and scum unworthy of the lives their mothers and fathers so protect. Therefore, it is with a mother’s undying love that I continue to advocate for racial justice despite the trials and tribulations one must endure. Not advocating for racial justice inadvertently means wagering the lives of my own children. And that is too unbearable for me to fathom.

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COUNTERNARRATIVE TWO Like in many professions, the life of an academic is about routine, and during a semester many days mirror one another, much like in the movie Groundhog Day. Some days, nevertheless, end up staying with you forever. For me, one of these days occurred on October 12, 2014. After making dinner, I sat down to watch the end of the National League Championship Series (NLCS) between the St. Louis Cardinals and the San Francisco Giants. My self-described routine is not uncommon for me on Sundays as I am an avid sports fan, especially when it is playoff time. Around the eighth inning my one-anda-half-year-old son, Miles, sat on my lap for some cuddle time as he normally does before bedtime. I should point out that as the NLCS started, I was immensely curious about how the network would handle the Michael Brown travesty, as the city of St. Louis and its suburb of Ferguson were international news. Sadly, and not to my surprise, the incident was not even mentioned by the announcers during the telecast. To my delight, however, during postgame analysis, which is now routinely held in the open near fans, you could hear a small group of protesters outside of the stadium calling for “justice” in the case of the Michael Brown. For a brief moment my critical spirit was reassured. Pleased that the national audience, whether they liked it or not, would have to see and hear the protests, even if the network decided to avoid the situation altogether. Almost immediately, the powerful water hose that is white supremacy extinguished my small semblance of satisfaction. The protesters were met by a number of white fans leaving the game. The white fans, after hearing the protesters, began their own oppositional chants that included “Let’s go Darren,” “DAR-REN WIL-SON,” and “USA.” As I held my son, who was asleep in my arms by this point, I could not help but think how I will explain this defense of murder to him. I cried, tears falling on his blonder hair, thinking of how this group of white fans, whom he very much resembles, associates the killing of an unarmed Black teen as patriotic. You see, Miles is a multiracial child with a white mother and Latino father and is phenotypically white, the epitome of being güero in Latino culture. As I watched this display of hatred my heart was being torn apart, torn in a way that I fear Miles will experience as he gets older. Even though his first language is Spanish, he has a Spanish surname, and is being raised in a critical environment, I know that part of his multiracial soul is dying with the systematic extermination of young men of color at the hands of those who look so very much like him. Nevertheless, I will not sit by idly and allow a dominant, patriarchal, white supremacist society to metastasize. As parents, we feel it is not enough to say we are critical parents. We have an obligation to name this critical approach to raising children and call it critical race parenting. CRP is grounded in the tenets of CRT. Even though Miles is not yet two years old,

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we share with him counter-storytelling; we discuss openly the permanence of racism, whiteness as property, interest convergence, the critique of liberalism and colorblindness, and we celebrate our commitment to social justice. CRP adds another tenet, a commitment that race talk with our children is not merely encouraged, but imperative. CRP suggests that race talk is a crucial necessity that prepares them for the deadly racial terrain that they must navigate and refutes the argument that children should not engage in race dialogue. It is through this lens of CRP that we acknowledge the countless mothers and fathers who are forced to deal with the painful pedagogy of race with their own Black and Brown children.

Chapter Fourteen

Respectability Politics and Acts of Violence ReAnna S. Roby and Theodorea Regina Berry

Respectability politics has served as grounds for justification for acts of violence against people of color, most especially Black people in the United States, as much as it has served as grounds for protection for white people in this country. Who is voiced, who gets heard, and who is protected is inextricably tied to social status. And historically, Black women have been placed at the bottom of the social ladder. Two Black women, doctoral student ReAnna S. Roby and her doctoral advisor Theodorea Regina Berry, engage in the following dialogue about the phenomenon in relationship to the murder of Reniesha McBride. ReAnna: The publicized murders of Michael Brown, Jonathan Ferrell, and Trayvon Martin are no more a phenomenon or coincidence than the killing of Black women, like Reniesha McBride. Black women and men are killed yearly, yet the time it takes to actually consider their killings as acts of violence rooted within white supremacist thought is problematic. The same applies to bringing justice to individuals who are victims of sexual assault. The telling of women to appear a certain way to avoid rape or to avoid death is nothing more than respectability politics. These politics are harmful as they suggest living or being worthy of living, there is a certain way of being. The instances in which these tragic events happen to Black men and women and the response by a number of news outlets, however, is disturbing. On the one hand, we are told to remain calm and allow for the justice system to do its job, but that is difficult when time after time the system does not consider us. I imagine this is the result of a justice system that was developed during a time when people like me were considered subhuman. The depiction 85

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of Black people in the news is oftentimes derogatory, unless there is the presence of a token. Still, the intraracial policing of Black bodies is ever present and probably more troubling. When Black individuals like Don Lemon, Iyanla Vanzant, and Robert Jennings, use their positions of power to correct Blackness, they essentially privilege a form of respectability. Lemon’s “five things that Black people can do in order to be respectable” (to white America) is nothing more than an example of how he has coded Black as wrong. Vanzant’s visit to Ferguson, Missouri, after the death of Mike Brown to essentially fix the behavior of the Black individuals within the area, without paying much attention to the actual protest of people who lived there, is another form of respectability. And more recently, Jennings’s (president of one of the nation’s oldest HBCUs) comments are a direct act of violence toward women and an example of the respectability politics that cause many women to remain silent when sexually assaulted. Theodorea: Black lives have been considered “disposable property” in this country since the pre-colonial days. In dichotomous relationship to the value placed on whiteness, young Black men, whose physical power is viewed as a threat when they fail to perform in “respectable” ways, have been demonized. Black men such as Lemon and Jennings, however, have implied that their success is due to, in large part, their ability to perform in respectable ways. Even Black women place strong, respectable Black men on a pedestal to be admired and protected. For example, in the cases you have mentioned and to include the murders of Jordan Davis and Eric Garner, we see Black women mourning and championing their young Black men. And while each of these women acknowledges, through the encouragement of the media, the imperfections of these men, they have consistently labeled them as good. This label places forward a position of respectability understood by mainstream society. Yet when Black women are raped and/or murdered, people will often ask, “What did she do?” If the lives of Black men are endangered by mainstream society’s notion of respectability, what of the lives of Black women? As we have witnessed in the last couple of years, Black men who are unjustifiably murdered in this country get all kinds of media attention. And even in the politics of respectability, questions are asked and answers are expected. When Black women are raped and/or murdered, there is barely a mention of the incident on social media, television media, newspaper media, any media. In fact, if a notable Black man, let us say a football player or an actor/ comedian is accused of violence against a Black woman, mounds of people will come to the men’s defense. Certainly, in some cases, these individuals may get a proverbial slap on the wrist. But meanwhile, the Black woman is subsequently charged by the court of public opinion with the audacity of

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attempting to ruin this man’s life. These women are treated as if they are traitors to the race. Race makes us disposable to white society; gender makes us disposable to all men. We are third-class citizens in a country to lauds freedom and equality for all. So it is no surprise that the case of Reniesha McBride has received very little attention by the media. McBride was shot in the face by a white man who claimed he shot her out of fear. Fear of what? Yet the judge stated that the situation had nothing to do with race. Really? I would say that this is a clear case of respectability politics. ReAnna: In the complex lives of Black women who do live, and are not physically murdered (though they may be spiritually and emotionally murdered), there is a degree of shifting present that requires us to not only be loyal to our kinfolk, but also to other women. Unfortunately though, this attention and this loyalty are not reciprocated. More times than not, it is expected and required of us, because of the alleged “superhuman,” “goddesslike” mentality or characteristic of Black women. Thus, to tell a Black mother to remain strong after the murder of her child and the dismissal of his killer, or to tell Black women to remain peaceful when they have been hurt time and time again is not supportive or just, but it is another form of respectability. We should not be required to suppress our raw emotions for the comfort of others, nor should we be forced to remain silent—especially when we have been silenced by the media and our Black men. We should be able to speak, mourn, and express ourselves in ways that speak to our pain, not only to be heard, but also to bring about awareness. For some reason or another, we have been bamboozled into thinking that respectability politics, designed to make us behave a certain way, will not only protect us but save us as well. Unfortunately, that is not the case and not only will respectability politics not save us, silence will not, either. Theodorea: The politics of respectability will always require Black women to follow social norms and rules. But I agree; there is no protection for us in these rules. Reneisha McBride is a clear example of the lack of such protection. Any white-skinned woman knocking on someone’s door in the wee hours of the night would have been viewed as a damsel in distress rather than as a threat. The politics of fear as a result of her race would not have been a consideration. Decorum and appearance would be irrelevant if she were a white-skinned man. She was a young Black woman disrespected and demonized by a white man. And for that, she lost her life. And the Black women who know her story are left with the reminder that our lives matter less than those of the young Black men we have lost and now mourn.

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ReAnna S. Roby and Theodorea Regina Berry The politics of respectability for Black women Saint and sinner Means to hold it in Even when They have murdered your men Our men Young and younger Winter and summer. Don’t cry Hold your head up high Like the shoes with heels for dainty walking But not your skirts ’cause that’s grounds for getting hurt like your feelings that must be expressed through dainty talking. For to be respectable Means to hide the pain through a soft, sweet sigh from an expression-less smile. Don’t cry When they’ve murdered your son. Don’t shout When they’ve killed your brother. Don’t scream When they’ve suffocated your spouse. Don’t make a sound While your child’s body lay on the street. Be respectable. Be able to remain still and silent, never relent, even when you are starin’ into the barrel of a gun. For in the politics of respectability Black women live invisibly. For we know when they say “Black lives matter,” it truly gives way to only the male while we wail, moan, and groan in pain; can’t explain the cost of our suffering and loss. But, who cries, shouts, screams for us When we return to the earth, as dust? What should be the politics of respectability?

Chapter Fifteen

Countering Postcolonial Assaults on Black American Life Horace R. Hall

What is the value of Black human life in America? This question has been on the forefront of my mind since 2004 when nineteen-year-old Timothy Stansbury Jr. was fatally shot on the roof of his Brooklyn housing project by an NYPD police officer. My query, over the years, has become more pensive and confounding as a number of young African American males continue to be murdered at the hands of police officers, security guards, and outright vigilantes: Oscar Grant III, age twenty-two (2009); Victor Steen, age seventeen (2009); Wendell Allen, age twenty (2012); Jordan Davis, age seventeen (2012); Ramarley Graham, age eighteen (2012); Ervin Jefferson, age eighteen (2012); Trayvon Martin, age seventeen (2012); Kimani Gray, age sixteen (2013); and most recently, Michael Brown, age eighteen (2014). The above deceased have at least one thing in common—they were without a weapon at the time of their demise. Again, what is the value of Black human life in America? Surely, we must know that for the parents, family members, and friends of young men like Oscar, Trayvon, Jordan, and Michael, the flesh and spirit of their lost ones were indeed precious and invaluable. But what says the broader society? Is the worth of Black existence equivalent to that of any human being? While some may surely answer this inquiry in the affirmative, there is nevertheless a predetermined, socially constructed hierarchy of oppression that situates Black people at the bottom of the pecking order, where distinct value-laden differences exist between Black lives and the rest. This is made patently evident by the manner in which U.S. court systems have unfairly adjudicated the above homicide cases.

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As the editors of this volume cogently point out, there is indeed an assault on Black males. And one could certainly argue that this assault has been ongoing since the “20 and Odd” of Jamestown, Virginia, in 1619. Yet contemporary societal aggression toward Black men and boys is both real and symbolic of broader structural violence that is threatening Black citizens— namely, the laboring class. I believe my opening query can partly be addressed by identifying gentrification as a postcolonial impact on Black life. Given that this practice involves an initial disinvestment and later reinvestment of a given area, multiple and interrelated consequences in industries of housing, employment, health care, and schooling can all be observed. For the scope of this chapter, however, I will focus on minority youth as an example of the role gentrification plays in present-day colonizing, surveillance, and control of Black life. Gentrification and colonization are inextricably linked. The patterns of stages by which they reinforce each other include: reconnaissance, invasion, occupation, and assimilation of a region’s original population by colonizers or gentrifiers. Colonization is essentially the method of entering other territories for the purpose of acquisition and settlement, often involving brutal measures. When people typically think of colonization, they may invoke historical images of the Dutch in South Africa or Native Americans in the United States. Yet colonization should not be viewed as a specific epoch, but rather a continual process that has evolved over time, up to the present. While colonization’s tactics and technologies have been modified over generations, its objective of imperialism, exploitation, and regulation of cultural groups regarded as inferior has remained the same. In its wake (both past and present), we indisputably find cultural upheaval, unequal distribution of resources, and violated human rights. In postindustrial cities, the more contemporary or preferred term for occupation and control is gentrification, synonymous with urban renewal. Despite labels, this modern subjugation involves the gradual arrival of wealthier people, or gentry, into an existing neighborhood already populated with lower-income residents. Old housing is renovated along with the construction of new buildings and services that cater to the higher-earning, more privileged groups. As property values and rent costs are inflated, low-income tenants and homeowners, whose wages remain fixed in the present economy, face being priced out of their households and uprooted from their communities. Residents who cannot afford new neighborhoods are then forced to seek more affordable housing elsewhere in the city or outlying suburbs or rural sections of the state. Displacement of original populations shreds the existent community fabric, making any collective resistance against acquisition and settlement challenging.

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The rate by which various neighborhoods are gentrified depends in part on their proximity to other high-crime areas. And so for those at the helm of urban renewal, accruement of expansion profits routinely depends on how quickly the original population can be “cleaned up” off the streets. Hence, while inner-city Black neighborhoods are being staged for upscaling, law enforcement units are employed, for one thing, to repress potential social discord, and for another, to push low-income folk into self-exile from city life by creating hostile police environments. This tactic affirms both public and private endorsements of consumerist consumption by treating workingclass African Americans as enemies of the state. Moving beyond city limits, uprooted residents still find themselves monitored as their arrival in suburbia threatens an already established culture and character. In the attempt to preserve traditionally white, middle-class enclaves, discriminatory policing again becomes a strategy for surveillance and control. In looking at intersections between gentrification, colonization, and violence against Black youth, we must further highlight the contestation of community space. Urban environments, for example, are divided into a wide range of public and private domains with diverse ethnic, class, and gender variations. Those areas where minority youth assemble comprise street corners, parks, school grounds, libraries, shopping malls, and so on. The key aspect of these sites is that they are publicly accessible, even though they can represent limited areas of privacy and freedom from direct surveillance. Based on perceptions of what low-income youth amassing spells out—g-a-ng-s—it is the intent of aldermen, private investors, architects, as well as community residents to “tidy up the block” by reducing public spaces where “delinquents” converge. Thus, the social and physical reconstruction of city space is a keynote in the manner by which policing and the criminalization of young Blacks occur. Black youth squeezed out of colonized public spaces directly challenges their need to stress independence and cluster in places outside of adult gaze or state control. Nevertheless, the constriction of their social space, and of laboring Black folks in general, is premised upon police directives to protect middle-class gentrifiers and the business community who view these young people as criminals and who must be singled out as a bad ingredient in the gentrification mix. This approach is accomplished through racial profiling, excessive force, and stop-and-frisk policies that evoke persistent fears, among youngsters, of being abused or falsely arrested by police, often for no particular reason other than the color of their skin. Indeed, many Black youth are keenly aware of the function of race and class relations normalized in societal perceptions of Blackness: guilty until proven innocent, dangerous until proven not. Young Blacks also connect biased law enforcement practices with a national mass incarceration strategy to protect law-abiding whites from shad-

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owy, criminally minded Black males. Thus, minority youth exist in a legally vulnerable state as they have no substantive constitutional rights. Hence, they must remain motivated to avoid law enforcement, even when it means calling police for help, which most certainly leads to a visibly restricted public life. For those youth and their families suppressed by invasion and occupation, however, choices are limited: either withdraw from community roots to less militarized surroundings or stay and run further risk of being sucked into or killed by the criminal justice system. It can clearly be assessed that the net value of Black human life in America has little to no worth unless it accepts forfeiture of colonization and assimilates into the existent status quo—mind, body, and spirit. Without significant social and economic changes taking place, there is little hope of radically altering the extent and nature of postcolonization and the gentrification of vulnerable groups. Regrettably, we may continue to witness further senseless assaults and ignored homicides of young Black males if the disinvestment of marginalized communities is not obstructed. One line of defense involves expanding neighborhood solidarity through open dialogue. Residents of communities being charted for gentrification must share ideas, positive and negative, with one another about urban renewal. This is not easy in some communities where trust is just as scarce as resources. Yet, if the focus remains on sustaining Black culture and life, then dialogue should be understood as a necessary beginning in forming partnerships that work to prevent displacement and to protect all residents. While there will certainly be a mixture of opinions, what is of most import is stopping modern subjugation from running rampant. From dialogue, existing residents and businesses can begin to organize effective community boards. Despite the fact that boards are often restricted to advisory roles with limited staff and funds, they still represent a point of government nearest to the grassroots level and should position themselves in major decision-making processes that meet local needs. Boards can increase their governing power by taking the initiative to delineate public land use and configuration while simultaneously working with elected officials, as well as external coalitions, to help draw new investments to their community. This fortifies resident input on development in such a way that policy can be influenced. As opposed to strictly focusing on privatization and the removal of existing populations, community boards can work to expand the commons and protect vulnerable tenants and homeowners through policies that stress equitable housing investments, affordability, and income support for remaining occupants. Finally, but certainly of equal importance in fighting gentrification, is resisting negative societal perceptions of the socially undesirable, such as gangs, prostitutes, drug dealers, the homeless, and so on. Existing Black community residents often feel plagued by these individuals and insist upon

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their relocation. This demand falls right into the final stage of colonization: assimilation. Instead of trading these people for an upscaled life, we should reflect on whatever narrow value we have placed on their existence. By rethinking our perceptions, engaging in dialogue, and defending the commons, we preserve institutions and programs, such as medical clinics, substance treatment programs, counseling, mentoring and mental health facilities, homeless shelters, and so on, which support those misperceived, mistreated, and excluded by society. In truth, we can no longer allow a predetermined, socially constructed hierarchy to define the multidimensionality of Blackness. We must know it for ourselves or else the most recent death of a Black male will continue to be the most recent homicide over and over again. We must STOP the ASSAULT!

Chapter Sixteen

We Can’t Breathe: The Impacts of Police Brutality on Women of Color Subini Ancy Annamma

The decision not to indict the police officer who choked the life out of Eric Garner is still ringing in my ears. Just days after the lack of indictment for Michael Brown’s killer, another white police officer walks free after taking the life of a Black man. Police killings of Black and Brown men and boys are nothing new; from Emmitt Till to Fred Hampton to Israel Hernandez, these extrajudicial killings have been occurring since slavery and continue without consequence. They are just one way that police forces brutalize communities of color, focusing on surveillance and punishment instead of safety. Garner’s story resonates so strongly because of the absolute proof of what occurred in the form of a video. After Trayvon Martin was brutally murdered on a dark street, there was an insistence that without witnesses no one could know for sure what truly happened. After unarmed Michael Brown’s body was found 153 feet from the officer’s vehicle, witnesses recounted conflicting stories, and there was an argument that eyewitness testimony could not be trusted. Calls for body cameras for police rang out across the country and were endorsed by President Obama. But in Garner’s case, there was a video, there was no confusion about what happened, and there was still no indictment. It left many people around the country once again wondering if the only way to prove that racism impacts the treatment of people of color by police is that the officer shouted racial epithets while murdering Black and Brown bodies. It makes us realize that the only way to fix the system is to indict the system. In each of these moments, there has been much emphasis placed on the context that was missing, and media continues to ask, What is it that we do not know about the situation? Another important factor in these extrajudicial 95

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killings that has received less attention is the distrust of those who witnessed the incidents, particularly if the witnesses come from the same communities as the victim. Remember the belittling and ignoring of the witness testimony of Rachel Jentael, a young Black woman who was on the phone with Martin when the deadly encounter began? She was mocked by the defense for not being able to read on the stand and was vilified in the press. Multiple witnesses came forward in the Brown case, two of whom were Black women, Piaget Crenshaw and Tiffany Mitchell. Crenshaw and Mitchell have had their character attacked by the conservative media for supposedly participating in riots or changing their account of what occurred between Brown and officer Darren Wilson. In each of these scenarios, we must acknowledge that police brutality does not simply happen to or impact only men of color. Eswa Garner, Eric Garner’s wife, illustrates this when she responds to a statement from the killer officer who shares his condolences and apologies. Eswa Garner answered, “Hell no,” when asked if she would accept the officer’s apology. “The time for remorse would have been when my husband was screaming to breathe,” said Garner, going on to assert: That would have been the time for him to show some type of remorse or some type of care for another human being’s life, when he was screaming 11 times that he can’t breathe. . . . I could care less about his condolences. . . . He’s still working, he’s still getting a paycheck, he’s still feeding his kids. And my husband is 6 feet under, and I’m looking for a way to feed my kids now.

Eswa Garner’s righteous anger over the murder of her husband was characterized by some media as lashing out at the police, because apparently women of color cannot express grief and rage over injustice without being viewed as aggressive. The women left behind when Black and Brown males are harassed, arrested, and killed continue to experience the impacts of police brutality. They are left to raise families with less income and support, to try to ensure the safety of their children from the police, and to try to address the ways individuals working with conscious and unconscious bias fuel systemic racism. The indirect experiences are not the only ways women of color are brutalized by excessive and aggressive policing. Women of color are experiencing disproportionate rates of arrests and incarceration for minimal legal infractions. Consider the case of Ersula Ore, the Arizona State University professor who was stopped for jaywalking and slammed to the ground when she requested that the officer speak to her respectfully. Ore’s middle-class status as an educated Black professional did not protect her from being assaulted by police. Another example is that of Marissa Alexander, the mother who fired a warning shot at the ceiling when her abusive, estranged husband was threat-

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ening her. Alexander has been denied the use of Stand Your Ground laws and was instead sentenced to twenty years in prison, though at retrial she was able to get the sentence reduced to three years. Ore and Alexander were not afforded the benefits of laws or policing for safety; instead, they were the focus of racial surveillance and harsh punishment. More often, though, women of color are arrested and incarcerated on drug and property offenses, rather than violent crimes. A result of the War on Drugs, for example, was the phenomenon of the “girlfriend problem,” which has become common vernacular in criminal cases. The girlfriend problem is the concept that if the boyfriend is selling drugs, he can exchange valuable information about “higher-ups” in the drug trade and therefore get his sentence reduced; the girlfriend/wife in the house, however, can be prosecuted for aiding him, even though she may not be directly involved and has little information to provide. Yet she can get a longer sentence than the person selling drugs. Here we see another route to women of color getting locked up that is related to men of color becoming criminalized, yet different. It is important to note that pathways to prison for men and women of color are similar but not identical. Finally, women of color are still killed by police. Though this has been framed as a largely male problem, the history of women of color being lynched by the state is also not new. The history of lynching Black women for issues from “theft,” to “dispute with white man,” to being “the mother/ sister/daughter/wife of the accused murderer/rapist,” is well documented. Extrajudicial killings of women of color continue today, and their deaths occur for a variety of reasons: a child sleeping on a couch when police shoot while conducting a raid (Aiyana Stanley-Jones), being a bystander (Maria Godinez), shooting someone armed with a knife after a domestic violence call (Erica Collins). The three mechanisms through which police brutality impacts women of color indirectly, by harassing, arresting, and killing young men of color, or directly, by arresting, incarcerating, and killing, highlight both similarities and differences in the ways structural racism impacts communities of color. Women of color suffer, not only from the hypercriminalization of the Black male body but also from limited access to femininity, innocence, and ability, all intangible benefits of whiteness as property, one of the tenets of critical race theory. It is essential to note that the lack of data on extrajudicial killings tells its own story about what priorities the United States emphasizes and what facts are being obscured in the interest of maintaining narratives about the criminal nature of Black and Brown bodies. Moreover, the lack of intersectional data further limits our understanding of the experiences of people of color. For instance, it is clear that queer and gender nonconforming folks, many of whom are of color (e.g., CeCe McDonald, Deshawnda Sanchez, Islan Nettles) are being harassed, arrested, and killed at higher rates. Additionally, we know that police are also killing women of color with disabilities (e.g.,

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Brenda Williams and Miriam Carey). Because intersectional data are still largely unavailable, however, we are unable to articulate the true scope of the problem. What we do know is that these murders are taking a major toll on Black and Brown communities. The impacts of battle fatigue, of being a person of color always under attack, are grounding many down as we try to maintain dignity in the face of assaults on our communities. As someone who studies the ways Black and Brown bodies are criminalized, none of this is new, but it is all the more enraging. That the privileged, white and respectability politics Black and Brown folks, cannot make the links and cannot see the patterns speaks specifically to our failed education system and more generally to a society that refuses to acknowledge the ways our racist past is linked to a racist present. Race-neutral systems still reinforce racialized outcomes, including the legal lynching of Black and Brown bodies, and therefore we need racially conscious policies. Moreover, we need intersectional systems, policies, and practices that understand that mechanisms for criminalization look different for different groups. My Brother’s Keeper and other programs that focus on fixing communities of color without fixing the entrenched systems will do little good. Instead, we must indict the system and tear it down because right now, #wecantbreathe.

Chapter Seventeen

Killing Me Softly How Violence Comes from the Curriculum We Teach Susan Anne Cridland-Hughes and LaGarrett J. King

THIS IS A REQUIEM; THIS IS A REVOLUTION We begin our thinking about assaults on communities of color through the violence that occurs within the school curriculum. Specifically, our focus centers around English and history, which are heavily state-sanctioned political spaces that serve the racial apparatus meant to subscribe and maintain racial hierarchy and hegemony. Through the hidden curriculum, children implicitly learn about race, culture, and gender, which indicate a level of humanity, questioning who are/can be considered human. The English curriculum, through the canon of literary knowledge and history, privileges narratives that classify whiteness as epistemologically valuable, while nonwhites’ stories are treated as a novelty in classroom spaces. We argue that schools condition a curriculum of violence in classrooms and if teachers’ instructional practices adhere strictly to the traditional curriculum, they enact a pedagogy of violence. These approaches simultaneously contribute to a psychological and spiritual suffering that Black and Brown youth experience through the curriculum. The curriculum of violence renders ideologies and discourses that imply Black and Brown youth are not and should not be valued, cared for, or respected. Their voices are unheard within the metanarrative; when their voices are featured, they are marginalized, truncated, or sanitized to lose critical meaning and promote whiteness. There are, in a very real sense, two fronts of attack that are both shaped by curriculum: 1) there is the erasure of identity in the formal curriculum and 2) the reification of the media representations that link Black and Brown identities with violence in the informal curriculum. What does this mean? This 99

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means that schools, both through what they include and what they leave out, open Black and Brown youth to attacks from all sides, and those attacks become justified because of the representations. The curriculum of violence also confirms to majority youth that there is something to fear about Black and Brown persons. So while violence on unarmed Black bodies occur on the streets, the idea of violence against nonwhite bodies begins in the classroom. The curriculum of violence occurs across both English and history. Sometimes it occurs overtly, as in attacks on student language through rigid grammar requirements, and sometimes more subversively, as in the token integration of multiple historical perspectives that add to a white progressive historical narrative that does not change the trajectory of oppressive histories. The curriculum of violence occurs when the majority of the canon situates narratives concerning nonwhite literary and historical characters as only featured in subordinate roles, nonwhites with little agency and, if agency is displayed, the actions are told as uncomplicated narratives, or when nonwhites are voiceless or when voices are heard, the tone is absent of any criticalness. Instead, the voice privileges mainstream thought and practice. In history classes, for example, school children’s first exposure to Black persons is through enslavement that features their bodies in acts of commoditization, brutality, and servitude. While U.S. enslavement, if taught through a critical lens, can be used to expose the beginning and contemporary manifestations of U.S. racial hierarchy and systemic racism, presenting U.S. enslavement as the initial entry point to Black identity has some serious implications to the psychological and spiritual development of all students. Without juxtaposing African American enslavement with the African American Founding Fathers and Mothers who challenged notions of Black identity and racial attitudes during the colonial period, the narratives imply a specific ontology that rejects intellectualism and promotes an idea that Black people were relatively inconsequential to the development of the United States. The exposure of these primary narratives has contemporary consequences that may influence some whites to have overbearing notions of paternalistic responsibility, deficit thinking, and over-surveillance of Black bodies. The curriculum in English is equally hostile when it comes to the teaching of language, most specifically academically valued language. Even after multiple examples of how ways of expressing being and belonging are steeped in language and form the basis for individual identity, students are still being assessed and evaluated on their ability to scrub language of that very identity. Imagine a child, raised in a loving and welcoming home, full of playful language and sophisticated linguistic invention. Once in school, however, the measure of success comes through the ability to convey meaning through a predetermined set of linguistic markers that map onto mainstream language use. What we see in classrooms across the country is the systematic drilling of what is termed “neutral” language and grammar; language is never

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neutral, however, and the classroom becomes a space where deviation from the schooled expectations results in lower grades, but also where those deviations separate the learned from the unlearned, a separation that also links with the more valued and the less valued. In many cases, the language markers relied upon to mark the divide are language markers that belong historically to Black and Brown people, so the scoring becomes a subtle code reinforcing who is valued in society. Taken together, these practices accomplish a teaching that whiteness is the attainable goal, and if that goal is not met, it is not respected as legitimate. The valuing of language cannot be contained within the walls of the school, however; just as we described with the primary narratives example, the subconscious violence continues as Black, Brown, and white interact in society. If we subconsciously judge someone as less valuable, whether through what we perceive to be their ability to communicate or through what we believe about their historical contributions, there is no way to separate that from the contemporary engagements. A curriculum of violence, focused on lack or deficit thinking, reinforces white paternalism in ways that cannot be uncoupled in daily interactions. More importantly, this subconscious dismissal reinforces white-on-Black physical violence in the name of “order” and the psychological violence that occurs any time the media represents a Black man as an animal with superhuman strength and no self-control. WHAT WE CAN DO TO CHALLENGE THE VIOLENCE Teachers need to see their curricular decisions as a form of either violence against or support for Black and Brown children. There is no middle ground for racial reconciliation, and there is no space for a lack of acknowledgment of culpability. If teachers want to establish a supportive curriculum, there must be a push for an inclusive curriculum that includes the subtexts of a particular story. In Greenville, South Carolina, teachers teach westward expansion as a curricular standard, but they also emphasize the disappearance of Native American identity. They supplement the curriculum with a children's book, Cheyenne Again, that describes how Native American youth were treated in the boarding schools and how they were forced to assimilate by the white majority. Their students then discuss the divide between the sanitized version of history as told by the white settlers and the experiences of the Native Americans and their families. These classrooms in particular open critical dialogue about the divides between traditional understandings and the undertaught nonwhite perspectives. Teachers also need to be unafraid to discuss their own understandings of race and injustice in the classroom, not as a tool for indoctrination but as a way of counteracting the pervasive conflation of Black and Brown bodies

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with threat. This is not to say that teachers teach an equally dogmatic ideology, but rather that they model for their students what it means to integrate sources of information and personal experiences to form perspectives and arguments. This integration is particularly vital when we do not trust the media to represent truth. The ideal of the teacher as a value-neutral guide is not what we need in the classrooms and society of today. Instead, we need teachers and community members like those in Ferguson, who met in libraries and co-created curriculum to actively discuss and grieve. We are human, and we are constantly receiving and weighing information; if we do not model for students how to question those sources, we cannot help them develop the ability to question official stories that obscure more than they reveal. CONCLUSION We talk about the literal deaths of youth such as Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, and Tamir Rice, but it is more difficult to measure the violence and psychological deaths of youth being taught with curriculums that assault them daily through the perpetuation of white intellectual superiority. These incidents start in classrooms where negative stereotypes about Black and Brown persons are nurtured through the curriculum and reinforced through teaching. They follow us through our lives, as those students grow and assume places of power and authority in society, making life or death decisions based on subconscious assumptions of danger, value, and worth. The curriculum of violence makes it possible to believe that Black and Brown youth are subhuman. For a majority-white grand jury, therefore, the comments made by former officer Darren Wilson that Michael Brown was a superhuman who looked like a “demon” and was capable of running through multiple gunshots is believable. It is rational that Trayvon Martin became the aggressor after a stranger, who was twice his age, followed him at night and that Tamir Rice looked twenty despite being twelve years old. The question remains, however: How do we get to a place where our curriculum presents the march of history and our pieces of literature as a dance between oppression and growth? Until we can back up to see how the curriculum we implement reinforces and reifies oppression, we cannot stop the violence.

Chapter Eighteen

The Sketch Factor “Bad Neighborhood” Narratives as Discursive Violence Robin DiAngelo

I am white. My last academic position was in a state I had never been to before my interview. Throughout the three days of interviewing, other white people warned me not to buy a home in Springfield or Holyoke if I took the position, especially if I had children. While no one openly named race, the racial coding was not lost on me. I now knew where the people of color were concentrated in the area. At the same time, because no one directly mentioned race, we could all deny that this was what we were actually talking about. Returning to my hotel room the first night, I looked up the demographics. Sure enough, Springfield and Holyoke had significantly high populations, close to 50 percent, of Black and Brown people. Starting on day one of my visit, my fellow whites had communicated the racial boundaries to me. Narratives about good schools and neighborhoods to be desired and bad schools and neighborhoods to be avoided are ubiquitous among whites. Those neighborhoods deemed “bad” are often environments that white people have never been to, given their fear of them, and this fear is kept in circulation via discursive warnings and now the convenience of an app named “Sketch Factor,” which warns newcomers which neighborhoods to avoid in a given city. According to the Urban Dictionary, “sketchy” in this context means: someone or something that just isn’t right; something unsafe; someone or something that gives off a bad feeling. While social class plays a role in these perceptions, this fear is primarily based on the number of Black and Brown people in that space; spaces with a significant number from the perceptions of white people are positioned as inherently dangerous. How we think and speak about people of color is the foundation for how we treat people of color. Moreover, this foundation, grounded in discourse 103

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that specifically positions people of color as inherently dangerous while simultaneously positioning whites as inherently innocent, has material consequences in the larger society. I want to argue that these narratives are a form of racial violence. Further, they function to legitimize and promote State violence in these communities; we (white people) do not know what is going on in these spaces and do not care, as long as the boundaries between us and them are adequately enforced. At a time when redlining and other forms of explicit and legal segregation are no longer possible, white flight is a major mechanism of racial segregation. White flight is the term used to describe the phenomenon of whites moving out of neighborhoods when they perceive that there are too many people of color, Blacks in particular, in the neighborhood. On attitude surveys, most whites say they would prefer neighborhoods that are no more than 30 percent Black; more than half of whites say they would not move into a neighborhood that is 30 percent Black or more. Studies of actual mobility patterns not only confirm these preferences, but show that whites downplay them. White flight has been shown to be triggered when a formerly white neighborhood reaches 7 percent Black and that in neighborhoods with more than a few Black families, white housing demand tends to disappear. Whites consistently move out of neighborhoods with growing Black populations, ensuring that many of these newly integrated neighborhoods will soon become segregated again; this does not apply to formerly Black and Brown neighborhoods that are becoming or are projected to become more rather than less white due to desirable aspects such as location and/or pricing. White flight is the primary reason that racial integration has not been achieved; the majority of whites, in both the expression of their beliefs and the practice of their lives, do not want to integrate with Black and Brown people. If they are racially conscious liberals, they will express these beliefs in a way that positions them as sympathetic to the cause but just victims of something that cannot be helped, such as: we know it is really white here, but we had to move here for the schools. White flight is often justified by beliefs that people of color, Blacks in particular, are more prone to crime, and that if too many Blacks move into a neighborhood, crime will increase, home values will go down, and the neighborhood will deteriorate. Research matching census data and police department crime statistics show that this is not true, but these statistics do not quell white fears. For most whites, the percentage of Blacks in a neighborhood is directly correlated with perceptions of the neighborhood crime level. In the white mind, the more people of color in an area, the more dangerous the area is perceived to be. These associations are kept alive by the ways in which the media define and report crime, with prison-based reality shows, and with daily good schools and neighborhood discourses, and now an app, all of which function to police racial boundaries.

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What do these racial boundaries allow to happen to communities of color? They allow State violence that is not seen or appears justified. The recent outcries about highly publicized incidents of State violence are only occurring because social media is allowing the everyday to become visible to the white mainstream. It is not State violence that is increasing, but rather the visibility of State violence. The mainstream has been allowed to assume that our experiences with police and legal institutions are the same for people of color, and cameras and social media have shattered that illusion in a way that some in the white collective are finding hard to reconcile in their consciences. White supremacist projections, abandonment, and denial are much easier when they are not unveiled for us; names and faces have humanized victims of State violence. Although many whites see spaces in which more than a few people of color are present as undesirable and even dangerous, consider the matter of perspective. I have heard countless people of color share stories of what it was like to be one of only a few people of color in their schools and neighborhoods, and it was most often described as a miserable, painful, and hostile experience for them. Although many parents of color want the advantages granted by attending predominantly white schools, they also worry about the stress and even danger they are putting their children in by sending them to white schools. These parents must also worry about a predominantly white teaching force. This teaching force has little if any authentic knowledge about children of color and has been socialized, in large part unconsciously, to see children of color as inferior and even to fear them. Disparity in punishment rates, referrals to special education, expulsions, and the school-to-prison pipeline are manifestations of this implicit white contempt and fear that people of color experience in white-controlled schools. This perspective turns the dangerous-places narrative on its head; imagine how unsafe white schools and neighborhoods, which are so precious to whites, might appear to people of color. Indeed, to position Black and Brown spaces as unsafe is to pervert and obscure the true direction of historic and systematic violence people of color consistently experience at the hands of whites and white institutions. Consider the safe, white gated community from Treyvon Martin’s perspective. In addition to the material and physical violence that is justified through the bad neighborhood discourse, consider the psychic violence, the profound message that there is no real loss for whites in the absence of people of color from our lives. Not one white person who loved or taught me ever conveyed that there was loss in segregation, that I would lose anything by not having people of color in my life. I could live my entire life without a friend or loved one of color and not see that as a problem. In fact, my life trajectory would almost certainly ensure that I had few, if any, people of color in my life, especially if I was upwardly mobile. I might meet some people of color when

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I played sports in school, or there might be a person of color or two in my classes, but when I was outside the context of a class or game, I would not have any authentic, long-term cross-racial relationships. Most whites who describe having a friend of color in childhood rarely keep them into adulthood. Yet I am confident that if my parents had thought it was valuable to have cross-racial relationships, I would have had them. Pause for a moment and consider the magnitude and profundity of this message: we lose nothing of value by not having cross-racial relationships. In fact, the absence of people of color in our lives is in large part what defines our schools and neighborhoods as “good.” Yet how can we perceive a neighborhood as good if it is segregated? Every utterance of this discourse is an act of aggression toward people of color as we remind them that there is a place that is rich with the spoils of racism, but that they are not welcome there, that their absence is what makes it valuable and their presence what ruins it. Racism becomes inscribed in geography and allows whites to enact it without owning it. Further, to choose which schools you want is a privilege that is not available to everyone based on race and class status, and to position it as a choice is another reminder that blames people of color for white racism. These messages are not lost on people of color. Returning to the example that opens this chapter, consider the consequences if we had listened to the warnings of my white colleagues. Coming from a state with much higher housing prices, we could afford to buy one of the more expensive homes in Springfield or Holyoke. But being steered away from these areas meant that we would not contribute to their tax base, and in turn, their school systems. This would reinforce the abandonment of these towns and the concentration of wealth in white, resource-rich environments. But consider a brief overview of Springfield and Holyoke. These are towns with a history of secure blue-collar manufacturing jobs. When wealthy white owners moved their factories overseas to exploit the labor of other people of color, these towns fell into depression. People of color who had historically been denied wealth-building opportunities, such as long-term employment in these factories, the GI Bill, and home loans, had a much weaker safety net to help them weather the economic downturn. Springfield also has a history of corrupt white city government. Essentially, it is white people who created the conditions we see today and that are projected onto their residents of color, a familiar trick of white supremacy. Every positioning of whites and their spaces as good and/or innocent reproduces racist images and resultant white fears that circulate at all levels of society and both create and sanction State violence against people of color. This discourse distorts reality and perverts the actual direction of danger and the ideological rationalizations for it; white supremacist power is thus both reinforced and obscured. I want to reposition whiteness as sketchy: someone

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or something that just isn’t right; something unsafe; someone or something that gives off a bad feeling. We, whites, need to start owning what we are doing via our neighborhoods and schools. Until our comfort with this discourse is unsettled, we will remain complicit in white supremacy.

Chapter Nineteen

Racial Justice in America Alternative Universes Dewey M. Clayton

The recent killings of an unarmed black teenager in Ferguson, Missouri, and an unarmed black male in Staten Island, New York, have re-ignited a national dialogue concerning police brutality against Black males but have also exposed a deep chasm between Blacks and whites in America. Blacks and whites have such divergent views on this issue, it is as though they live in alternative universes. In 1967, President Lyndon Johnson established the Kerner Commission to examine the causes of urban unrest and racial cleavage between Blacks and whites in the country. The report concluded, “Our nation is moving toward two societies, one black, one white—separate and unequal.” I argue that Blacks and whites continue to occupy separate spaces in America and, because of this, have very different realities, particularly with regard to wealth, economic inequality, health care, political empowerment, and relations with law enforcement. Public-opinion polling conducted by the Pew Research Center in the aftermath of the Ferguson shooting shows a public deeply divided along racial lines. The nationwide survey found that 44 percent of respondents think the Ferguson case does raise important issues about race that require discussion, while 40 percent say that race is getting more attention than it deserves. By a margin of four to one (80 percent to 18 percent), however, African Americans say the shooting in Ferguson raises important issues about race that require discussion, while whites, by 47 percent to 37 percent, say the issue of race is getting more attention than it deserves. Additionally, while whites think that race is receiving too much attention in the Ferguson shooting, more whites felt that way (60 percent) after a Florida jury acquitted George Zimmerman in the shooting death of Trayvon Martin. 109

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Almost fifty years after the Kerner Commission report, there has been substantial progress made on the part of many blacks in closing the inequality gap between the two races. Blacks have benefitted from the opportunities afforded them by the Civil Rights Movement. The Black middle class has grown to unprecedented levels, and the number of Black elected officials has increased dramatically, including the election of Barack Obama as the fortyfourth president of the United States. But many African Americans are unable to move into the middle class, and many remain mired in poverty, living in segregated neighborhoods that lack adequate schools to give them the education required by the workforce of today and for the workforce of tomorrow. Too many Blacks are trapped in a sea of poverty amid plenty, double-digit unemployment rates, a lack of adequate housing, low-paying jobs, little to no accumulation of wealth, inadequate health care, and overrepresentation in America’s prison population. The Ferguson protests re-exposed America’s racial divide. An August 2014 CNN report by Tami Luhby listed five disturbing statistics nationwide on Black-white inequality. The median household wealth for whites is $91,405 as compared to $6,446 for Blacks; white wealth is fourteen times greater than Black wealth. Wealth accumulation, as opposed to income, includes the long-term accumulation of assets and is a critical component in measuring inequality. Home ownership, often Americans’ greatest asset and a major component of overall wealth, paints a stark contrast: 72.9 percent of whites own their own homes, whereas only 43.5 percent of Blacks own their home. The median household income for Blacks, $35,416, is less than 60 percent that of whites who bring in $59,754. Unemployment is a key aspect of racial inequality. The jobless rate for Blacks is double that for whites and has been this way for decades. The white unemployment rate is at 5.3 percent while the Black unemployment rate is 11.4 percent. Without jobs, there is little to no chance of becoming homeowners or accumulating any real wealth. Furthermore, the lack of employment tends to push Blacks into poverty. Thus, the poverty rate for Blacks, 27.2 percent, is nearly triple that of whites, 9.7 percent. Though America’s overall poverty rate is 15 percent, more than one in four Blacks live in poverty while just under one in ten whites do. Blacks and whites have differing experiences related to policing practices. They encounter police at different rates and are treated differently. According to the Sentencing Project, policies such as stop-and-frisk and broken-windows policing have placed Blacks under greater scrutiny by the police, with the purpose of preventing more serious crimes. Racial bias in policing and the disproportionate use of force against African Americans has become a national crisis. Michael Brown and Eric Garner were killed by white police officers in the summer of 2014, and neither was armed. In both cases, grand juries chose not to indict the police officers. A nationwide

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public opinion poll conducted by USA Today/Pew Research Center in December 2014 shows a deep racial division between Blacks and whites when asked to react to the Brown and Garner decisions. Results of the poll show that Blacks overwhelmingly say the grand jury erred in not bringing charges—80 percent in the Michael Brown case, 90 percent in the Eric Garner case. There was a different outcome among whites for the two cases: by a wide margin of 64 percent to 23 percent, whites felt the grand jury made the right decision in the death of Michael Brown. Nearly half, 47 percent, stated the grand jury made the wrong decision about Eric Garner’s death, whereas only 28 percent of whites think the grand jury made the right decision. The deaths of both unarmed men have sparked protests and rallies throughout the United States about police treatment of African Americans and calls for reform—and have led to a national outcry that “Black lives matter.” According to the Brennan Center for Justice, “African-American communities are tired of being over-policed, over-prosecuted, sent to prison, having men taken away from their communities, having families broken.” Though African Americans are only 13 percent of the nation’s population, they make up 40 percent of the 2.1 million people in jail or prison. Not only are whites and Blacks treated differently by the criminal justice system, but Blacks are more likely to encounter whites at every step of the process: police, prosecutors, judges, juries, and prison officials. African American males have become fodder for the prison-industrial complex. The United States now spends roughly $200 billion annually on law enforcement and corrections and employs more people than the three largest employers in the country: General Motors, Ford, and Wal-Mart. And it was the perception of police abuse that has led to protests in Ferguson, New York, and around the country. When the protests began in Ferguson after the shooting death of Michael Brown, for example, a CNN video captured a white police officer referring to the largely Black protesters as animals. Eric Garner’s death was captured on a cellphone video as he appeared to be in a chokehold and as he pleaded “I can’t breathe.” Whites see police officers as public servants ready to help and protect them. Too often, however, Blacks’ encounters with police officers are vastly different—police are seen as individuals who come into the Black community to harass and intimidate. Today, many whites see President Obama as a racially polarizing figure. Ben Stein, a conservative commentator and former Republican speech writer, has referred to President Obama as the “most racist president there has ever been in America.” Seriously? Many of our early presidents owned slaves, believing Blacks to be inferior to whites. Too many other presidents turned a blind eye to the plight of Blacks in America and either condoned the legal racism that was rampant in America or actively sought to maintain the sys-

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tem of racial apartheid in America. To Stein and other whites, there is no racism, just something that Blacks use to gain special advantages in America. Stein is not alone in his alternative universe. Recently, Indianapolis oil tycoon Charlotte Lucas stated that she was “sick and tired of minorities running our country.” Really? Of the 50 governors in the United States, only one is Black (2 percent). Of the 100 U.S. senators, two are Black (2 percent). Of the 435 members of the U.S. House of Representatives, 42 are Black (9.5 percent). Of the nine justices on the U.S. Supreme Court, only one is Black (11 percent). In corporate America, of the CEOs heading Fortune 500 companies, only six are Black (1.2 percent). Many whites fail to see or acknowledge the structural racism that continues to exist in this country and advantages whites in the form of white privilege over Blacks. In a 2009 comedy sketch, comedian Chris Rock says, “All my Black friends have a bunch of white friends. And all my white friends have one black friend.” Based on polling conducted by the Public Religion Research Institute (PRRI), Chris Rock is on to something. According to a 2013 survey undertaken by PRRI, 75 percent of white Americans have entirely white social networks that lack minority membership. The interviews revealed that it is not simply that people are unfamiliar with race, but in all likelihood, they do not know any minorities, leading to negative stereotypes and misconceptions about their behavior and status. Today, nearly fifty years since the Kerner Commission issued its stark warning that this nation was becoming two societies, Black and white, separate and unequal, that prophesy has come true. The United States is more integrated than ever before; the idea that America is post-racial, however, is a myth. Until we acknowledge this myth, we will be limited in coming up with solutions.

Chapter Twenty

The Death of Amir De’Mani Brooks Counseling Psychologists’ Response to Racism and Violence against Black Communities Lisa B. Haileab and Ivory A. Toldson

“My poor baby; why God, why?” was spoken by Pamela Brooks, a heartbroken mother mourning the wrongful death of her son, Amir. An off-duty Prince Georges County, Maryland, police officer chased Amir Brooks-Watson to his death in August 2014 because he suspected him of riding a stolen dirt bike. Amir’s unexpected death as a result of being profiled and chased by a police officer has terrified the Prince Georges County, Maryland, community, a predominately Black county that borders Washington, D.C. Counseling psychologists use a variety of therapeutic strategies to help people and communities overcome adversity and experience optimal living. This chapter explores the complicated task of promoting healing in circumstances of gross injustice. MISCARRIAGES OF JUSTICE AND COMMUNITIES IN PAIN The United States is often sought after as a place of refuge; however, its protections seem to elude minority communities, particularly for Black males. Violence against minority and poor communities is nauseatingly familiar. The recent killings of unarmed Black males that have made mainstream media have not been restricted by age. Their deaths remind the world that racism and violence have been a part of the history of the United States. Yet Black males have continued to be nationwide targets and receptacles of interpersonal and institutionalized racism that claims their promising futures. 113

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The recent exoneration of the murderers of these Black men has devastated people all over the world. Black lives have been forsaken by the law that was meant to protect them; some argue that justice is fool’s gold. Black males are racially profiled and targeted. The negative representations that are associated with the image of a Black male are embedded within American culture. Black men are placed at risk as their image alone instills fear and contempt for their very existence. Under these conditions, racism festers like a sore, and the moment that one feels threatened by the image of a Black male, whether warranted or unprovoked, death can strike and the tragedy remains in one’s blackness. Darren Wilson, the police officer who murdered eighteen-year-old Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, testified that Michael Brown appeared to him as a demon. The demonization of Michael Brown is evidence of the consequences of the intergenerational transmission of racism and ignorance, where one cannot recognize the humanity in another person. To see the world through a lens of prejudice that signals fear at the sight of a Black male’s body places the nation at risk for repeating a shameful history that is happening now. Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, Eric Garner, and Tamir Rice are the names known to the nation and the world as a result of being killed in unprovoked circumstances. The last words of Eric Garner, I can’t breathe ricochet all over the world, while there are other cases that sadly carry a similar storyline. A FAMILY RESPONDS TO TRAGEDY Tionne Brooks, Amir’s older brother, is a twenty-eight-year-old talented artist better known as Nino Swagg. He had the uncanny ability to not only redirect his impassioned sorrows to the beat of a song, but he was also able to capture the experience of young Black males that live under conditions of racism and violence. Tionne wrote and created a song titled, “No Chase: Seen It All,” as well as began the #NoChaseMovement. The lyrics to his song are interwoven with pain, conditions of circumstance, resilience, and strength. An excerpt from his song is included below: My little brother just died he ain’t even really have to go He was only 17 years old, A lot of things he’ll never get to know My nigga my ride or die, when you died I was by your side So numb couldn’t even cry, that was the realist shit ever I can't even lie It’ll never be the same, but everywhere I go imma rep your name Middle fingers up and I’m screaming no chase To these hatin’ ass pigs who ain’t got no brakes

Tionne boldly confronts the consequences of having “seen it all,” while refusing to succumb to the violence that infiltrates oppressed communities.

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The circumstances surrounding Amir’s untimely death have remained facts of life, lessons, and or warnings that Black mothers fear happening to their sons. Young Black males are often warned at an early age that they will be targeted because of their darker skin. Keri D. Singleton, the radio host on Keri’s Korner in New York City, was deeply affected after learning about Amir’s death. He devoted his show to Tionne and Amir’s mother, Pamela Brooks, on December 1, 2014. Prior to introducing Ms. Brooks, Keri told his listeners, “The numbers are staggering, I don’t know what to say.” Ms. Brooks later stated, “Amir didn’t deserve to die, he was a good kid just trying to have fun as a teenager.” Ms. Brooks often uses her Facebook page as a way to grieve and celebrate the life of her son. On August 21, 2014, her Facebook status read: Lord you said that it would be days like this. I just need you to humble me, direct my path, guide my footsteps in the right direction . . . because I’m afraid, if it were up to me, I would just turn around and run back the other way, but if you just walk with me, and when I’m too weak carry me, I KNOW THAT I CAN MAKE IT . . . there has to be better days coming my way.

Ms. Brooks posts pictures and videos on her profile, where she plays Tionne’s song written for Amir next to his freshly made grave that has yet to receive its tombstone. Her sadness is insurmountable and she often reminds her friends and followers that one could not possibly understand her pain. LESSONS LEARNED The cries of hopelessness in the face of racism against Black males ripple all over the world. Riots and protests have become a way of seeking justice in the face of injustice. While mainstream media often criticizes the acts of protests in the wake of the decisions around these prominent cases, Keri Singleton reminded his listeners that “people riot because they are expressing pain and anger; it’s a reaction; it’s like crying.” Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. stated that a riot is the language of the unheard. Members of the Black community feel betrayed by the justice system in the United States. Individuals nationwide are finding ways to galvanize their responses and communicate their frustrations in response to the racism and violence that have captured the lives of Black men and children. Reverend John N. Robinson, the pastor of Spirit of Christ Baptist Church in Temple Hills, Maryland, knew that he had to offer his predominately African American congregation a message that could speak to the racism and violence that is impacting their community. He advised his congregation on Sunday, December 14, 2014, to take heed of the following message:

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Reverend Robinson knew that his congregation required a message of hope. Faith-based communities nationwide have historically been and continue to be messengers of hope within the Black community. With the dominance of social media and technology, youth and adults find refuge and support through online platforms. Other persons use their artistic talent to communicate their frustrations and hope. Bryce Barnes, the founder, creator, and artistic director of Bryce Barnes Clothing, based in Los Angeles, California, created a Hereafter and Consciousness line of clothing to speak to the consequences of racism and violence facing the Black Community. An excerpt from the introduction to his clothing line is provided below: Through art I convey my emotions, feelings and thoughts on the issues at hand. This will change something, I will reach and have an effect on someone’s life who can relate. Each collection from “Hereafter” to “Consciousness” explores real life issues we're facing today. How many times will we have to hear “What ifs?” “How do you know?” “You weren’t there?”

From a psychological perspective, racism and oppression contribute to behavioral responses that signal concern about survival, which can either increase psychological distresses or promote unconventional survival mechanisms. In this view, Black people are not collectively injured by racism and oppression; however, a health provider needs to understand the impact of racism to provide competent assessment and treatment. A competent assessment of Black behavior, including rioting, should not be limited to a description of mental and emotional deficits or to observations of externalized abnormal behaviors. Instead, an accurate assessment should extend to describe inherent responses to social and environmental conditions, in which the abnormal behavior might be a “normal” reaction. In other words, Black behavioral disintegration is sometimes best explained as a consequence of dynamic ecological systems rather than the result of intrapsychological deficits. As Americans we must Never Forget the dreadful attacks on 9/11/2001; we must also never forget the words of mothers like Pamela Brooks that ask, “My poor baby; why God, why?”

III

The Black Male Experience in the United States

Chapter Twenty-One

Save Our Black Males I Should Not Have to Celebrate That My Son Lived to See the Age of Thirty-Five Donna Y. Ford

I write this chapter on my son’s thirty-fifth birthday in 2014. Although I celebrate his birthday and rejoice that he is alive, I also grieve. I mourn for the families who are not as fortunate as mine—families whose sons will not reach adulthood. My chapter is personally emotional. I write it more as a mother than a scholar. I have written dozens of articles and chapters on Black males, and I co-created the Scholar Identity Institute for Black Males to help Black males advocate for themselves, to claim the label and their rights as scholars despite social media and statistics that can make them believe otherwise. The Institute and associated model, described later, were created for their families, educators, and community members to advocate for Black males in every aspect of their lives. Thirty-five years ago, when I learned I was pregnant with a son, the joy that came with my pregnancy was diminished by fears. How would his teachers treat him? How would society treat him as he grew up? Would the police profile him like they do to other Black men, or would he be an exception? Other Black parents and males today are haunted by these questions. My social-justice compass has always directed my professional work and personal life. As a teenager and teen mother, I lived and observed the educational landscape and social terrain. I witnessed how Black males were misunderstood and mistreated in schools by their mainly white female teachers. I also noticed that Black males experienced a drop in motivation, engagement, achievement and self-efficacy between second and fourth grade. I saw how 119

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excessive suspensions and expulsions, cloaked as zero tolerance policies, resulted in a school-to-prison pipeline and were based on school personnel’s subjective and deficit-oriented perspectives and misperceptions. I found that Black males were underrepresented in honor, Advanced Placement, and gifted programs, but were overrepresented in special education. In brief, I saw up close and personal the reasons that Black males experienced school failure. My son was not an exception; despite the strong and positive family involvement shown to him, he still experienced difficulties. My efforts to prepare my son for school were being undermined so quickly. By the second grade, he was almost completely turned off from school. I passionately wished to correct problems in school (and society) in order to save him and other Black males from educational racism. I later read Carl Upchurch’s book Convicted in the Womb. Upchurch’s heart-wrenching autobiography shares his many encounters with violence, gangs, and reform schools and how, through self-education, he eventually escaped from his earlier life’s circumstances. Based upon my experiences with my son, I wrote my first book, Reversing Underachievement Among Gifted Black Students. Writing the book proved cathartic then, and remains so, even as I write this chapter eighteen years later. I feel the need to shed light on how we can save our Black males, especially those who are bright or gifted, those who hold promise for being leaders and role models. What I have described thus far was during the 1980s and 1990s. Unfortunately, not much has changed since then. I was more hopeful during the 1980s and 1990s. We should be moving forward rather than backward as a people and nation. During my lifetime, I have observed things getting worse for Black people. These problems relate to social and educational injustices, such as the following: (a) increased segregation by race (and income); (b) increased racial bullying and hate crimes; (c) increased racial profiling and police brutality with few officers, if any, being indicted or convicted; and (d) increased numbers of PK–12 teachers who are colorblind and deny that racial injustices exist. As I celebrate my son’s birthday, I worry about other Black males of all ages, who, because of the assault of communities of color, may not see another birthday. Black males live, on average, twelve fewer years than white males. White men who have sixteen or more years of schooling live an average of fourteen years longer than Black men with fewer than twelve years of education. Educational level not withstanding, the life expectancy gap that exists between Black males and white males is unsettling. Gordon Allport’s Theory of Prejudice stays on my mind. His five degrees of prejudice are enlightening and help me understand how (and why) prejudices morph over time. Antilocution is the mildest, but now the most com-

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mon, prejudice, which consists of verbal and visual expressions of prejudiced and negative attitudes. This includes racial slurs, racial jokes, and hate speech, as well as threatening or intimidating visual or nonverbal messages. Black males often receive the brunt of antilocution. Mainstream media are rife with racial slurs and hateful comments about Black males. Avoidance exists when racists take steps to prevent having interactions with Blacks. These steps include white flight from schools and communities. Suspensions and expulsions may also be forms of avoidance that keep Black males from interacting with white students. Discrimination consists of denying Blacks experiences to which they are entitled. This includes access to rigorous schools, educational programs, and community resources. Black males are frequently denied access to gifted programs and services. Their gifts and talents are most often valued in sports and entertainment. In school settings, policies, procedures, and curriculum, all grounded in prejudiced beliefs and attitudes, serve to deny access to opportunities that will advance the lives of Black males. Physical attack pertains to violence against Blacks, including intimidation and threats. This degree of prejudice includes racial profiling and police brutality and murder. The murders of Emmett Till, Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, Eric Garner, and Michael Brown are a few examples. While the list is of Black men who have been murdered at the hands of the police, it is also important to understand that lives don’t have to be taken in order to inflict pain on Black men (let us not forget Rodney King, who did live). Extermination, less common than the others already mentioned, includes sterilization, as in the infamous Tuskegee Experiment, and more recently and still troubling, sterilizations of females in North Carolina—many of whom were Black. An exasperating feeling, and frustrating reality, is to believe that hard work can buffer racial injustice. With these concerns in mind, and with agony in my heart, I began a major collaboration with Gilman W. Whiting to develop the Scholar Identity Model. The Scholar Identity Model is a theory based on, and consisting of, nine constructs. At the foundation is self-efficacy, based on the work of Albert Bandura. Self-efficacy addresses how confident individuals are in reaching or attaining a goal. This includes persistence and perseverance. In the face of persistent negative images of communities of color, Black males must have self-efficacy to be resilient and defy the odds that are stacked against them. Future orientation focuses on getting Black males to realize that, despite statistics such as those presented earlier, they must envision a future—a long future—that includes short- and long-term goals and that focuses on delaying immediate gratification. A central point for our Black men is that they must plan for the future and be strategic in doing so. Our Black males must be willing to make sacrifices. This entails setting priorities and recognizing that

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some things—friends, activities, and hobbies—have to be let go in order to accomplish goals. A key message is that sacrifices are painful and require inner strength to achieve goals and objectives. Locus of control has been addressed in decades of scholarship by Julian Rotter and others. Issues regarding effort, ability, task, and luck also need to be discussed with Black males so they are enlightened and empowered to make effective decisions. Black males must understand that they are, undeniably, often the victims of external social focuses, but they cannot succumb to a victim mentality. They must learn to hone in on what they can control, which includes effort, and making wise choices that have both short- and long-term benefits. Self-awareness is also essential for our Black males. They must know their strengths, weaknesses, and shortcomings. Families and educators must share these with them—not to hurt, but to help. We must talk with our Black males about how they will be judged by society in relation to the way they choose to dress, talk, and relate to others. The Scholar Identity Model focuses on two theories—Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and McClelland’s Need for Achievement Theory. Black males must learn, like all students, that needs override wants, and that they must focus on basic needs in order to meet higher needs. In other words, they should understand that the need for achievement must be given more weight than the need for affiliation. This does not mean becoming an introvert, but it does require setting priorities when having to choose between an assignment and a social event. Academic self-confidence is essential to school achievement. Students who are confident about their academic skills and abilities tend to be more motivated and engaged. More Black males must be supported and encouraged by their teachers and families to believe they can do better in school. This is not the reality of many Black males: hence, their high rates of underachievement, misbehavior, and dropping out. The almost all-white-female teaching force must be trained to become culturally competent. Meanwhile, Race pride is also critical to success in school and life. Like self-esteem and self-concept, pride in one’s race, heritage, and culture contributes to Black males loving the skin they are in. Race pride helps Black males to strive toward representing their group in positive ways and helps them be positive role models for other Black men. Masculinity is the final construct in the Scholar Identity Model. The focus is on how Black males view notions of manhood or manliness. For males in general, masculinity is confounded or confused with being rough, tough, hard, and emotionless. This includes not backing down from physical encounters, including those with the police. Black males must learn that being masculine includes being compassionate and empathetic. It also includes expressing feelings and being vulnerable; and it includes self-restraint (a tall order) when under attack or being oppressed.

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Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “We must live together as brothers and sisters, or die together as fools.” Let us not be fools. Let us work together to save our males. The Scholar Identity Model can help us.

Chapter Twenty-Two

What If My Trayvon Came Home? Teaching a Wretched Truth about Breathing While Black Howard C. Stevenson and Kelsey Jones

It is a sad and wretched truth in America that the worth of a Black or Brown child’s life is the least respected of all other human beings. As Americans, we doubt and bristle at that truth, we fear that truth, and we hope to God that the truth is a lie or idle rumor. But doubt, fear, and hope are ineffective coping strategies and are unlikely to change this tragic reality. We see the presence of this nagging truth in education, health, and justice systems, in neighborhoods, homes, and schools, in popular media, music, and images across rural and urban America. We are aware of this truth, yet, despite our country’s best efforts toward social justice and Black economic progress, Black and Brown lives remain expendable. We want the best for our children, and we want the warmth of the sunshine of the American dream. We want to walk into the sunset and play or dance freely across the open landscape of opportunity. But we remain saddened by the knowledge that Black and Brown children are vulnerable because societal institutions too often fail to see them as human, as children with children’s reactions and pains, wonderment and joy, tears and fears. And while we spend time dreaming, basking in the post-racial sunshine, our children are dying too soon and too often. A Black president cannot change it. A competent schoolteacher cannot change it. A grieving parent cannot change it. And protests alone cannot change it. The notion of speaking out gets at the heart of the agony we feel, the desire to share our pain and frustration in an effort to convince those who would scoff at our claims or listen to our stories with a skeptic ear. It is understandable that we, as Black and Brown communities, would want to speak out; speaking out has been powerful and central in our past treks 125

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toward the Promised Land, where we will need to dream no more. But public demonstrations alone run the risk of pouring all of our energy into demanding attention to and respect for Black and Brown humanity, a humanity we already know to be alive and well, valuable and special. The validation we seek is oftentimes based on an understanding of equity situated in legality and the fairness of law. But in the context of the United States, a nation built upon the dehumanization of Black and Brown peoples, it is not enough to protest for equity. It is not enough to wait for legal validation from those who would condone the emotional, mental, and physical assaults on our communities. These are the times when we must consider the power of speaking-in, and the importance of providing a private space to confirm for ourselves and our children what we already know and have no need to prove: Black and Brown lives are beautiful and they matter. When considering the long history of racial trauma and, more specifically, the history of police shootings of Black and Brown youth and the rarity of justice and convictions, the parents of children and youth of color will continue to be on edge for their safety. Many parents of color will find no peace to the endless tragedy of children dying at the hands of those who protect and serve. Yet this tragedy is as predictable as it is preventable. It is a perennial racial nuisance that leaves us paralyzed in the face of a disturbing parenting reality—that is, not all parents have to raise their children worrying that someone will see them as monsters, expelling them or shooting them or indifferent to whether they live or die. Not all parents must struggle from K–12, college through career, cradle to the grave hearing from your country’s systems of protect and serve, nurture and heal, and educate and inspire the unspoken message: your child is not as important as mine. TALKING TO OUR CHILDREN ABOUT BREATHING WHILE BLACK When we teach about the power of racial socialization, rejection, and support in a child’s development, behind the questions from parents, educators, and academics there lingers a gnawing query regarding the wretched truth: Should we simply accept it as fact when our health, police, school, court, and prison systems say to us, “Your child is not as important as my child”? It requires a kind of teaching that leads to a racial literacy within our own families and neighborhoods. Practiced, assertive, emotional, and behavioral comeback responses can counter the psychological detriment of racial inferiority. A healthy racial comeback line must retort: my child is as human as your child and I reject your rejection of my child. In the same way that we socialize our children to be polite, show kindness to others, and respect their elders, we must also socialize them to be confi-

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dent about managing racial stress during conflictual encounters, whether they be internal and interpersonal, face-to-face or institutional, micro- or macroaggressive—from friend or foe. WHAT IF MY TRAYVON CAME HOME? Talking directly to youth about race has its detractors. Are we teaching the children to hate? Does this make our children, our world racist? No, because we prepare our children, employees, and passengers, who do not cause the tragedies for which we prepare them, to endure a host of public tragedies that rarely occur but that have a low probability of survival. We may not listen to the flight attendants who routinely demonstrate what to do in case of an aircraft emergency. Few of us have experienced an airplane crash, and lived to tell of the importance of the pre-takeoff speech, but airlines still require passengers to receive the training. Does it make sense to prepare any less for the emotional trauma of racial profiling of Black and Brown boys and girls that are much more frequent? Trayvon was not, is not, and will not be the only boy who does not make it home. We are also not saying that there is anything Trayvon or his parents could have done to bring him home that night. But let us say your Trayvon came home, scared and out of breath from running. It would not be unusual for you to be angry at your child for causing such a stir. You look outside to see if the threat still exists, and then you return to your anger. You may say, “What the —?!” while your child stutters to tell you what happened. He tells you that some guy had a gun and chased him and shot at him, and his girlfriend heard the whole thing on the phone; he was just going to the store for a bag of Skittles and iced tea. Racial literacy involves critiquing the ways media stereotypes repeatedly insult Black and Brown life through the absence of images of Black and Brown resilience and brilliance. The bristling by the liberals or conservatives of the world pales in comparison to the need to speak clearly and boldly to your child about how to increase their chances of coming home alive. The problem is that the journey from the cradle to the grave is too short of a ride. The most insidious form of miseducation would be to shy away from preparing our children for that journey. So, what do you say to your Trayvon, or Bryan, or Julian, Keisha, Valerie, Kenya, or Little Mann? What do you say? What do you do? You embrace your child, and you wrap both of your arms around him. You ask your family to bring their arms. If there is ever a time to call elders

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together and pray and lay hands or lift hands or hold hands, this is the time. You remind yourself that it is not your Trayvon’s fault that you are afraid. You explain that your fear he might have died was what drove you to curse and yell, not your Trayvon. You thank whatever deity or God or faith or philosophy you believe in. You tell your Trayvon to breathe. You breathe. You let him cry. You cry. You ask him how he felt before you ask him what happened. You let him do whatever he feels like doing, and you even forget what happened for now. And when the crying subsides, and he tells you the story, it is natural to want to retaliate, but do not. You tell him that it is human to want to retaliate, but do not. Leave the protest for later. You tell him about Emmett Till and how he was only fourteen, not seventeen, when a justice system snuffed him out. Tell him about Mamie Till and how she had courage to tell her son’s story and to change the world with one open casket. Tell him that storytelling can change the world. Next, you tell him it is not his fault and how he does not have to swallow, adopt, or internalize the racial ignorance of the stalker. You tell him wearing hoodies is not a crime, and you teach him to read others who become fearful of him. You tell him you are sorry that you even have to tell him how sorry this world can be sometimes and that it is not his fault. Most of all, you listen. Then you do this all over again. Then you speak out. We do not need a milk carton to inform the world that Black and Brown children are at risk and mis-educated; mis-represented, mis-understood, and mis-taken for monsters. We should speak boldly about this national tragedy in Sunday school, in the barbershop, in the doctor’s office, on public transportation, at the clinic, in the bars, on the street corners. But as you protest, do not forget that protest, schooling, health care, and juvenile justice without the protection and affirmation of our young people is a miseducation—equally unhealthy and unjust. We can no more teach racial literacy through one speech about Trayvon Martin than we can teach youth how to read by showing them a picture of a book. We have to read that book deeply, giving and living “that speech” over and over again, just like the flight attendant on the airplane. Legal remedies cannot address emotional issues. They can only recompense. But the expense is too high. Our children’s lives are too costly to care whose feelings are hurt by speaking-in. Having the talk about racial conflict in the world no more causes racism than putting on the oxygen mask causes a plane crash. But none of us can be free if even one of us cannot breathe.

Chapter Twenty-Three

A Black Male Body—Normalcy, Never Again Gone in Ninety Seconds Larry C. Bryant

My Black body sizes up at 6 feet tall and weighs 285 pounds. It is large and muscular with 85 percent of it being muscle mass. The shade of its skin is considered dark. Its gender is male. It is inhabited by a well-educated and intelligent individual, who has earned the highest academic degree offered in the United States. The individual who inhabits this body is a model citizen, adhering to social order, performing community outreach and participating in the democratic process. Yet, this individual is never imagined as a university professor; instead he is essentialized as a football coach or player, a fitness trainer or a peace/security officer. Oftentimes because of this Black male body, the individual who inhabits it is marked as intimidating and threatening. And, in most cases, is requested to adopt childlike behaviors when interacting with others. In recalling the historical implications of the sociopolitical atmosphere of the United States, it is clear that race and race relations have long been problematic in social institutions. Since the races began interacting, white Americans have assumed the dominant social position in the country’s social and political landscapes. Now mind you, this position is not because white Americans are inherently superior in any way; instead, early white Americans hustled, manipulated, bullied, enslaved, abused, and neglected other races so as to lay claim to the dominant social position. As white Americans achieved their agenda of social dominance, they also engaged in separating individuals from their cultures and heritages. Through the system129

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atic psychological and emotional conditioning, early white Americans established political foundations to assure the ongoing demonization of Black culture, while simultaneously preserving their privileges and entitlements as the norm. Given these points, the permeating social construction and essentialism of large/athletic Black males as an object of deviance cannot be denied. Thus, the purpose here is to consider the sociopolitical and social construction of the Black male body, along with adverse racial definitions, as a neo-context to understand the effects of current race relations in the United States. SOCIOPOLITICAL DEMONIZATION OF THE BLACK MALE BODY To begin, an excerpt from the Great Debates (Lincoln and Douglas) of 1865 offers a historical account of institutionalized racial formation, in which Lincoln’s words seem to define contemporary racial ideology. Likewise, Lincoln’s words serves as a framework to guide the discussion regarding the inferior nature in which Black men have been socially constructed. Here Abraham Lincoln, articulating his position on the amalgamation of the races, exclaims: I have no purpose to introduce political and social equality between the white and Black races. There is a physical difference between the two which, in my judgment, will probably forever forbid their living together on the footing of perfect equality; and inasmuch as it becomes a necessity that there must be a difference, I, as well as Judge Douglas, am in favor of the race to which I belong having the superior position. I have never said anything to the contrary. . . . I agree with Judge Douglas that he [the negro] is not my equal in many respects, certainly not in color, perhaps not in intellectual and moral endowments.

To this end, these debates underscored the national conversation regarding the profound racialization of the Black male body. The politicizing of race as inferior/superior maintains the socialized values of white privilege and entitlement. Fast-forward to 2014, the reach of Lincoln’s words continues to impact today’s interpersonal interactions and, ultimately, decisions. Evidenced by the recent transgressions involving the deaths of Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, and Eric Garner, it is noted that the intersectionality of their size, race, and gender played a pivotal role in the micro-aggressions, which became fatal aggressions, perpetuated against the bodies inhabited by these individuals. Micro-aggressions are insults and dismissals inflicted onto African Americans. The micro-aggression here is the institutionalized emotional fears society has been classically conditioned to experience when presented with a Black male body. Classical conditioning, as it played with

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regard to demonizing the Black male body, uses social and psychological propaganda to create involuntary fears of the Black male body, observed and perpetrated by all races and cultures in the United States. This form of classical conditioning against the Black male body is enhanced through social media, political networks, and cultural assumptions. SOCIAL CONSTRUCTION OF THE BLACK MALE BODY The perception of the Black male body has been closely tied to the social strata of the United States. In efforts to undermine equal footing, the Black body has been portrayed as that of an oversexed savage who is naïve, superstitious, ignorant, and lazy, a drug dealer and/or a crack user. Given the purpose of the conversation, it is imperative that we understand the Black body is framed strictly as a shell, which only serves to house an individual’s character, morality, intellect, and other internal attributes of value. Given this frame, the Black body is perceived as independent of the individual and the individual’s social accomplishments. Equally important is the impact of violence against the Black body, a body that has been constructed as an object absent of human status. Historically, the sight of the Black male body has been constructed as an object, subhuman and dreaded, inferior to and incapable of managing its own devices. In addition, persuasive discourses have been the bases for the psychosocial formation of racialized stereotypes strictly serving to advance emotional fears of the Black male body. Take, for examples, the context of the incidents surrounding the deaths of Martin, Brown, and Garner, all of which have sparked considerable public scrutiny: Trayvon Martin (Sanford, Florida, 2012) a seventeen-year-old athletically built Black male was walking in a neighborhood where relatives lived. Walking back from the corner store, wearing his Black hoody while eating skittles and nursing a soft drink, he was approached by his offender and communications were exchanged. Within ninety seconds of the interaction, Trayvon’s Black male body lay lifeless. Martin was killed for simply being in a neighborhood in which his killer felt he did not belong. Michael Brown (Ferguson, Missouri, 2014) was an eighteen-year-old largeframed Black male who reportedly stole a case of cigars from a convenience store and, in the commission of that crime, assaulted the store operator. While walking down the street, witnesses reported that an officer advised Brown to get out of the street, suggesting he walk on the sidewalk. Brown did not follow the officer’s directions (as he was near his destination), but the officer felt that Brown fit the description of a suspect the officer was looking for. This prompted the officer to back up his vehicle and confront Brown. Reports indicate there was a struggle between the officer, sitting in his patrol vehicle,

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Larry C. Bryant and Brown, who was standing outside the vehicle. During the altercation, Brown was shot in the arm. At this point, it is reported that Brown was able to disengage from the altercation, and he began to run down the street. At some point the report asserts that Brown reversed his course and began walking toward the officer, flashing signs of surrender. Witnesses say Brown was holding his stomach (where apparently he was wounded) with one hand and was attempting to raise his other hand to surrender. It is reported that this incident took a total of fewer than ninety seconds from the time the officer initially directed Brown out of the street until the incident concluded. The officer shot off twelve rounds, with six of the rounds hitting and killing Brown, who was unarmed and previously wounded when the fatal shots occurred. Eric Garner (Staten Island, New York, 2014) was a forty-three-year-old large, overweight Black male who was suspected of selling untaxed cigarettes. During the confrontation, more than six police officers descended on the location; Garner was subsequently wrestled to the ground, handcuffed, and subdued using an illegal chokehold. Video evidence supports claims that Garner pleaded for air, as his breathing was erratic and short. Within ninety seconds of encountering the police officer, Garner had been pushed, shoved into a building, slammed to the ground, and driven into cardiac arrest. It is reported that two hours after the incident, Garner’s Black male body expired.

In each of these three critical incidents it took no longer than ninety seconds for the death of a Black body to occur. And the race of the perpetrator was not limited to any one particular race. The analysis presumes an emotional fear of the Black male body, which heightened the perceived fear of a threat of danger. The excessive use of force against these Black male bodies signifies the social repulsion and disregard of the Black body. In addition, the socialized responses constructed these Black bodies as bodies of mythical creatures with supernatural strength reinforced their justification for the extreme use of force. Nevertheless, the perpetrators entered their respective incidents with socially conditioned beliefs about the Black male body. Through this lens, any rational thought pertaining to their scientifically based training was lost to the cognitive dissonance in regard to the Black body they encountered. Subsequently, their conditioned emotional fear overrode their ability to be cognizant, resulting in detrimental outcomes for those who possessed a Black male body. These examples underscore how society has constructed and revered the Black male body as superhuman, and in the same stroke, demonized the Black male body to justify emotional and vicious attacks. To this end, race is argued as a socially constructed property; when gender and size intersect, the binding of the variables forms various types of bigotry, targeting the Black male body. Although the intersection of race, size, and gender plays a subversive role in undermining acceptance and respect, more importantly, hav-

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ing a Black male body renders it difficult to navigate social resources and spaces. More broadly, socially constructed racial and cultural stereotypes manifest into negative images and perceptions. These negative images and perceptions must be problematized when interacting with members of society, particularly authority figures, regardless of race. Therefore, the goal is to develop a platform where traditional beliefs about the Black male body are investigated and with a renewed focus of awareness on narrow perspectives so as to reduce endemic racism, violence, and bigotry. When reinvestigating the social construction of the Black male body, it is recognized that there is a considerable need for race reeducation. The history of race relations has been nothing short of dismal. The Black male body will need to be redefined by those who inhabit those bodies. In addition, new methods of engaging individuals that reach beyond their external features must be employed. Until we change what we value, we will only have the lessons of what we have lost. The biggest challenge that faces the United States is apathy. Unless the nation begins to care, all efforts will be undermined and those who are privileged and entitled will continue to demonize others in efforts to preserve their interests. I Can’t Breathe—Mr. Garner’s last words as a metaphoric plead for the eradication of all suffocation of the Black male body in social, economic, and political arenas.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Michael Brown and the Shared Ambivalence of Black and Brown America Cassandra D. Chaney

Black people are distressed because Michael Brown is another victim of a dangerous law enforcement system. For Black America, Michael Brown represents an assault on the minds, hearts, and souls of Black people. It is crazy that the number of Black men murdered by law enforcement continues to increase. Brown is a recent victim of white-on-Black police violence, but nationally he joins numerous other unarmed people, like Rumain Brisbon, Akai Gurley, Kajieme Powell, Ezell Ford, John Crawford III, Tyree Woodson, Eric Garner, and Yvette Smith, who have been killed by police. Since August 9, 2014, at least fourteen (six African American) other teenagers have been murdered by law enforcement—names include Tamir Rice, Cameron Tillman, Laquan McDonald, Qusean Whitten, Miguel Benton, Levi Weaver, Karen Cifuentes, Sergio Ramos, Roshad McIntosh, and Diana Showman. Sadly, these lists of names fail to capture all of the Black men, women, and children who have been victimized by law enforcement. These murdered Black people have families who will forever be changed. Black America asks, How many more Black people have to die before law enforcement changes its behavior? Black people are afraid for their personal safety, as well as the safety of members of their family and communities. Some Blacks are old enough to remember the gruesome murder of Emmitt Till, the fourteen-year-old Black male who was murdered on August 28, 1955, for allegedly flirting with twenty-one-year-old Carolyn Bryant. Till was beaten, had one of his eyes gouged out, and was shot in the head. His body was disposed of in the 135

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Tallahatchie River. Brown’s murder, like Till’s nearly sixty years ago, cause Blacks to be afraid for their personal safety. Brown’s murder is a painful reminder that race relations in America have not improved in fifty-nine years. In fact, they have worsened insofar as police officers, who supposedly serve and protect, often antagonize and egg-on people of color. Many Blacks wonder if their children will be able to safely get to their destinations. Oscar Grant’s mother wanted him to take the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit), but this decision did not prove safe as he was shot in the back by BART police officer Johannes Mehserle. Fundamentally, the fear for individual, family, and community safety is something most whites will never have to experience. Black people are angry when the media presents certain things as facts in an attempt to minimize the frequency of white police violence on Black bodies. Recently, I Googled the phrase “white man shot by Black cop” and was led to a story about Dillon Taylor. According to a website, Taylor, an unarmed twenty-year-old white man, was murdered after disobeying orders from a policeman. Although several reporting agencies referred to the policeman as “nonwhite,” implying he was Black, in reality, the police officer involved in the shooting was white, and the murdered individual was Hispanic. But are incidents of Black policemen murdering unarmed whites commonplace? In 2013, I published the co-authored article “Racism and Police Brutality in America” in the Journal of African-American Studies. In the article, we examined secondary data from the National Police Misconduct Statistics and Reporting Project (NPMSRP) to determine the rate of police brutality in America, how individuals perceive the police department, and the implications that these perceptions hold for Black men. Our findings revealed that fatalities at the hands of police are higher for Black men than they are for the general public. We also found that the overwhelming majority of Black individuals had contempt for law enforcement, were suspicious of law enforcement, and saw law enforcement as agents of brutality. Black people are frustrated when whites refuse to acknowledge their collective pain. Three days after the grand jury declined to indict Darren Wilson, I showed my class four video clips from Fusion.net regarding Ferguson, Missouri. The video clips totaled twenty-two minutes and were: (1) How Ferguson Became a Flashpoint for Race Relations, (2) A Military Response, (3) Martyrs, But No Leaders, and (4) The Revolution Will Be Tweeted. From the beginning I said, “Let me be clear. I don’t have a racial agenda and I am not anti-white. In fact, I have on several occasions told Black people that they need to get it together and stop blaming white people for their problems.” For me, making this disclaimer was important. I wanted the students to be aware that I would be fair, impartial, and would not stifle conversation if they

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strongly supported one position over another. I also established ground rules for the discussion, including, but not limited to, the rules that everyone could speak, everyone’s perspectives would be heard and respected, and attacking individuals would not be tolerated. I placed these ground rules on a PowerPoint as a visual reminder. To facilitate the discussion, I asked the students to move their chairs into a circle so that everyone would be facing one another. By doing this, I was attempting to create an open, safe, and nonjudgmental environment. One of the white students in the class sent me an e-mail using these three descriptive words and thanked me for devoting a class period to discussing the Ferguson events. For the most part, I was appalled and deeply hurt by the lack of sympathy that many students had for Brown’s family. Interestingly, much of the sympathy was directed to Darren Wilson for the “scratches on his face and his bruised hand.” Little empathy was extended to the young, unarmed Black male whose body lay in the street for four hours until the coroner came. During the discussion, one of my Black students walked out of the class. The next morning she apologized via e-mail for her walking out of class, expressing the feeling that the discussion was “just too much.” Immediately before class, she had an incident where a white person treated her as less than human, and her peers’ comments in class about Brown were similarly hurtful and vile. For this Black women, the class discussion evoked feelings of sadness, frustration, and anger, since, sadly, racism, real or perceived, is an all too frequent reality for Blacks in America. Discussions of racism would be less traumatic and frustrating for people of color if whites did not invalidate their personal experiences. Black people are hurt that Black men are generally perceived by whites as dangerous animals. After class, a white student spoke with me for an hour. During our conversation, this student used verbiage that harkened back to the image of African Americans being “Black Brutes.” In the D. W. Griffith 1915 film, Birth of a Nation, Black men were portrayed as “Big Black Brutes” whose sole purpose in life was to rape white women and destroy the white man’s way of life. Interestingly, this particular student’s choice of words was evidence of his disdain for Michael Brown. In addition, he presented the following four statements as facts, though they were inaccurate: 1. “Michael Brown was so much taller than Darren Wilson.” Brown and Wilson were the same height, but not the same weight. Michael Brown was 6 foot 4 and 292 pounds and Darren Wilson is 6 foot 4 and 220 pounds. 2. “Michael Brown was nothing but a thug.” The definition of a thug is a gangster. Michael Brown was just two days away from his first class at Vatterott College when Darren Wilson killed him.

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3. “Michael Brown charged Darren Wilson, so Wilson did what he had to do.” Members of law enforcement are legally permitted to use deadly force when they have probable cause to believe that a suspect poses a threat of serious physical harm, either to the officer or to others. In such cases, most officers are trained to shoot at a target’s center mass, where there is a higher concentration of vital areas and major blood vessels, according to a report by the Force Science Institute, a research center that examines deadly force encounters. Police officers have the choice to either use deadly force or not. Therefore, Darren Wilson chose to use deadly force on Michael Brown. 4. “Michael Brown had to be mighty strong and Darren Wilson had to have a terrible shot if it took him eleven shots to take him down.” Dr. Michael Baden, a well-known, New York-based medical examiner, who is one of only about four hundred board-certified forensic pathologists in the nation, reviewed the autopsies of both President John F. Kennedy and Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and has performed more than twenty thousand autopsies himself. Dr. Baden said that while Mr. Brown was shot at least six times, only three bullets were recovered from his body. In his capacity as the forensic examiner for the New York State Police, he said, “You’re not supposed to shoot so many times.” Each statement made by the student was either untrue or inaccurate. For example, the statement “Darren Wilson did what he had to do” lacks merit, especially when one juxtaposes murders by policemen in the United States with those in other countries. On average, a cop kills at least one person every day in the United States. In contrast, not a single one was killed in Britain last year, where police fired a total of three times. In 2011 the FBI reported 404 justifiable law enforcement homicides in the United States, whereas police killed six people in Australia, two in England, and six in Germany. So, while it could be argued, as the student did, that policemen in America shoot Black men because they “have to,” it begs the question, Why do police in other countries not follow suit? Notice the words that this student used to describe Brown, as well as the subtext of his words, “Michael Brown was so much taller than Darren Wilson” (i.e., inherently more dangerous and deserving of death), “thugs” (i.e., who are inherently dangerous and deserving of death), “charged” (i.e, harkens to the image of an angry bull who is dangerous and deserving of death), and “take him down” (i.e., as one would a dangerous and/or diseased animal deserving of death). My student’s narrative of Michael Brown parallels that found in Birth of a Nation, in which Black men were, and sadly still are, “Big, Black Brutes” who deserve death.

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Black people are confused when the life of a police dog has more value than a person of color’s life. I read that a convicted burglar was sentenced to twenty years in prison for fatally shooting a police dog on May 20, 2014. Clinton Hernandez, a twenty-one-year-old Hispanic male, pleaded guilty to seven of ten charges against him, including burglary and interfering with a law enforcement animal. Authorities said Hernandez used a 9 mm handgun to shoot and kill Bo, an eight-year-old Belgian Malinois, following a burglary and chase. Black Americans are confused when white policemen can kill unarmed Black people, in front of many witnesses, and not be convicted, but a person of color can be sentenced to lengthy jail time for killing a police dog. As a critical race scholar, with a background in Child and Family Studies, I was interested in whether people see the grand jury’s decision not to indict Darren Wilson through the lens of the individual, who is part of a family, or the community, part of a larger ecological context in which the individual must navigate. When I conducted a Google search using the phrase “Ferguson Verdict” on Monday, December 8, 2014, it yielded 22,300,000 results, while the phrase “Michael Brown Verdict” yielded 34,000,000 results. Because a considerable number of hits were linked to the name of the victim and not the marginalized community of which he was a member, I am encouraged, hopeful, and pleased that regardless of the painful reality of Blacks’ relationship with law enforcement, Michael Brown’s life does matter.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Echoes of “People Stealers” Trauma Revisited Shirley Mthethwa-Sommers

I recently hosted a theatrical presentation of Watch Night at my institution. Watch Night, also known as Freedom’s Eve, took place on December 31, 1862, the night before President Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation. People of African descendent who were enslaved prayed vociferously, with great resolve, that their freedom would come and that slavery would end. In the theatrical presentation, one of the women provided a narrative of how she was stolen from the Igbo people in Africa by “people stealers.” People stealers did not only forcibly and brutally remove her, and other stolen people, from the home she knew and they did not only physically steal her body, but they also stole her sense of security, they stole her sense of being, and they inflicted physical and psychological trauma on her and witnesses around her. The way she described people stealers resonated with contemporary people stealers. I am a witness of contemporary trauma inflicted on those of us with Black male children. I constantly pray that my son does not end up like Oscar in Fruitvale station, or Trayvon on the street in Florida, or Michael Brown on the street in Ferguson, Missouri. These young men were stolen from their families, from their loved ones, from their communities by “people stealers.” In 2013 I went to New York City to attend a march protesting the verdict in Trayvon Martin’s case. After the march, I had a few hours before my flight back home, so I decided to watch Fruitvale. It was not a good idea, as I had seen the previews, but it was the only movie showing during my available time. The following is from my journal entry from that day:

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Shirley Mthethwa-Sommers I watched Fruitvale. I am not so sure I should have watched it today, I should have allowed myself time to heal from Trayvon’s painful verdict. Some parts of the movie were entertaining, but I was also moved to tears when Oscar, the protagonist, was killed at the end of the movie. I am not certain I would have cried had I not known that the story was based on true events and had I not watched the movie with a raw heart in light of Trayvon Martin’s recent court verdict, which found Trayvon’s killer justified in killing Martin. The director of the movie did an excellent job of showing Oscar’s multidimensionality. He was a young man, age 22, who had been incarcerated, and had just lost a job for his tardiness. On New Year’s Eve, and eve of his death, he seemed to have made a resolution to live right by his daughter Tatiana and his girlfriend Sophina by getting a legitimate job. But death awaited him, it was at his doorstep, as it seems to be for Black men in this country. The director also gave us a dimension of Oscar that was loving. He was a loving son to his mother, a loving grandson to his grandmother, a loving father to Tatiana, a loving boyfriend to Sophina, a loving brother to his sister, and a loving friend to his friends. He possessed humanity to help a stranger in the supermarket, to help and show compassion to a stray dog. He performed masculinity by fighting when he needed to, but mostly he lived a regular non-violent life. Had it not been for his race, his blackness, he would have probably lived to see Tatiana mature into womanhood. He would have probably lived to bury his grandmother and mother, as it naturally should be. But there is nothing natural and unpredictable about racial politics in this country. It is a democratic country with undemocratic practices. Race plays itself out significantly in Oscar’s life and opens the door for death, early, untimely, unwarranted, and senseless. The director of the movie shows how race is played out, first when he is involved in a fight that concludes in his death. The person with whom Oscar was fighting easily hid from the police officers because of his race. He is a white man who comfortably blends in with the crowd in the train. His race, his whiteness, became his shield. It protected him from being identified and killed. However, Oscar’s race, his blackness, rendered him ultra-visible and vulnerable to eventually being murdered. The race of the white man protected him; Oscar’s race made him vulnerable. The white police officer who murdered Oscar was originally charged with first degree murder but he claimed that he mistook his gun for a taser, and the jury believed him and found him guilty of manslaughter. He received a 2-year probation sentence. No jail life. The white police officer’s words (he mistook a taser for a gun) weighted more than Oscar’s life in the eyes of the jury. His words were credible, his humanness was acknowledged and affirmed by the verdict. The very same verdict served to indict Oscar. It made him appear as an aggressor who placed the white police officer in a position to mistake his gun for a taser. Above all, the verdict disaffirmed Oscar’s humanity. It gave a lucid message that his life was worthless against the words of a white police officer. This is the same message that was relayed in the Trayvon Martin case, his life was worthless against the words of the neighborhood watchman. In essence, the juries in both Trayvon Martin’s and Oscar’s death made it clear that Black men’s lives are disposable when safety of a white person may be dubious. If this country were the Titanic ship, Black men’s life jackets would have been given to white passengers. Their lives would have been disposable in face of a danger to white lives!

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I fear for my son. I hope to never walk in Oscar’s and Trayvon’s mothers’ shoes. But there is nothing unpredictable about race in this country, I hold my breath and hope my son’s blackness never invites an early, brutal and unwarranted death.

The journal entry was from 2013. In 2014, the same nightmare, which lurks just below the surface whenever I kiss my son goodbye, is revisited by not only myself but by also mothers of many Black boys. I exchanged text messages with other sister friends who have sons. All the messages communicated our helplessness and powerlessness in protecting our children. Last year when I heard Trayvon Martin was murdered, I knew that my son, then ten years old, with his handsome face and a smile that melts my heart, may appear to the white world as menacing enough to be killed for no apparent reason other than the mere fact that he is Black. Trayvon was also a cute boy, but his cuteness did not erase his Blackness and the connotations this society attaches to it. When it happened again this year in Ferguson, the same sense of fear mixed with anger and helplessness consumed me. This year my son is taller than a typical eleven-year-old. He wears an adult 9½ shoe size, he has fallen in love with wearing hoodies, and he has a big afro. He is growing. But I know his development might engender fear in the white world as Michael Brown’s height and body weight did. His height and body weight were constantly mentioned to intimate that he had a “threatening” physique. The cases of Oscar, Trayvon, and Michael reveal that there is a fundamental fear of Black males in this, demographically and ideologically, white society. These three cases, and numerous others, also reveal that that fear is used in the court of law as a legitimate defense for killing Black men for no other reason but being Black men. Fear Masquerading As “Facts” That Justify Killing Black Males The vitriol that followed Trayvon Martin’s and Michael Brown’s deaths was indicative of the larger society’s fear of Black men masquerading as facts. News reporters suggested that “facts” of what happened are not known. This seemed to be the standard response of white America to the murders of these children. Yet there was a glaring fact that mainstream America chose to overlook: a boy-child had been murdered. For some reason the murder in the larger mindset that devalues Black lives is not a fact. What the larger white America viewed as fact could and would only come from the perpetrators of murder, the people stealers. In the case of Trayvon, news reporters and supporters of the man who killed him cited everything from the weather (it was rainy and cold) to darkness (it was dark and hard to see) to Trayvon’s clothes (wearing a hoodie covering his head) as contributing factors to the killer’s state of fear. Citing these factors was of course to deflect from the fact that Trayvon was targeted because he was a young Black male. Similarly, in the

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case of Michael Brown, supporters of the killer and news reporters cited Michael Brown’s height and weight as factors that might have caused fear to the officer. Additionally, the police in Ferguson released a video of Brown shoplifting. This shoplifting case was of course broadcast as robbery. Only white kids engage in shoplifting; when Black kids shoplift, it is charged as robbery. We live in a country that metes out different punishment based on race and social class. The release of the shoplifting video was to further develop the case that he, Michael Brown, was to be feared; albeit his killer had not witnessed the shoplifting. Fear was presented as fact. The obsession with the notion of “fear as fact” played luminously in court in Trayvon Martin’s case. Trayvon, a child, was being stalked by an adult man in a vehicle on a dark rainy day, but the jurors could not believe he was afraid. Even when they heard from a witness who was on the phone with Trayvon that he was afraid, they did not believe it for, in a white supremacist mindset, only Black men can engender fear, not vice versa. A child being followed and stalked by an adult man is expected to be intrepid because he is a Black child. That is why the killer, who stole Trayvon’s life, was found not guilty. His fear of Trayvon seemed to be justified; Black bodies are to be feared. Trayvon’s fear of an adult man stalking him was not justified. The adult killer’s fear of a child who is Black is factual, understandable, and justifiable. As a mother of a Black male, as an aunt of Black males, as a sister of Black males, when one of our Black male children is stolen from us, it hurts us all. The trauma exacted by people stealers during slavery revisits us. People stealers still exist today; yes, they have morphed, but the impact is still the same: Black people and communities are traumatized. The actors of Watch Night who came to my institution ended the theatrical presentation by counting off the names of loved ones lost in one week in the hands of people stealers. I also count off the names of Black males killed for being black males, stolen from their families, stolen from their communities by people stealers. People stealers stole Amadou Diallo, they stole Sean Bell, they stole Oscar Grant, they stole Trayvon Martin, they stole Michael Brown, they stole Eric Garner. As a mother of a Black boy, I believe in a legal system that is just. I know very well that what is legal, as it was in the murders of Oscar, Trayvon, and also Michael, is not just. We can no longer hide behind the shield of legality because we know that what is legal values whiteness and devalues Blackness. We demand justice for Black boys and girls within the legal system. This is a call for action: let us write to our legislators and urge them to see to it that we enact racial justice in our legal system! This essay is dedicated to mothers of all Black men whose lives were stolen.

Chapter Twenty-Six

And to Make Matters Worse Lori Latrice Martin and Jahaan Chandler

Not surprisingly, there are those among us who feel race did not play a role in the killing of Michael Brown Jr., and yet there are those who see what took place on August 9, 2014, in Ferguson, Missouri, as racially motivated. How anyone could view the killing of Michael Brown Jr., a human being, as anything other than the latter is, unfortunately, not hard to believe given the history of race relations in this country and given the historic relationship between the law and the Black community. Officer Darren Wilson, one of our nation’s “finest,” clearly did not see Michael Brown Jr. as one of the citizens he was sworn to protect and serve. Rather, by Wilson’s own testimony, the nation later learned that Wilson saw Brown how members of the dominant racial group in America have historically seen Blacks, as a problem. Wilson said Brown was like a “demon” with superhuman strength. Brown, like far too many young Black males, was seen as a threat, even after his teenage body was pierced with bullets. When did it become acceptable for a police officer, an individual trained to deal with dangerous situations, to be reduced to feeling like a scared child? When did it become acceptable for a law enforcement official to use lethal force against an unarmed assailant? Many current officers, enlisted soldiers, and veterans of the U.S. military would be hard pressed to point to a provision that legitimized the shooting of an unarmed citizen. If it is not okay for our soldiers to do it in war, when did it become okay for our police to do it on our streets? Since when did the lives of young men of color on our streets become less valuable than the lives of enemy combatants in our wars? Even if some people are too mired in ignorance or denial to admit it, the answers to the aforementioned questions are written in the annals of our nation’s history of race relations. People of African ancestry were treated differently since the first group settled in Jamestown in 1619, and this treat145

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ment was codified in the decades that followed. Ever since the countries of Europe began their imperialistic colonial conquest of peoples they deemed inferior, since the very construction of this divisive, polarizing concept we call race, people of color have experienced unequal treatment in America and in many places throughout the globe. Since the moment that human beings were perceived as something other than human, since men of color were branded like cattle, since women of color were used to breed like mares, Blacks have suffered unimaginable levels of pain and degradation. For centuries, the institutions of authority in this country have viewed and treated people of color as wholesale livestock, experimental guinea pigs, and objects of sexual exploitation. When Darren Wilson somehow perceived a wounded, unarmed Black teenager as a demonic hulking monster that could run through bullets and massacre him with inhuman strength, he succumbed to the myths, stereotypes, and fictitious narratives about Black males that have been passed down from one generation to the next. From the moment men and women of color were codified in the United States Constitution as three-fifths of a person, since the legal institution in this country created two sets of laws for one set of human beings, there have been Michael Browns. Clearly, the killing of Michael Brown Jr. and the decision not to indict the white officer who killed him, Darren Wilson, again revealed the enduring racial divide in this country. It was without question a crushing blow to scholars and activist who held out hope that the Brown family would have their day in court. It was bad enough that an unarmed teenager lost his life for jaywalking. It was hard to fathom that a confrontation between the young Black male and white law enforcement official ended in a hail of bullets. What broke the hearts of many Black people was knowledge that Brown’s lifeless body lay uncovered in the middle of the road for all to see for four and a half hours as if to send a message to onlookers. There was little regard for the grieving family or for the men, women, and children in the community. Michael Brown Jr. lay dead in the road like the animal some consider Black males in America to be. And to make matters worse, yet another public official charged with representing the people did anything but that. Despite calls for Robert McCulloch to appoint a special prosecutor, he journeyed on. After months of prayers and protest, the nation learned that while it is “easy to indict a ham sandwich,” it is apparently hard to indict a white officer who kills an unarmed Black male. Since when did prosecutors give evidence to a grand jury without explaining it to them or discussing it with them? Since when did prosecutors not cross-examine the testimony of defendants during grand jury hearings? Is it not the prosecutor’s role to convince the grand jury to indict the defendant?

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If every prosecutor in America handled grand jury proceedings in the manner McCulloch handled them, the issue of mass incarceration would not exist, and the prison-industrial complex would be a thing of the past. And to make matters worse, the prosecutor decided to place an entire community at risk by announcing the grand jury’s decision under the cover of night. Then, McCulloch spent more time justifying why Michael Brown Jr. deserved to die and why witnesses, social media, and mainstream media were to blame for the public outrage than he spent detailing how he failed in his duties as prosecutor. Then again, one could argue that McCulloch did exactly what the majority of folks who elected him would want him to do. Whites vote in greater numbers than the majority Black population. The relatively low Black voter turnout and registration are often interpreted as evidence of voter apathy. The lack of voter participation by Blacks in Ferguson, as is the case in many other areas, may be more indicative of a response to a lack of true choice. With representatives like McCulloch, who needs an opposition party? And to make matters worse, legal analysts of every hue, from across the country, said what the Black community knew all along; the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Following the announcement of the nonindictment of Wilson, attention quickly shifted to looters and so-called outside agitators. Calls for peace from Washington and the Brown family were accompanied by calls for improved relations between the police and the people they serve, but a strategy for creating a more equitable justice system, a more equitable society, was missing. It has been said that violence has never led to changes in social policy; this is not entirely true. Oftentimes, it is the presence of more radical elements of a movement that compels those with wealth, status, and power to make changes, even if the changes are symbolic or temporary. The policy changes may result in strengthening or weakening the use of the law as a means of social control. We are in no way advocating or endorsing the use of violence in Ferguson or anywhere else. Like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., many understand the underlying frustrations of those engaged in such acts. One cannot reasonably expect people perpetually pushed to the margins to faithfully seek recourse within the very system responsible for their subordinate position. And to make matters worse, far too many unarmed Black males—husbands, sons, brothers, uncles, cousins, and friends—have lost their lives doing many of the things their white peers do without ever having to give their actions a second thought. What happened to Michael Brown Jr. is but another illustration of the racism that has pervaded this country since its inception. It is the reason that some believe the motto of law enforcement, as it relates to communities of color, should read, “To profile and persecute,” not to protect

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and serve, because that has been the lived experience of far too many people of color, especially young Black males. Sadly, before the killing of Michael Brown Jr. there was the killing of Trayvon Martin, and the beating of Rodney King. Before the beating of Rodney King, there was the murder of Emmett Till, and before fourteenyear-old Till, Black males were strange fruit hanging from poplar trees. And to make matters worse, eighteen-year-old Michael Brown Jr. and twelve-year-old Tamir Rice will not be the last unarmed Black males to die at the hands of a white police officer. Regrettably, some people will continue to blame the victims and list all the things the victims could (or should) have done to prevent their own death. If he were not playing with a toy gun, he would be alive today. If he were not peddling “loosies,” he would be alive today. If he just turned down the music, he would be alive today. If he were not wearing a hoodie and walking there, he would be alive today. If he did not shoot himself while handcuffed, he would be alive today. If he did not whistle at her, he would be alive today. Truth is . . . . . . if he were not Black, he would be alive today. When will the killings of young Black males end? They will end when we as a society realize that our differences are far less significant that our similarities, when all of us view each other as human beings and not as inhuman objects, when, in other words, we live up to the true meaning of our nation’s creed. What happened to Michael Brown Jr. and what continues to happen to men and women of color across this country and around the world lets us know that we have yet to come to the realizations of our goals. This does not mean that we should disregard the progress we have made in this endeavor, nor does it mean that we should deny that we have yet to reach our goal. What it means is that there is still work left to do; there is still discrimination to combat, ignorance to enlighten, and injustice to rectify. To those of you who, despite the overt demonstration of its presence, are still too mired in ignorance or denial to see the inequality, discrimination, and racism that still pervade this country, we say open your eyes because it does not stop until you do.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

And You Wonder Why I Am an Angry Black Man Cleveland Hayes

Dear White People: I am often asked why I am so angry and have even been given the badge of being an Angry Black Man. I wear that badge with honor as I am in some very good company of those who have been labeled Angry Black Men over the years. Why you are so worried about my anger, or are you afraid of my anger? A better question would be, why are you not angry? You have white privilege and you benefit from whiteness, but I am sorry, you do not get to tell me how I should feel. But, to answer your question, here are the reasons why I am not just angry, but mad as hell! These are in no particular order.

1. Cops in this country kill young Black men because white cops feel threatened. We are a couple years removed from Trayvon Martin being killed because “he fit a profile” that the pseudo-pretend-cop-watchman Zimmerman capitalized on. In the case of Mike Brown and Eric Garner, the white cops lacked all value for Black life. And the flip responses you give to me leave me wondering about your value of Black life. Let us say for argument’s sake that Michael Brown did pose a threat to this cop’s life. He was shot six times, twice in the head, for allegedly walking down the street or having stolen some cigars. Does this warrant being shot six times, twice in the head? You know I am not only angry, not only sick and tired of being sick and tired, but I am also afraid for myself as a six-foot-four Black man, and for my nephew, who is a six-foot-seven, dark-skinned Black man. I fear that if someone feels threatened because we did not answer a question the correct way or we are not walking on the right side of the street or are looking at a toy gun in the local store that some rogue cop will blow our heads off. I continue to see in the media, day after day, violations of the civil 149

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Cleveland Hayes rights of young Black kids, not just men. This is happening to Black women, too, and it merits a conversation. So, yes, I am angry, and here are five points for you to consider. Point one. Jared Loughner went to a political rally shooting, wounding and killing several people, including a member of Congress; one of his victims was a six-year-old little girl. He was taken alive. Point two. James Eagen Holmes decided to dress up like batman, go to a movie theater, and shoot up the place. James Holmes was taken alive. Point three. John Hinckley, who attempted killing President Reagan, the president of the United States, was taken alive. Point four. Paul Anthony Ciancia, who killed TSA agents at Los Angeles International Airport, then made it behind the security checkpoints. When the police arrived, they did not shoot to kill, even though he had already killed at least two people. Paul Ciancia was taken alive. Point five. What do these four men have in common? These men are white. My anger goes deeper than these men just being white. When the media released these stories, you never heard that these men were defiant, they were not labeled as thugs or gang bangers, and you never heard the media say that these guys should have just done what they were told and followed directions. In some unspoken way, it was okay for these guys to fight back against a system that was bullying them. The media focused, instead, on the shock of the community that these guys could do something so terrible. And you still wonder why I am an angry Black man, and you have the nerve to tell me that this anger is a waste of energy. Are you telling me this is a waste of energy because you are afraid how I may respond now that I am sick and tired of being sick and tired? My question to you is, Why are you so worried about what I am doing while you are racially profiling me as if I am some sort of criminal, when members of your own community are planning massive attacks on innocent people? 2. I am angry because you absolutely refuse to acknowledge that racism is alive and well; you live in a post-racial fantasy. You believe if Black people would do what you tell them to do then we would not find ourselves in the positions of Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, and Eric Garner; how many names should I list? I am angry because your racism claims that we are the ones who play the race card and you blame leaders of the Black community as race baiting. I am here to tell you that no one plays the race card better than the folks who racially profile. White politicians, mostly Republican, play ad after ad during elections of the dangerous Black man or the illegal Mexican who is either going to kill you or steal your job. 3. I am angry because you absolutely refuse to recognize people who have had different life experiences from yours. You isolate yourself into your suburbs and country clubs. Okay, you sometimes let Black folks in, but that is only to mitigate the blame you feel for your racism, while using those token Blacks to validate your white privilege by claiming that these folks know how to act. 4. I am angry because of the unfounded fear that you have of Black folks, and Black men in particular. White people have created a narrative of Black men as the dangerous others that is used to give permission to shoot us dead in the

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street. But when you examine your own history, it was white men who dragged Black men out of their beds at night because they thought they were uppity niggers and they needed to put them in their place. You still lynch us; you physically and emotionally violate us. There has been no time in the history of the United States that a U.S. president has been attacked as personally and with such vitriol as President Obama. While you may not participate in these acts, you sit around and allow them to happen. How often do you say anything at all to challenge what you hear? I am equally as angry with you and you are just as guilty. Actually, I should be more afraid of you than you should be of me; I am more likely to be gunned down by a white person, particularly a police officer, for not doing what I was told than you are likely to being killed for being white. While I may not have been shot down in the street, I am still treated as the other. I have done everything you have asked me to do. I have a college degree, multiple degrees in fact, including a PhD. I have a job. As a matter of fact, I have two jobs because, every month, I put on my Air Force uniform and defend your right to lynch me, and others like me, with your actions. I protect your freedom to rally around whiteness, with your right to exclude me whenever I do not do what you think I should do.

So, to all of you who label me an Angry Black Man and find ways to silence me through academic lynching, I will continue to be angry until we stop having the Emmett Tills, the Michael Browns, the Trayvon Martins, the Eric Garners struck down for being Black at the wrong time and place. A really good friend of mine made the comment that as Black men we are just one heartbeat away from becoming a hashtag on Twitter. Sincerely, An Angry Black Man

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Desensationalizing Black Males Navigating and Deconstructing Extreme Imageries of Black Males and Masculinities Roderick L. Carey

Gangbangers. Heroes. Thugs. Fast. Drug dealers. Shooters. Athletic. Civil rights leaders. Aggressive. Basketball. In jail. Rappers. Poor. Out of the picture. President Obama. The words listed above are the words or phrases sixteen- and seventeen-yearold Black boys used to describe what they thought were the most prevailing societal images of Black males. The setting was a focus group in the spring of 2014, and the boys drew on their personal experiences with bias, mistreatment, and misunderstandings in urban areas and schools. They also took into consideration widely disseminated images of Black men and boys shared via television, news reports, sports broadcasts, films, and such social influences as Vine videos, memes, and YouTube. As I listened to their insights, their notions of Black maleness intrigued me. With few exceptions, the images they described existed on opposite ends of a long spectrum. At one end were the prevailing stereotypes of urban Black males: guns, drugs, absentee fathers, and poverty. At the other end were popularized images of Black males as civil rights leaders, local and national heroes, and President Barack Obama. Entertainer and athletic imagery exist somewhere in between, with celebrities either beloved or despised, depending on their public actions or poor choices, both of which are sensationalized in the media.

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AS SEEN ON TV It is hard to find honest, accurate, and nuanced portrayals of Black males in the media. Too often, these are sacrificed for an easier path that sensationalizes bad behavior and reinforces stereotypes, which confuses and misguides our beliefs about how Black males should and do act. Too many individuals, including Black males themselves, believe media-driven images to be true and comprehensive accounts of the essence of Black malehood. As a result, Black males are painted with broad brushstrokes, compared incessantly to the gangsters, criminals, athletes, rappers, and even heroes that society believes us to be. Black males suffer gazes tinged with media-informed perceptions, the lookers uncertain how to act, respond, judge, and manage a response to them. During encounters, non-Blacks might wonder: Should I fear him? Should I feel sorry for him? Should I converse with him on something he knows about—perhaps sports or hip-hop? Should I compliment the work of Obama to assert my allegiance with his supposed politics? Should I share my sympathy for the injustices Black boys and men face, or my desperation of the Ferguson situation? Black males, myself included, have our own issues to wonder about: Why is this white man following me? Why does she insist on complimenting my dreadlocks using the self-effacing caveat “my hair is so boring, but yours is so cool?” Why does he always use sports metaphors to help me grasp a new concept? HERALDING HEROES, CELEBRATING CELEBRITIES, AND DEMONIZING DEVIANTS Stereotypes are tightly bound to societal imagery surrounding Black boys and men. No other U.S. demographic seems to suffer so much simultaneous scrutiny and celebrity. Black male sensationalism is driven by a rigid adherence to understanding this group simply, without nuance, as voiceless and with assumed inferior intelligence, traits, and behaviors. Not only are Black males understood along a simple spectrum, many people treat us in ways informed by our position along this spectrum. At one end, society celebrates the achievements of Black males; at the other, and more frequently, it demonizes, critiques, and sensationalizes bad behavior. A Black male is either an amazing cellist, athlete, or politician or he is making headlines for doing something wrong. The extreme characterizations of Black men reinforce perceptions that to be Black and male is to either be amazing or troubled, sublime or sinister. The dichotomous either/or portrayals of Black males create indelible marks on the minds and hearts of Black males themselves—and on society as a

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whole. They become boxed in by assumptions of their presumed guilt, their speed, their sexual prowess, their entertaining talent, their aggression, or, possibly, their respectability, their ability to “speak so well,” or their presidential possibilities. SENSATIONALIZING STEREOTYPES Obviously, Black males are not the only victims of media scrutiny. Both traditional and new media sensationalizes anyone doing awesome or awful things. Yet when Black males do something awesome or awful, their feat is invariably tied to some stereotyped aspect of their race. Exclamations like, “Oh, wow, that Richard Sherman speaks so well,” or “our articulate president” reflect societal assumptions of Black slang or African American vernacular usage. They bring to light the bias against the ability of Black males to “speak well.” Whites are never lauded for speaking well because, outside of troubling characterizations of poor whites in TV shows like Here Comes Honey Boo Boo or Moonshiners, most expect whites to speak properly. Whites are deemed the norm, the bar all other racial and ethnic groups are measured by in the United States and elsewhere. After the shooting deaths of Trayvon Martin in 2012 and Michael Brown in 2014, media outlets worked to paint both as middle-finger-displaying drug users, who caused trouble in school and society. In essence, the media sensationalized these teenagers, stripping them of all adolescent naïveté, and turned attention away from systematic criminal injustices. The focus was on these two young people who, according to the media, appeared to welcome their demise. On the heels of Michael Brown’s killing came news of the death of the toy-gun-wielding Tamir Rice, a Black twelve-year-old gunned down by a Cleveland police officer. Certain media outlets even worked to sully the character of Tamir’s parents by bringing into the foreground their criminal past. Was the point to contextualize why Tamir’s parents would allow him a toy gun, a typical plaything for countless children? Such insensitive sensationalism from the media diverted attention away from the more important issue of why an officer would use lethal force on a preteen child. FROM BOYS TO MEN The singular notions of Black malehood reinforce a monolithic characterization that simplifies the complexities and nuances inherent in the lived experiences of Black males. Black boys see, consume, and perhaps emulate rather narrow notions of their boyhoods and their future status as Black men. White friends struggle to see their Black friends outside the societal confines that

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make the most sense to them. Black boys are labeled “Oreos” when they are appear too white for “Black,” and “ghetto” when too Black for “white.” Researchers have found that teachers consistently position Black boys in lower-level classes, reprimand them in harsher manners than non-Black peers for the same offenses, and recommend them for suspension, expulsion, and special education testing at higher rates than any other racial and ethnic group. As Black boys grow up, their preteen and teenage years are fraught with societal expectations that come with adulthood. Many Black boys from low-income homes have to work and contribute to their family’s income, while simultaneously grappling with increased pressure to engage in streetoriented lifestyles. Black boys involved in sports may be pressured by coaches and families to perform at the highest levels, to emulate the Black men on TV who are sensationalized as superhuman athletes who catch better, throw farther, hit harder, and run faster than their competitors. While more and more Black men are attending and graduating from college, a majority toil in entry-level or blue-collar jobs that are increasingly unstable in a technologically based economy. The glass ceilings at work, shaky economy, rent increases, mortgage crises, and other economic inequities do more than make it difficult for Black men to provide adequate lives for their children. The aforementioned societal forces can build on one another to emasculate low-income Black men, discouraging their efforts instead of encouraging their aspirations. TURNING AWAY FROM BLACK BOYS: DESENSATIONALIZING OUR HEADS AND HEARTS Before we can diffuse and undo the sensationalism of Black males, it is essential to realize this is not just a media problem. We all create and recreate sensationalized images of Black males, good and bad, celebrity and convict, talent and thug. Subsequently, we all can work to dismantle sensationalized notions through close consideration of how our biases and prejudices cause harm to others. Sensationalist sentiments play out in routine ways, in manners similar to stereotypes. Secretly, many unknowingly wield sensationalized notions of Black males in their dealings with others. A common example can be found when Black males walk into bookstores or other public spaces. They immediately attract silent glances and gazes that secretly harbor questions of their placement, their worth, and the safety of those in their midst. The watchful eyes are loaded with mental scripts and assumptions of supposed criminality, danger, unintelligence, and trouble. The looks serve as race- and genderbased character judgments, do as much harm as spoken words, and bruise Black psyches like sticks and stones.

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We all need to stop and question our own motives and thoughts in our dealings with others. Examining our own motives and thoughts is a critical step in healing between diverse groups, whether based on race or gender. Instead of making assumptions, ask: How is my own fear operating in this exchange; and how might this fear be based on inaccuracies that will further marginalize another? One crucial consideration is blame and how often it pops up in thoughts about Black males. Simply put, many blame Black people for the problems in our society. Yet the problems are bigger than any individual or group of “bad actors.” We need to look outward to the structures and cultures surrounding these individuals and groups. We cannot point the blame at Black boys for failing; rather, we need to question societal norms that continually produce so much failure, pulling these youths in constant cycles of underperformance. Instead of wondering why Tamir Rice had a toy gun, perhaps we should think about why our country is so obsessed with guns. Instead of blaming Tamir’s parents for allowing him to play with a toy gun, perhaps we should recognize how different the situation would have played out had Tamir been a white boy in rural West Virginia. Instead of asking what is wrong with Black boys, we could begin to change the paradigm by asking different questions: What is wrong with educational and societal structures that allow so many Black males to do so poorly in school, to be killed on the streets so easily, and to face so much difficulty in society? Why is so much failure at the ready for Black boys to fall into, and why do the same problems keep occurring? Desensationalizing Black males would mean turning away from them as sources of these dilemmas and toward the societal and cultural forces that portray them as problematic or scary to others. It would mean pushing back against stereotypical notions of Black boyhood and Black manhood. What is missing in the media and in social discourse is a critical mass of images and stories about caring, sensitive, loving, and empathetic Black boys and men. Even awkward, unsure, or searching men provide crucial counternarratives to the proliferation of the hyper-masculine portrayals available now. The alternate realities help to desensationalize how Black males view themselves. They model a pathway toward more noble futures, with Black boys believing in themselves and what they can do as they work to become the Black men they admire. The desensationalizing of Black males not only needs to occur in the media, but also in our heads and our hearts. The rewards extend far beyond Black boys and men to greater healing and understanding for all society.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

If The System’s Broke . . . Donna Vukelich-Selva

After a grand jury refused to indict the white officer who admitted he killed Michael Brown in Ferguson last August, a cry of anger, pure anguish, and a keen yearning for justice echoed across the country. Ferguson, not an isolated case by any means, sparked waves of activism and rage as entire communities faced, yet again, the harsh reality that they matter little indeed to the larger structures of power. On the heels of the Ferguson decision, the decision not to indict the officer who choked Eric Garner to death, despite the video evidence, touched off a deepening wave of protests and organizing efforts that continue at this writing. These protests, many organized by young people, offered palpable signs of hope in an otherwise bleak terrain. Still, claims of a post-racial America seem absolutely bizarre as the violence continues against young men of color, and the message that some lives simply do not count is repeated daily. The national cases that capture headlines—Trayvon Martin, Jordan Davis, Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, and far too many more—are echoed in numerous similar cases in cities across the United States, which never make it onto a national stage. The violence against young men of color plays out in the context of a well-organized and sweeping legislative onslaught intent on stripping people of color of rights won only after decades of struggle. In a clear and vicious backlash against a broader public voice from communities of color, legislatures in a number of states have imposed harsh voter ID laws with the clear goal of limiting who will be considered deserving of a voice in the larger public arena. Years of racial disparities in law enforcement, including stops, arrests, and sentencing, the racialized war on drugs, and the imposition of zero-tolerance models in the way students are disciplined and controlled in our public schools mean that young people of color are met with obstacles every step of the way. They are then blamed or excoriated when they are not 159

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successful in traditional terms. They are told, time and again, that they do not count, that they do not matter; yet they are expected to take the system seriously, to honor and respect it even as it grinds them first into submission, and then into oblivion. So-called stand your ground laws, like the one that let George Zimmerman walk, disproportionately affect men of color. Men of color are seen as less than human, as objects to be feared and thus deserving of attack. White cops, and others, can claim such inordinate and all-encompassing fear of the Black male body that murder becomes state sanctioned. Many of the white voices that supported the failure to indict claim what they consider a legitimate fear for their lives on the part of police officers—the mere presence of a Black man, or child, is seen as justification for such uncontrolled fear that killing is considered an appropriate response. Using this reasoning and trying to reconstruct him as a victim, Darren Wilson’s supporters raised over half a million dollars in less than a month. Trying to imagine a similar scenario with a white victim and a Black officer caused confusion among my students, with one finally offering, “That just wouldn’t happen.” If law enforcement is meant to protect the public, what can we understand when someone like Darren Wilson characterizes a young man like Michael Brown as other than human? While the dehumanization of Michael Brown should be shocking, on some level it is utterly unsurprising. Wilson, who refused to acknowledge even a minimal amount of regret for killing Michael Brown, referred to Brown as a “demon” and a “hulk,” a longstanding device setting up black men as less than human or, alternately, superhuman creatures, who must be contained and controlled at all costs. The thousands who have taken to the streets, and who remain there, speaks to this profound lack of humanity on the part of the criminal justice system and on the part of too many on its front lines. Robert McCulloch announced the grand jury’s verdict as people were left to wait for hours and hours as night fell, while the National Guard had been called in days earlier. After the announcement, some areas of Ferguson burned. The next morning, as I met with my classes and discussed the situation with some of my colleagues, the prevailing feeling was one of despair, and a wish for peace. Some, however, framed that desire for peace in what can only be understood as a continued investment and delusional belief in the existence of an equal framework. “Why did people destroy their own neighborhood?” one student asked, sidestepping the more salient question of, What has a society done when it has created a system so exclusive that there is little to no sense of belonging to that society? In Ferguson, the grand jury and the governor created a powder keg, what most people saw on their TV screens, rather than the months of peaceful protests that spoke to a newly organized and united community. After Eric Garner’s killer was freed from any responsibility, the dozens of protests across the country stood out as

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unusual for the many young people involved, and the fair amount of diversity among those protesting, as well as the clear demand that the very institution of policing has to change. The protests, with the double message of “hands up, don’t shoot” and “Black lives matter,” underscore the reality that too many people today feel that they have been deliberately and systematically shut out of society. They understand this not as an aberration of the system, but as a system that is working precisely as it is intended to work, with differential consequences, depending on the race, culture, and class of those under police surveillance or control. The protests that extend across the country, unusual for their tenacity and diversity and for the fact that many public figures, particularly professional athletes, are speaking out, demand the recognition that, yes, Black lives do matter. They are explicitly calling out a system that routinely ignores and demonizes Black voices. They also unmask the deep-seated attitudes that let police officers off the hook while assuming that Black men and women are to blame. On the night of the decision NOT to indict the police officers who killed Eric Garner, a commentator on mainstream media said, of Garner and Michael Brown, “Well if they had just complied,” echoing the belief of far too many that the men who were killed must have done something. The privilege of this white commentator was so embedded that he could view the last minutes of Eric Garner’s life on film and still offer comments that were both irrelevant and dangerously unconcerned. Those kinds of comments let white people off the hook time and again. Yet the video evidence chronicling Eric Garner’s last moments has made it impossible for many white people to simply look away; it is worth noting that the young man who documented those moments has faced police harassment and indictment. As an educator, my rage and grief at what happened, in Sanford, Ferguson, New York, and Cleveland and that continues to happen so frequently that numbness is a serious risk, must stretch across these boundaries of reality into my own classrooms and by default into the many classrooms in which my students are observing, working, and learning. What happens in schools too often replicates the serious schisms we see outside the school walls, and the battles in the terrain of public education are taking a serious toll beyond the schools. The move to privatize schools, through the twin specters of vouchers and charters, leaves many of the most vulnerable students even more unprotected, despite the rhetoric claiming success, improvement, and accountability. Teachers are being told that their students must do well and are punished for their students’ lack of resources because the only litmus test is an array of biased standardized exams that offer very little qualitative information. Despite much talk about the achievement gap and diversity, efforts to forge programs and curricula that are relevant are pushed out by the increasing demand for accountability and college readiness. In fact, the new regime of testing that cloaks itself in pseudo-concern about the

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unconscionable racial gap in student performance and achievement is only widening the existing gap. The public sphere itself is at stake; instead of a community where all are honored, respected, and nurtured, we see an adversarial paradigm that has drawn a circle so tight as to exclude many from the very first. Schools are under threat of privatization, and those taking over public schools are motivated by profit, not the long-term good of the community. Prisons are hugely profitable, and the rate of incarceration of young men of color reveals structural inequalities so profound that they seem insurmountable. The police in Ferguson and elsewhere are so heavily armed that they would seem to be at war. That metaphor holds beyond the context of policing and law enforcement, with the adversarial mentality playing out in schools that see systems of surveillance and control mechanisms more apt for a prison, and indeed the school-to-prison pipeline bears that out. In this paradigm, which puts a premium on control, who is the State? Who is the public? The demonstrations that prophetically proclaim Black lives matter are calling for a serious and thoroughgoing reconstruction of the polity that does not simply allow people of color in, but cedes space and restores power and voice that has been systematically looted. The reactionary refrain that “all lives matter” ignores the psychic toll that Black people must deal with, simply because they live as Black people in this country. I am writing from the state of Wisconsin, recently characterized as the single worst state in the country for Black people. That characterization poses a critical challenge for all white people, but particularly those of us who are educators; that challenge must be faced head-on. A society cannot consistently exclude people from the circle of power, and consequently of society itself, and expect them to care for or uphold some social contract that has never given them anything. What will it take for most of those white people inside that circle, however tenuous their position, to authentically embrace that? As a sign at one of the many demonstrations noted: “If one of us can’t breathe, then none of us can.”

Chapter Thirty

Grey Hoodies, Baggy Jeans, and Brown Skin The Violence against Black Males via Signs and Signifiers Joni Boyd Acuff

In the art education discourse, there is explicit rhetoric around the study of images; it is called “semiotics.” Semiotics refers to the study of signs and symbols in culture. Human beings are consumers of culture and should therefore explore it critically. Semiotics fosters such criticality and guides one to read and interpret messages assigned to varying signs and signifiers. Signs can be objects, artifacts, written or spoken words, gestures, clothing, and other visual stimuli that carry messages. We all learn from and through these signs. Therefore, it is imperative that we not passively interact with signs, as this means we are passively accepting the messages coming from them. Debbie Smith-Shank, the chair of my department and scholar of semiotics, argues that systems of visual signs can be a catalyst for racism, intolerance, sexism, and varying other isms. As an art education professor teaching at an institution of higher education, I am inexplicably implicated in the system of visual signs because I teach future art teachers how (and how not) to interact with, critique, and even accept images/perceptions, which can lead to their realities and beliefs of people, objects, and situations. The decisions I make in my teaching, pedagogy, and curriculum implicate the future criticality of children in art classes around the world. My preservice art teachers will assume either oppressive teaching behaviors or activist, conscious teaching behaviors based on my inclusion of critical rhetoric and thinking around issues of race, class, and other socioeconomic factors and their effect on education. My academic 163

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work, undoubtedly, plays a role in whether or not these future art teachers will instruct their K–12 students on how to question and problematize visual information and the signs that support it. Furthermore, these art teachers’ instructions will affect how the K–12 students learn, understand, and build empathy for cultural differences and struggles of oppression. It is critical that art teacher educators in the academy, and people in general, understand the role signs and visual imagery play in the continuing violence against minorities and their communities. Art educators must begin to see themselves as individuals who can help shape positive views and destabilize systemic oppression through signs and imagery. SIGNS OF BLACKNESS Demonstrative of how visual signs can be catalysts for racism, and thus violence, is the case of the murdered Black male teen Trayvon Martin (b. 1995–d. 2012). In Martin’s case, the grey hoodie that he wore as he walked to and from the convenience store in the rain can be identified as a dominant imposed sign of criminality, and to go further, Blackness. To support this assertion, consider the haunting comments made by Geraldo Rivera, longtime radical news pundit. Rivera famously commented that the grey hoodie that Trayvon Martin wore the night he was murdered was as much responsible for Martin’s death as the person who pulled the trigger, George Zimmerman, the non-Black gunman. Rivera explicitly stated that Martin was dressed in “thug wear,” and Rivera went on to urge parents of Black and Latino youth to not let their children out of their houses wearing a hoodie. Rivera’s comments are indicative of a larger systemic issue. Specifically, signs that help produce and maintain white fear have been designated to Black bodies and Black culture. For example, hoodies are associated with criminals; thugs and criminality is associated with Blackness; Black people, specifically in this case Black men, must not be forced to function within the constraints of a visual system that deems them criminals because they wear a hoodie during the rain. Functioning within these constraints in and of itself is violence against the minoritized Black community. Furthermore, a visual system such as this creates a platform that justifies the murders of Black men. Geraldo’s comments about the hoodie essentially justified Zimmerman’s decision to gun down Martin because Zimmerman was obviously acting, or reacting, to a condition and within a system in which certain signs and imagery are associated with thuggery and criminality. A sign, a piece of visual information that carries a message created by the dominant group, rationalized Zimmerman’s fear and supported Martin’s death.

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THE VIOLENCE EMBEDDED IN SIGNS Signs have the potential to incite psychological and physical violence against Black men and women. The production and use of particular signs and their messages can and often do result in unjust, yet justified, physical, mental, and emotional violence against Black people. It is critical that the public understand the specific power that corresponds to the societal messages delivered in signs and imagery. Consider the following claims: signs articulate suggestions about the collective worth of Black people; signs aid in the pathologizing and criminalization of young Black boys. Signs articulate suggestions about the collective worth of Black people. A key question that continues to surface after each murder of an unarmed Black boy or man by an armed white man or police officer is: What is the worth of a Black life? On August 9, 2014, unarmed, with his hands raised above his head, reaching toward the sky to show his lack of weapons, Michael Brown (b. 1996–d. 2014), a seventeen-year-old Black son, was gunned down by a white police officer, Darren Wilson, in Ferguson, Missouri. During the numerous protests in Ferguson following the murder, crowds of hundreds and thousands can be heard chanting, “Black lives matter!” The phrase has become the primary message leading the various civil rights efforts across the United States post-Ferguson. To counter this movement that communicates that Black lives matter, however, the media worked relentlessly to paint an image of Michael Brown that tainted his character in an effort to justify police officer Wilson’s choice to murder Brown. The media and law enforcement utilized signs of Blackness to assassinate the characters of both Brown and Martin. The signs were used as colonial tools to dehumanize Brown and Martin and rationalize the actions of their murderers. The images that media and law enforcement produced for both teens, and in other white-on-Black murder cases, are almost identical to one another. Signs, when used as colonial tools, help the dominant group maintain the status quo and the oppression of minority groups. In the cases of Brown and Martin, some signs included Brown skin, baggy clothes, “thug” wear, large “intimidating” body frames, and defensive dispositions. Signs can also take the form of intangibles like language, assumed value systems, and ideals. So, in addition to using tangible signs, the media utilized some intangible signs in both Martin’s and Brown’s case, as they shared that these Black boys had past criminal histories and frequent school delinquencies and had traces of marijuana in their systems at the time of death. Presumably, these facts speak to the “immoral” value system in which the boys lived and, thus, justify their murders. All of these signs, tangible and intangible, have

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associated signifiers and messages that support a particular narrative; Black lives only matter if they fit the dominant group’s perception of normal and good. Black lives do not matter, and killings of young Black boys are justified if the boys present themselves in a presumed “thuggish” manner, get in a bit of trouble at school, and smoke marijuana. Signs aid in the pathologizing and criminalization of young Black boys. Bad. Violent. Uneducated. Unteachable. Stupid. Illiterate. Disinterested. Lazy. Hyperactive. Hypersexual. Athletic. Thug. Ghetto. Hustler. Animal. Self-hate. Money hungry. Valueless. Overbearing. Assertive. Resistant. Combative. Morally unsound. Gangbanger. Trickster. Class clown. In November 2014, I attended a national multicultural education conference presentation titled, “A White Women’s Guide to Teaching Black Boys.” In the presentation, the leader asked the group, approximately ten white and Black pre-K through higher education teachers, to compile a list that communicated the ways in which Black boys are characterized even before they enter the classroom. The above list of italicized words is the product of this task. Signs that get translated into these tragic understandings of Black boys include hair, music, as well as non dominant dialect and language. These signs have been used for centuries to dehumanize and devalue Black people and Black culture; consider, for example, minstrel shows and old TV sitcoms like Amos and Andy. What is the cost of inscribing such characterizations on Black male bodies? At schools, the result is teachers imposing deficit ideologies on little Black boys and essentially expecting them to fail in their academic endeavors. Teachers reprimand Black boys much more frequently and for much lighter offenses than their white peers. Black boys are streamlined into special education courses at the first sign of divergent thinking. In the world outside of schools, the result is Black boys and men being recklessly and unjustly murdered at the hands of white people simply because the very presence of a Black body elicits fear. Both instances demonstrate psychological and physical violence to our Black boys and men. As most Black people have come to realize, there is essentially no safe space for our Black boys to grow and live without fear of violence against them. The use of signs effortlessly assists in this violence against Black boys, as signs instantly deliver implicit messages to certain imagery, thus halting a person’s conscious critical analysis of the image.

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FOR WHAT? FOR WHOM? Historically and contemporarily, race and racism has been inextricably linked to everything we see and understand about ourselves and about others. People who believe the United States is in a post-racial moment believe that if one works hard, one can succeed and get out of disparate economic situations. Such naïve and uncritical proclamations illustrate that this group does not understand the oppressive systemic power inherent in race relations in America. Because of this misguidance, it is crucial that Black America and our allies consider: for what? and for whom? A reflective look into this inquiry should take us to a place of anger, yet a productive anger in which complacency is no longer an option. We must consider how our present (in)actions will affect the future livelihoods of our children. Reflect on the numerous additional incidents of white-on-Black-male crime that mimic Martin’s and Brown’s cases. It is not the future I want for my own two Black sons, or any other mothers’ Black sons. I do not write the chapter as a person with answers, but as a person who is struggling. I have, however, the desire to do the work. Particularly, I write this as an art educator who understands that I work with a discourse that is heavily implicated in the imagery of Black males. I must, therefore, continuously consider what role art educators can play in destabilizing the power structure around signs imbedded in the day-to-day imagery we digest. Some actions art educators and students can engage in together include: • critically analyzing signs in images, both in media and on the street; • recognizing how media decides social truths; • discussing signs in relation to cultural codes, cultural capital, and subjugated cultural knowledge; • understanding what the dominant voice sounds and looks like and counternarratives that can mediate them; • making connections between historical oppressive systems, like slavery, and contemporary oppressive systems, like prisons; and • recognizing how signs have worked to support institutionalized racism. It is critical to note that while the system of signs transfers readymade messages, the system also has the power to generate new messages. We must work on creating these new messages with our children, our future leaders. The Brown skin of our boys and men should not continue to immediately read “threat.” The dehumanizing message must be dismantled.

IV: The Fight for Equity: Communities Speak Up and Out

Chapter Thirty-One

To Be Men and Women The Black Struggle for Justice Continues Paul D. Grant and Carl A. Grant

Some view our sable race with scornful eye. —Phillis Wheatley, 1773

There are several major themes that run through Black history, literature, and tradition—enslavement, segregation, self-determination, freedom, and identity. Meanwhile, three arguments intersect with these themes. They are: (1) Black people’s quest for personhood—that is, to be accepted in America as men and as women; (2) Black people’s fight for justice; and (3) Black people’s determination to control who “names.” These three arguments are crystallized in the murders of Trayvon Martin, Oscar Grant, Michael Brown, Eric Garner, and Tamir Rice. In this chapter, we discuss the arguments that tie their deaths together, drawing on one of the last speeches Martin Luther King Jr. delivered before he was assassinated. PERSONHOOD The struggle for full and complete freedom for Black people in America has a long history, and arguments are found within African American history for the acceptance and affirmation of Black manhood and womanhood. As early as 1773, the personhood of Blacks was questioned. Phillis Wheatley’s poem “On Being Brought from Africa to America” drew attention to how Blacks were being stripped of their manhood and womanhood. Wheatley described how Blacks were viewed with a scornful eye and how their skin color was looked down upon as being diabolic. In 1892, Anna Julia Cooper—a noted 171

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scholar and educator—made a strong case for Black manhood and womanhood, arguing that the societal test of justice was whether its institutions produced a man or a woman. In 1903, W. E. B. DuBois addressed Black people’s continuous struggle to have their humanity respected and affirmed. Twenty-one years later, in 1924, during the Harlem Renaissance, Langston Hughes wrote the poem “I, Too” which rebelled against African Americans’ alienation. In his poem, Hughes tells America that Black men—“the darker brothers”—are seeking a place, not in the kitchen, but at the nation’s table. In the poem Hughes argues that someday soon the Black man will say to America that he too is an American. For Black people, the importance of being accepted as men and women is a topic of everyday conversation (e.g., with friends), everyday speech (“manup”), formal language (“make your family proud of you by being a man/ woman”), and in most other social spaces (e.g., homes, barber and beauty shops). It was not until the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s that Blacks’ elusive quest for personhood drew national attention. The struggle for Black personhood is best illustrated by the television nightly news that showed African Americans being bit by snapping dogs, shot by water cannons, and Black men wearing over-the-shoulder signs that read “I AM A MAN.” In 1967, Stokely Carmichael and Charles Hamilton pushed the personhood discourse to a new level by paying greater attention to Black agency. Carmichael and Hamilton advocated for “Black Power” and argued that the longstanding values, beliefs, institutions, and ways of reasoning in the United States needed to be questioned, especially the unjust treatment of Black people. Carmichael and Hamilton stated that the reason Black Power was needed was in order that Black people could redefine themselves, reclaim their history and their identity, and thereby be accepted on their own terms as men and women. In 2008, when Barack Obama became the forty-fourth president of the United States, he was both implicitly and explicitly demonstrating that he and Black Americans were men and women. Obama’s swearing-in was a moment when some believed that Black people’s elusive struggle for justice, “naming,” and personhood had been reached. These individuals believed that Blacks had become fully part of the “we” in “We the people.” Also, since 2008, some have declared that the United States was entering a “post-racial” era, while others showed their resentment of a Black man being in the White House. Some individuals who resented Obama declared that he was not an American, while others challenged his worthiness of being a Black president.

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JUSTICE In 2014 ProPublica reported that young Black males are twenty-one times more likely to be shot dead by police than their white counterparts. Many Black people believe that justice doesn’t exist for them or it is not within reach. Based upon their personal experiences with the police and observations of miscarriages of jurisprudential rulings, they believe American justice is a myth. The justice system is a myth because the police, prosecutors, and judges have their fingers on one of the two weights of the scale that symbolizes justice. The scale tilts in favor of preserving white supremacy. At the same time, ProPublica reports that 77 percent of cases involving Black youth who are killed have the circumstances described as being “undetermined.” The justice system determines that Black lives are more disposable than white lives. Black people’s notion of justice is arguably based upon John Rawls’s theory of distributive justice. It is also based on Nancy Fraser’s theory of justice that gives credence to redistribution and recognition. In Fraser’s theory, injustice can stem not just from one’s unfair exclusion, but also from the denial of one’s lived experience, identity, and culture. Justice, then, is not simply the redistribution of material resources but also the recognition and acceptance of diverse perspectives and experiences. Justice is about economic rights, political rights, and cultivating authentic pluralism. The struggle for personhood, fairness in all aspects of life, and the right to “name” are all fundamental justice issues to Black people because their rights and privileges should have been recognized when the Black man joined the white man in the fight for independence from the British. Moreover, Black people know that Crispus Attucks, according to historical accounts, was the first American killed in 1770 at the start of the Revolutionary War, a war that led to America independence. Therefore, Black Americans contend that the following words in the Declaration of Independence should be meant for all Americans, regardless of their skin color: “When our Declaration of Independence was signed loyal Americans were of one to protect ‘LIFE, LIBERTY, and the PURSUIT of HAPPINESS.’” NAMING Francis Bacon, an English philosopher, in 1597 is credited with saying scientia potentia est or knowledge is power. Power lies in “naming” things. The act of naming shapes the way we think about things and indicates who is in control. “Westward Expansion” was the name given by mainstream publishers to whites who moved West. The term described battles differently. When Native Americans defeated whites it was labeled a massacre. When whites

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defeated Native Americans, the battles were labeled as wars and conflicts. Westward Expansion also defined Native Americans as being noble savages. Such biases in historical accounts (“naming”) have a long history in communities of color. When actions are taken—citizens taking to the streets to protest—they are frequently described as being “riots” by the news media. Lawlessness and disruption of peace are what is highlighted. Protesting is not considered to be a “rebellion” per se—a protesting or a pushing back from the established order. Similarly, many of the interactions made between Black males and the police are framed in a biased way. Black males are characterized as being lawless criminals. This redeems white police officers who are considered to “serve and protect” or are “peace officers.” Because Michael Brown’s reality was already “named” for him, he did not have the power to assert his personhood. This allowed those in power to not question themselves for letting his dead body lie in the street for four hours. It also allowed for the Ferguson police force to become militarized when protestors were demonstrating in the streets following his assassination. The power to name Blacks’ realities is important. The media can blame the Black community for how it raises its children and for the high number of single moms. CONCLUSION Prophetic words that Du Bois penned decades ago are meaningful today: Daily the Negro is coming more and more to look upon law and justice, not as protecting safeguards, but as sources of humiliation and oppression. The laws are made by men who have little interest in him; they are executed by men who have absolutely no motive for treating the black people with courtesy and consideration; and, finally, the accused law-breaker is tried, not by his peers, but too often by men who would rather punish ten innocent Negroes than let one guilty one escape.

The struggle to be a Black man and woman must be continually pursued with the same personal and collective determination that was voiced by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. during his address to the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC) in 1967. Dr. King, in summing up SCLC’s current progress and status, asked a question that is relevant when we are thinking about Michael Brown’s murder in Ferguson, Missouri; Eric Garner’s murder in Staten Island, New York; and the other recent murders of Black males throughout America: Where do we go from here? King responded to his own question: First, we must massively assert our dignity and worth. We must stand up amidst a system that still oppresses us and develop an unassailable and majes-

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tic sense of values. . . . The tendency to ignore the Negro’s contribution to American life and to strip him of his personhood is as old as the earliest history books and as contemporary as the morning’s newspaper. To upset this cultural homicide, the Negro must rise up with an affirmation of his own Olympian manhood. . . . And, with a spirit straining toward true self-esteem, the Negro must boldly throw off the manacles of self-abnegation and say to himself and to the world, I am somebody. I am a person. I am a man with dignity and honor.

In Dr. King’s spirit, we contend the Black struggle for justice and personhood continues.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Educational Research and Institutionalized Oppression Lisa (Leigh) Patel

The year of 2014 will be known as a banner year for the exoneration of white state violence. For the series of court decisions that exonerated the state, and more specifically white law enforcement and vigilantes, from any consequences for killing Black people. I write this still reeling from the cumulative grand jury decisions to not indict white police officers who killed a Black man and boy, each unarmed. These decisions are just one part of the wellintegrated system that leads to Black people being harassed, tortured, and killed by the state and to verification by the court system. The nation’s law infrastructure is built to support and maintain white supremacy. My social media feeds are flooded by the posts of pain, anger, and resentment that people of color are feeling as they are reminded of the core truths about this nation. At the same time, educational researchers are also prepping course lectures, analyzing data for studies, or preparing their job talks or presentations at national conferences. What do the regular practices of educational research have to do with the ongoing maintenance of anti-Blackness? Everything. Schooling is one of the key locations of social reproduction in society. That means, put less academically, that schools are one of the core spaces where some are dominant and others are marginalized. Schooling is where standards of competency and images of intellect are conveyed—all culturally based and, typically, biased toward whiteness as intelligence. Schools, as a part of a nation built on white supremacy, reflect this culture. From pedagogy and curriculum to policy and private investments, schools do the bidding of a nation constructed through the erasure of Indigenous populations, the relega-

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tion of populations of color to low-income home, work, and carceral spaces, and the elevation of whiteness as more legitimate. Educational research undoubtedly figures into this equation, and therefore we must ask what our research does to advance, topple, or create alternatives outside of the deliberate design of domination. As we prepare our lectures and proofread our journal manuscripts and the required sections of theoretical framework, research methodology, and significance, let us do so with some modicum of answerability to the ways in which schooling has acted, for centuries, to name Indigenous peoples as savage to treat them savagely; African American people as thugs to treat thuggishly; and immigrant populations as peripheral to place them on the side. Higher education and the research-industrial complex are a fundamental part of this landscape and calculus of schooling as social reproduction. Our institutions might have statements about social justice, but I would argue the proliferation of forprofit colleges and soaring student debt among low-income populations of color speaks much more loudly than those mission statements. We, like every other sector of society, are part of this mix. Educational research is guilty, like the rest of this anything but post-racial society, of using proxies to avoid naming and dealing with the grotesque nature of white supremacy. We may speak of affirming diversity, but we rarely address how material suffering and gain is expected to shift through the presence of diversity. We may uphold democratic education as a foundation, but, in doing so, we are complicit in the erasure of Indigenous peoples and their relationship to this land. We also far too often reference or let go unchecked a system that uses individualistic ideas of meritocracy to maintain a white heteropatriarchal supremacy. Meritocracy tells us that if we work hard, play by the rules, and are good people, this system will reward us. This is conveyed through studies that focus on the highest-achieving populations, locate a quality they have, and then downward apply that quality as a deficit explanation for why other populations are not succeeding, also obscuring societal structures of racism and heteropatriarchy. These approaches are only logical with the tacit reinstantiation that society is more fluid than stratified. Put in terms of higher education, this is the logic used to position publications in high-status journals as the sure route to promotion and tenure. In terms of K–12 schooling, it comes down to the grades and, increasingly, test scores. This kind of metric and categorical logic may also be why educational research might use such a bankrupt and insufficient concept as cultural competency. Culture is far too complex a structure and competency far too binaristic a concept; used in tandem, these terms present the quintessential elision of addressing institutionalized oppression in schooling. Clearly, the nation is anything but a colorblind, meritocratic playing field. Educational research must address the reality of institutionalized oppression more than

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ideology used in political speeches about opportunity. There are many educational research studies that do reach beyond easy tropes of meritocracy, but there are still many that seek an intervention to close the achievement gap, rather than seeing the entire system as one large and multifaceted successful intervention for white middle-class populations. If educational research is indeed about increasing those beloved test scores, let us at least be explicit about what Eve Tuck implores social science to do and address the working theory of change: How exactly will the better scores alter the “open season on black boys,” as Gary Younge put it so eloquently? A bit more broadly construed, how might this research help different populations locate their social locations and act responsibly from those places, including what unlearning and relearning white populations may have to undertake? For those of us who are teacher educators of color, we must also interrogate traditionally sanctioned approaches and find the theories and methodologies that have not emanated from the Eurocentric colonial basis of objectivity and universalism. Educators and educational researchers often work from the theory that, with a good education, social mobility, achievement, and safety are likely in the United States. Trayvon Martin was an honor student with a 3.7 GPA and had a full-ride scholarship to a college. He played by those rules of meritocracy, but his exonerated vigilante killer, George Zimmerman, played by the much more fundamental rules of white supremacy and violence and was duly rewarded by the state of Florida. I do not imagine educational research to be able to speak to the triage needs that many feel in the wake of such exonerations of white state violence right now, but neither should educational research require six steps of imaginative extrapolation to address explicitly systems of codified colonialism, racism, and patriarchy. The stakes are too high, and the logics have worn too thin.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Necessary and Insufficient Teaching and Writing in a Violent World Audrey Lensmire

For Marcus White

I did not set out to be a teacher. When I was young, impressionable, and imaginative, I had other dreams. Dreams of far-off places and people whose stories were waiting to be told. When I was young, I waited for the monthly Life magazine to arrive in our mailbox. In those days, a phrase that is apt but makes me sound old, before the Internet, I delighted in the pages and pages of colorful photographs in the oversized magazine. I devoured the main feature story in one sitting. I loved to touch the photos and to examine up close the grainy images that exposed places and people around the world. I began to dream of being a journalist for Life; witnessing, understanding, and writing about how others lived. I wanted to tell their stories. But by my early twenties and two failed attempts in journalism courses, I had decided to become someone who did not just write about the problems in the world, but rather someone who acted upon social and political problems in order to make change. I had taken up a self-guided education using work, reading, and reflection to figure out how to live in this broken world. In Chicago, after college, I worked at a YMCA. I used my college Spanish to conduct activities for children and families. I worked as a childcare worker with teenage girls who were “wards of the state.” I also taught kindergarten at a Head Start in Albuquerque. I read Jonathan Kozol’s Savage Inequalities and Alex Kotlowitz’s There Are No Children Here. I was called to become a public school teacher. My teacher educators were part of a progressive movement in education. From them I learned the best way to teach reading was by reading, and the 181

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best way to teach writing was by writing. Our classrooms were called “workshops,” and the teacher would model literate practices, and students would follow. Or, said another way, we would “follow the child,” follow his or her interests, and the children would learn. And so it went, I became a teacher who was following the interests and concerns of the children. Over the years, I experimented with the workshop classroom in fifth and sixth grades. Through my participation in the National Writing Project in Austin, Texas, I met a group of young professors of education who were interested in working with classroom teachers on a project they called “Write for Your Life” (WFYL). With a bit of grant money in hand, each professor invited a classroom teacher to open her classroom up to study. The invitation was in fact a series of questions: ● Would you be interested in asking your students to investigate issues in their community and their lives that affect their health and well-being? ● Would you be willing to let us study you and your students? ● Would you be interested in helping them conduct research into those issues and develop community service projects around those issues?

All of these questions were in line with my philosophy as a classroom teacher. I was committed to my work in urban communities with children whose families lived in poverty, and I understood the powerful potential of this invitation for my students. And for me, well, I jumped at the chance to be part of a larger community of teachers and researchers who were worried about the circumstances of our students’ lives. Over time and with the support of the WFYL researchers, I followed my students as they conducted inquiry projects into issues that touched their lives, like homelessness, hunger, divorce, death, gangs, alcoholism, and drug addiction. One student, who studied homelessness, enlisted her classmates to help her set up and inhabit a cardboard city. In the school’s outdoor covered corridor, she led groups of other students through the cardboard city. Finally, she asked her peers to make donations to the local homeless shelter. Other students wrote nonfiction essays and poetry about how such issues affected their lives. We published their writing in bound volumes, made short videos, and sent, via snail mail, our work to other teachers and students in the WFYL network. The WFYL teachers and professors did communicate daily on our WFYL list-serve, sharing our excitement at the students’ research and action, our concerns about the problems in their lives and issues they researched, and our own reflections of teaching in this way. I was never afraid of dealing with the subjects the students worried about and wanted to study. After a while, as the push for standardization of the curriculum and high-stakes testing crept into our schools, I was worried about not teaching this way.

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The professors and some teachers presented at conferences and published accounts of our work; they described the empowerment our students demonstrated and told us we were doing important work, work that was making a difference in our students’ lives. The work of youth, that WFYL encouraged and supported, was important. There was evidence that the students were naming, problematizing, and acting upon their lives. This was the kind of work I had imagined, early on, the kind of social and political education that changed lives. The professors told us that this was what John Dewey wrote about and what Paulo Freire insisted upon. My favorite and most memorable years of teaching were at a new public school, West Central Academy, in Minneapolis. I looped, or stayed with, a group of twenty-one students during their fifth- and sixth-grade years. Although I had officially left the WFYL network, I continued with a workshop classroom and the WFYL inquiry work. I also became very serious about the use of class meetings to build a democratic community and a space to solve problems. My mind returns often to these eleven-year-olds, who are now twentyfive or twenty-six, out of a love for our very imperfect time together. I was an earnest, young woman and I had ample evidence that my students trusted me. I have pictures of us from the tie-dye dance party, from our apple-picking field trip, and from the field day when we won the tug-of-war. My students liked all of the stuffed animals I had brought in and created a lending library of sorts so they could bring them home over the weekend. I tell stories about how my students called a class meeting after Christopher joined us in sixth grade. He was not following along with the rules that had been established by our democratic processes. Frank and D’Andre used the meeting to tell him how things were done in our room. Another time Frank and Mitchell, outraged when they heard the assistant principal mutter a racial epithet about them, invited him to a class meeting to resolve the conflict—I always thought Mitchell would become a preacher, he spoke with such conviction. The two boys rehearsed how they would explain to him what they had heard and how it made them feel. I can still see their painful dismay when the assistant principal refused to sit in the circle with us on the floor, although he was physically able to do so, and then when he walked out of the room after yelling at me for encouraging students to be disrespectful. Frank was upset and disappointed, but mostly, as he said, worried that I might be fired. I can no longer avoid a story that I need to tell, which for me is the heart of this chapter. Marcus was a student in that same class. He came to fifth grade reading well above grade level, which I tell here because it had impressed me. He wore pressed khakis and a white T-shirt. He was well liked by classmates. His mother doted on him, coming to talk with me regularly about her son. She was kind and happy, like Marcus, and I enjoyed our

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conversations when she came into the classroom. After school I saw him gather up his younger siblings to walk them home—he was sweet to them and other younger children in the school. Marcus decided to study violence and abuse for his WFYL project. His research led him to discover what was called a “cycle of abuse.” He became interested in this cycle and how to break it. I do not know exactly why Marcus chose this topic; I do know that the community he lived in had its share of violence, black-on-black crime, and gang activity. For his final project, Marcus wanted to teach others, young men in particular, about how to end the cycle of violence that was part of his concern about his life and his neighborhood. We invited the whole sixth grade to his presentation in the school media center. He recreated a graphic that exemplified his thinking about the cycle and placed it on an overhead projector. I can see Marcus now, as I write, the graphic enlarged and projected. Pointing on the overhead, Marcus traced the cycle and then read from a note card. There are things people can do to get out of this cycle, he said as he read the list aloud. I was really proud of him that day. I was proud to be his teacher, a teacher who allowed students to follow their interests. The next year, I left that school, which later shut down, and the students moved on, too. More than seven years later on July 13, 2006, a former colleague contacted me. She thought I would want to know that Marcus was dead. Killed by a gunshot. A victim of the violence that prevails not only in the neighborhood Marcus lived in, but across our country. Today Ferguson is burning because the grand jury did not indict the police officer in the shooting death of Michael Brown. A poster that I carried to a march two years ago for Trayvon Martin hangs in my office. A picture of the class I loved sits on my desk. In it I am crouched in the front row, next to Marcus, with my arm around him so he could steady me. Teaching is the action I chose to try to make a difference in the world. It is hard and important work. As a teacher, I fell in love with the idea that if my students named, wrote, and acted upon the issues in their lives, it would make a difference in their world. I acted like many progressive educators who ask our children and youth to read and write for their lives, to grow up and change their world. But what about people like Marcus who do not get a chance to grow up? It turns out that to teach students to “write for your life” may be necessary if we are to have classrooms where students can learn and teach, even for a brilliant moment. I also know that teaching and writing are not sufficient to end the violence that continues to plague young African American men. It is time to get out into the streets.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Insidiousness of Indifference to Black Injury in White America Christine Clark

Between me and the other world there is ever an unasked question: unasked by some through feelings of delicacy; by others through the difficulty of rightly framing it. All, nevertheless, flutter round it. . . . To the real question, How does it feel to be a problem? I answer seldom a word. —W. E. B. Du Bois

In the early 2000s, noted Freirian scholar and activist, Antonia Darder, commented that fighting racism in the academy was just as worthy a pursuit as was fighting it elsewhere. Around the same time, professor of African American studies, Henry Louis Gates Jr., expressed concerns that Blacks were doing better in the curriculum than they were in the streets. Some twenty years later, both sentiments continue to frame the co-occurring realities of race in America. In 2010, I inherited the job of teaching a course in a multicultural-education master’s program titled Special Topics in Multicultural Education. For the special topic, I chose the school-to-prison pipeline (STPP). Seven students enrolled—five were African American, two were men. The makeup of the student body at the undergraduate and master’s level in the teacher education arena in which this course was taught was, and still is, over 90 percent white and female, so the course demographics were quite atypical; two of the students, Black men, were doctoral students in an emerging doctoral-program emphasis area also focusing on diversity subject matter. While I was well prepared to teach this course, I had not anticipated the emotional reaction the course material would have on the two Black men in it. While they were profoundly engaged by the course’s subject matter, as learning in the course progressed, they became increasingly hyper-sentient to their racial 185

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and gender scarcity in higher education, relative to revelations about the engineered educational failure of Black male youth in the United States. So while the course was affirming to them in that it named sociopolitical, including educational, realities that teacher education, at best, glosses over, it also left them feeling more consciously alienated in the academy than ever before. Both of these men grew up fairly solidly middle class, in two-parent households in which educational achievement was expected. Does this make them “exceptions to the rule” relative to having black male “role models” in the home and parents who “value” school success? Both of these men were also touched by the criminal justice system prior to entering their doctoral programs. Does this make them “the rule” in terms of Black-male-foisted connectivity to this system? In truth, neither man is exception or rule, and both men are exception and rule. This dichotomy is not only false but also is rooted in deficit thinking about Black men in schools and society. Both of these men have faced perpetual concerns about their specific academic preparedness and, more tangentially, the academic preparedness of all Black men in the academy, hence their scarceness; concerns that are expressed in a manner completely divorced from the realities of the STPP. Almost all faculty in colleges of education, especially those in teacher education, make a good part of their living from challenges associated with public PK–12 schooling in the United States; that is, we research these challenges, give conference presentations about them, write articles and books on them, and are hired as consultants to help ameliorate them. And yet, when manifestations of these challenges show up in our higher-education classrooms, most often in the form of students’ writing challenges, we often ignore them, giving students A’s on papers, with little other feedback, through several courses, until we cannot or choose not to ignore them any longer, often when these students reach thesis or dissertation benchmarks. Then we proclaim that helping students to address these challenges falls outside the scope of our areas of expertise, as we do not teach English or writing and, moreover, that students in advanced education have to be able to “figure things out on their own,” sink or swim, or our programs will lack “rigor.” Many students have no idea of the skill-set gaps they have in postsecondary education settings because no ever tells them, at least not until they arrive at those key benchmarks. Other students, in lieu of “welcome to campus,” are coldly informed that their gaps are insurmountable and then hurried out of office doors with directives to pursue other fields of study or professional trajectories. Teaching in a “high-research,” urban, public, research university in which almost every student at every academic level is a first-generation college student (most of whom come from the local public school district that has

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ranked among the bottom in the nation for at least the last ten years), it should not be surprising to me that even those students who took Advanced Placement coursework are still struggling with basic skill-set development when they arrive on campus. And yet, these students have still made it to campus, largely on their intellect and sheer will and determination—what could be more American? And some are able to leverage their intellect, will, and determination through bachelor’s degrees, a few through master’s degrees, and a small number through doctoral degrees. But even in actively seeking to close the preparedness gap for students of color in academia, I cannot locate myself outside of the problem. In so doing, my unacknowledged, unexamined, and unchecked racism has also retained, even newly put, Black men and other people of color in deficit boxes. I became acutely aware of this while working with one of the Black men from my STPP course on his dissertation proposal. His study focuses on what he has coined literacy confusion and describes as how, typically, white and female teachers interpret/misinterpret especially Black and male students’ literacy skills, namely, the perception of these skills as absent or only deficit, causing both teachers and students to react to one another in ways that conflict with the students’ educational progress. Accordingly, he suggests that literacy confusion and related teacher communication, or lack thereof, with students, coupled with unfair school policies, disproportionately leads Black male students into educational default. Thus, he argues, these occurrences make literacy a potentially key factor in further understanding, and in seeking to dismantle, the STPP. My work with students of color, including this Black male student, on their so-called higher education performance gaps never consciously considered the ways in which literacy confusion was operating, at least at a meta-level, in virtually all of our interactions. While I always affirm that I want students to be able to perform with excellence in the system as it is currently set up, but also to be inspired to change it, on some level, I also always want students to conform, or at least acculturate if not also assimilate, to certain academic conventions. Student conformity in this regard makes my communication with them about their ideas easier for me, it accommodates my literacy norms, and it quiets my self-consciousness about, even hyper-vigilance to, colleagues’ and institutional deficit stories about these students’ preparedness, belonging, and ultimately their right to the education they are pursuing. While I always challenge the underlying premise of the Eurocentric canon that the most useful knowledge is that which is already in place, I also reaffirm it through the imposition, however linguistically well defended, of favored and privileged communication expectations. Black men on campus, including the two men from my STPP course, also have to navigate a campus climate in which their presence alone, much less their self-expression, renders them vulnerable in ways that are similar to their

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vulnerability on urban streets. They are often asked what they are doing on campus, in a building, even in a classroom, as if they not only obviously do not belong, but are also a threat to those for whom belonging is always assumed. And this is often the case even when the Black men are tenured full professors with decades of service in a single campus community; as undifferentiated outsiders, they are perpetually unrecognizable, even to longstanding colleagues. Faculty, especially white female faculty in teacher education, routinely report their perceptions of Black male students as being sexist, disrespectful, even aggressive. I was once asked to provide advice to a department chair who had had several reports of this nature from various white women in the department about the other Black man in my STPP course. Specifically, she asked how I “dealt” with this student. I asked her if the faculty member who had made these reports had ever had similar perceptions of other students and, if so, how they had “dealt” with those students. Colorblindness claims fidelity to treating everyone “the same,” yet the purportedly colorblind always seem curiously differentially sighted. Perhaps it is not surprising that this student examined Black male masculinity in his doctoral research. That he was able to successfully pursue this course of study is evidence of not only his intellect but also his will and determination, as so many students of color are routinely told by faculty, yes, overwhelmingly white faculty, that studying “their group” will “limit” them professionally. Which leads me to ask, if people of color do not study people of color, who does? And if people of color do not study people of color, whom are they studying? When I first taught that STPP course in 2010, I was still new to the department and college in which it was offered. As I settled into academic life at this university, I initially felt welcomed, or at least not unwelcomed, by most of my colleagues, and also privileged to be coordinating both master’s and doctoral level specialization areas in cultural studies, internation education, and multicultural education. While I still feel privileged in my coordination role, the sense that I, with my content-area expertise, am largely unwelcome is conveyed on a daily basis by nearly all of my colleagues. To be fair, perhaps it is not simply me or my disciplinary foci that have cultivated this lack of hospitality; perhaps it is more how I express myself, perform whiteness, and undertake my work that has prompted it. I suspect that’s what most of my colleagues would say—that I push too hard and with singular interest on issues of race and class, issues that they would agree are of value, just not as much as I ascribe to them. As a multicultural educator, I have long struggled with how to “reveal” the manners in which white supremacy continues to operate to systematically advantage whites and disadvantage people of color, including in the everyday terrain of teaching, administrative work, and governance with college

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and departmental colleagues, including some colleagues from varied racial and ethnic minority groups. Even when I have offered very specific, seemingly exceedingly obvious examples of both individual and institutional racism in our work, my concerns are usually dismissed. Sometimes they are dismissed with impudence: after listening to my concerns, colleagues move swiftly to affirm decisions that, just moments before, I swore I had provided sound evidence of as inequitable, unfair, biased, or clearly racist. I have come to understand that, as with injury to marginalized people in society at large, injury to them in the academy is likewise met largely with indifference, especially for Black men—whether young on urban streets, or older in professorial seats. The transparency of white privilege to white people, as well as to people of color similarly socialized in a white supremacist system, renders individuals, groups, and systems unable or unwilling to see and acknowledge its injurious impact in the lives of people of color, thus persistently and pervasively unresponsive to the pain it causes. And yet: If we—and now I mean the relatively conscious whites and the relatively conscious blacks, who must, like lovers, insist on, or create, the consciousness of the others—do not falter in our duty now, we may be able, handful that we are, to end the racial nightmare, and achieve our country, and change the history of the world. ―James Baldwin

Chapter Thirty-Five

Resisting the Dehumanization of Youth of Color On the Death of Big Mike, “Illegal” Your Leaders and Proud Utes Enrique Alemán Jr.

Dehumanization, although a concrete historical fact, is not a given destiny but the result of an unjust order that engenders violence in the oppressors, which in turn dehumanizes the oppressed. —Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed

I am a father of three children, a professor who is privileged to work with young people and families who want the best opportunities for their children, and a member of a community that has resisted historically, used educational institutions to empower students, and pushed back against racism in all its forms. Every day I am reminded of the immense talent, creativity, and resiliency that permeate the community in which I live and leaders of color with whom I work. I am fulfilled by the many collaborations that develop in schools and neighborhoods, and I am consistently inspired by the youth and families who teach me every day. When reviewing educational statistics, however, or listening to the vitriolic debate over immigration reform, or driving through the vast Indian reservations that span the Utah landscape, or especially when considering the fate of Michael Brown Jr., or “Big Mike” as his friends and family referred to him, I am also reminded of the long history, and current manifestations, of dehumanization that young people of color must contend with daily. Statesanctioned violence against Black, Brown, Native, and immigrant communities and youth is as real today as it was in 1955, 1942, or 1830. This 191

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violence, much of which has resulted in the unjustifiable deaths of millions of persons of color over the course of the nation’s history, is a foundational pillar of the American society. So how do those who promote justice across U.S. society respond to dehumanizing events and counter the longstanding practices inherent in a foundationally racist society? PLANNING A FUNERAL DURING FRESHMAN WEEK On the very day that Big Mike was shot, killed, and left to lie alone on the street in his own neighborhood, my family and I were driving through St. Louis, Missouri, on a cross-country trip to drop off my son for his first year of college. He and Big Mike had recently become high school graduates. Black and Brown young men of color, they had their whole lives in front of them—internships to experience, skills to build, careers to forge, and, one day, families to start. Only my son would become an entering college freshman that August. As my family drove toward our nation’s capital, where our son would attend school, my wife and I contemplated what our lives would be like with our first born so far from home. Big Mike’s parents were planning his funeral and begging the Ferguson Police Department for answers. He lay on the street for four hours. His parents ran to the scene when word got out that Big Mike had been shot. Officers did not allow them to caress him or cradle his body. They were not able to be next to him as he transitioned from life to eternity. Images of Big Mike as a “thug” were circulated via the web and by national media outlets as his killing made headlines. This is the clearest picture of dehumanization in my mind—that of Big Mike on the street, his mother and father held back by officials, his baseball cap thrown to the ground, his memory soiled at a whim. The trip across the country was long, but it was filled with anticipation of experiencing “Welcome Week” with our son. Entering St. Louis, the kids took pictures of the Mississippi River as we crossed into Illinois, the Gateway Arch barely visible from the interstate. “That’s where the St. Louis Cardinals play,” I yelled out pointing in the general direction of the baseball stadium and home of the major league team. We did not know that Big Mike’s lifeless body would be lying on the ground that day. The scene is tragically reminiscent of Emmett Till’s murder in 1955. Then fourteen, a young Black boy visiting family in the Mississippi, Till was framed as an aggressive assailant by the two white men who took his life. The court justified his murder. His killers were never punished. Emmett Till and Big Mike are stark reminders of how our past continues to be our present, that Black male lives are not as valuable in the eyes of the justice system. Given this history and present, how do we respond to Big Mike’s death and events

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in our lives that dehumanize our youth and communities when the justice system is neither colorblind nor just? THE “ILLEGALITY” OF YOUTH LEADERSHIP AND ACTIVISM In my capacity as an administrator for two years, I was fortunate to have worked with some of the university’s most talented and committed student leaders. These students struggle to pay for tuition and complete rigorous academic programs while advocating for more just university policies in areas related to admissions, student support, recruitment of underrepresented communities, and access to equitable financial aid. Many of them came to the United States as children. Brought by parents or family members seeking relief from the economic and political conditions that made life untenable in their homeland, the vast majority of them were forced to flee north to work— not to steal, cheat, or take advantage of an already flawed immigration system. Once arrived, these children became strong students and contributed to their communities while remaining in legal limbo as undocumented students. The rhetoric that often dominates the airwaves and online conversations, however, continues to promote the narrative of the illegality of these youth. As described by some of the most powerful legislative and media interests, they are breaking the law, cutting in line in front of others who play by the rules, and seeking to drain the country’s resources without contributing to the tax coffers. This rhetoric is similar to that which has been stated over the course of the nation’s history and has been especially used to frame the issue around immigration. Terms such as illegal aliens, illegals, or wetbacks have been used to dehumanize persons who were forced to migrate, without contextualizing the factors that led to the decision to migrate. Blaming the youngest of these immigrants, especially those who have subsequently made the United States their home, is part of the dehumanization process that invalidates their position in the United States. In 1942, the Bracero Program was implemented as a policy that would help U.S. industry in addressing the labor shortages that were brought about by World War II. By granting work permits to millions of Mexican men, the American economic engine would not be stalled. In the end, Mexican nationals aided its neighbor in a time of war, but workers were treated unfairly, cheated of wages, separated from family, and discarded once the program ran its course. Similar to the predicament faced by undocumented student leaders today, those Mexican workers who stayed, after contributing to the U.S. economy, were deemed criminal. I refuse to believe that a young student leader, wanting to pursue academic training, is a detriment to or a drain on our society. Those who wish to frame these young persons in such a manner

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are only fueling the racist policies that emanate from the state capitals around the country. How can those seeking a just society reframe the notion that these student leaders are “illegal,” criminal, or a threat to society? “UTE PROUD” AND THE BANGING OF A DRUM AND FEATHER The University of Utah is one of the few remaining American universities to use a Native American nickname and to benefit monetarily from the use of Native symbols as part of official university merchandising and branding. The Drum and Feather logo and the university’s new “Ute Proud” public relations campaign represent the university’s attempt at legitimizing the misappropriation of Native culture and history. This occurs despite the fact that, at last count, only four (on a campus of over thirty-one thousand) Native Ute students are registered and matriculated at the institution. When considered with the less than 1 percent of students who self-identify as American Indian/ Alaskan Native on the campus, the university’s efforts to recruit, retain, and graduate indigenous students become more clear. Some would ask why the use of this nickname or logo should be concerning to those seeking a more just educational system. Yet when considering the long history of violence, colonization, broken treaties, and theft of lands and resources, the dehumanization of Native American people in the United States is as old as the “founding” of the nation. One of the most notorious anti-Indian politicians in U.S. history is President Andrew Jackson. During his presidency, the Indian Removal Act was passed in 1830 by the U.S. Congress as a means of forcibly removing thousands of Natives from their homelands in the South. Forced onto the Trail of Tears, those who survived the trek were relegated to western lands. In the process of civilizing these “savages,” the boarding-school system, subtraction of their languages and cultures, and subjugation to demarcated lands were among the strategies used to oppress. Today, Native Americans continue to be relegated to the bottom of all good educational, health, employment, housing, and criminal justice indicators. Whether it’s so-called dropout rates, lack of access to higher education, high rates of incarceration, high rates of infant mortality, or lack of adequate housing, Native Americans are faced with dehumanizing living conditions, both in urban centers and on tribal lands. How do those seeking to provide educational spaces for Native students counter the hostile and damaging climate fostered in predominantly white higher educational institutions and challenge the use of symbols and caricatures that create hostile learning environments?

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RETURNING TO OUR ROOTS: RESISTING WHITE SUPREMACY AND LOVING JUSTICE Historical moments such as the murder of Emmett Till, the Bracero Program, and the Indian Removal Act are alive and well today. The practice and policy of dehumanizing youth and communities of color remains a central barrier to achieving a more just U.S. society. In seeking to address the questions posed throughout this piece, I continue to believe that we must first historicize our struggle against white supremacy. Naming white supremacist practices and policies, at every turn, makes the humanizing of youth of color a central tenet of this resistance. Connecting these struggles to the struggles of our ancestors can ground the leadership and activism that emerges naturally. Dehumanization comes in many forms and occurs consistently; therefore, the challenging of such practices and policies should be a shared process. Arming youth with the tools to resist and reframe these instances, along with community leaders and allies in schools and universities, will empower a critical mass that is not often thought of as capable. Simply put, those who struggle for a more just society must return to the roots of our struggle and care and love justice. The Native students who attend the University of Utah are my family. We should care in addition about all the challenges they face at a predominantly white institution. In a society that treats them as relics of a long-forgotten people, they should not be alone in facing daily reminders of their inhumanity. The undocumented student leaders who attend the university where I work are my future. We should utilize the privileges that we possess to advocate for their educational opportunity and reframe their lives as essential to the American experience. At the very core of my point is that we should care for and love our youth like they are all ours. Big Mike was my son. He was everyone’s son. We should care that he was left on the street, in the hot August sun, uncovered, uncared for, discarded by a criminal justice system that dehumanized him. We should take this fact, return to our roots, and love justice.

Chapter Thirty-Six

A Call for Compassion An African American St. Louis Family’s Reflections on Ferguson Dannielle Joy Davis, Christopher Aaron Deanes, Jason S. Davis, Linda M. Davis, & Eilleen Buckner

This chapter features the reflections and contributions of family members, all of whom grew up in St. Louis, and two of whom currently reside in the city. Together, their reflections point to longstanding injustices within the city and its continued overt and covert racism. JASON DAVIS It was a different time in the late 1970s when we moved from racially and culturally tolerant University City, Missouri, to Ferguson, Missouri. I would like to think that things are different . . . better. That being said, it was circa 1976 when I was in third grade, living in Ferguson, Missouri. We were the only Black family I knew that lived in the area. We had to be among the first to move to the then all-white Ferguson. I went to a local private school, and on Valentine’s Day, when all of the kids handed out paper Valentines and candy, I was the only kid who did not get a Valentine. I sat there for what seemed like hours, but it was more likely thirty minutes, during the end of the day’s Valentine party. Alone. No well-wishers. I do not think I told my parents about it when I went home. I was too embarrassed. Nor did I tell our parents about the routine racial slurs that I got in the subdivision and at school from the older kids. It seemed like my cross to bear. . . . Whatever does not kill you makes you stronger. 197

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That was the 1970s. We moved about a year later back to University City, which is still the most ethnically and culturally accepting community that I have ever lived in. I never experienced separatism and racism like that of Ferguson again. I moved on with my life and never had problems with any other ethnic groups. I chalked my Ferguson experience up to ignorance, an ignorance that I could help dissolve by my doing something positive in the world. DANNIELLE JOY DAVIS Our family lived in Ferguson when I was a toddler. At the time, we were one of the first Black families in the predominantly white area. I have seen pictures of myself enjoying and playing in our spacious Ferguson yard and home. Yet I also recall accounts from my older brother, who, as a thirdgrader and the only Black child at his school, endured daily racial slurs and poor treatment at the largely white local private school and throughout the Ferguson neighborhood. Ultimately, we moved to the more diverse and progressive St. Louis County community of University City, where I spent the remainder of my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood. After graduating college and working in other states, I recently relocated back home to St. Louis. On the day when the grand jury decision was announced, I visited the local library to pick up A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving for my son. Library workers appeared more hurried than usual. I asked if they were closing soon. “We are closing early because of the decision,” a librarian shared as she handed me the DVD. The public had been expecting a decision for weeks. Finally, the day was here! I rushed to pick up my son from school, which for weeks employed increased security measures in response to the pending Ferguson verdict. We quickly completed our nightly routine of dinner, preparing for bed, and a story. He fell asleep slightly before the decision was announced. Upon hearing the decision, I was soon put off by the speaker’s continued use of the word “unfounded.” It is frustrating and disappointing when as minorities we speak our truths, only to have those truths labeled as unfounded or emotional. In the Brown and Garner cases, such labels appear to root themselves in racial stereotypes and biases that thwart rational and/or equitable outcomes. The morning after the decision, I took my son to school as usual and went to work. I received and sent phone calls or text messages to family members and friends inquiring of their well-being and thoughts. That afternoon I was scheduled to pick up my mother, who spent the remainder of the week with us to celebrate Thanksgiving. My mother is a former five-year resident of the

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Pruitt-Igoe Housing Project in St. Louis, a massive dwelling designed to house the poor that ultimately became uninhabitable. Through hard work and education, she went from the impoverished Black Pruitt-Igoe to the then prosperous all-white neighborhood of Ferguson. She called me in a seeming panic the day after the grand jury decision, urgently requesting that I pick up my son, as if the entire city was on fire. I assured her that at my son’s school there were no flames and that he was safe. Once she arrived, she too realized that the media’s portrayal of St. Louis and reality was quite different. Yes, there was unrest, mainly in Ferguson. Other areas of the city experienced peaceful protests. Late that night I awoke to numerous police sirens and the sound of a helicopter. The sound of the helicopter drew me out of bed since it seemed to continue and get louder as opposed to faintly fading in the distance. I looked out my living room window and saw a helicopter circling our small residential area. I have never awaked to such a sound and sight before. Yet despite it being unusual, I was not alarmed. If anything, it was the National Guard watching over to make sure all was well. I went back to bed, occasionally hearing more sirens and helicopters. I began to reflect upon the protests, riots, and the looting. I am an advocate of peaceful protests and participated in the “Hands Up, Don’t Spend” protest by refraining from shopping the weekend of Black Friday. I am greatly concerned about the misplaced rage demonstrated by violence toward the innocent and looting. Chaotic behavior is not what our ancestors wanted. It is the work of leaders and activists engaged in peaceful protests that I believe our ancestors smile upon. As minorities, we are the heart and conscience of society, always prompting it to self-reflect and improve itself. Has St. Louis changed its heart in the aftermath of Ferguson? No. My son and I recently visited a church in our neighborhood for the first time. To my surprise, while we live in a multiracial community, the church was entirely white. From the pulpit, the minister said that he did not like “everybody.” This was shortly after the congregation sang a song mentioning the term “black sin.” I cringed during these racist points of the service, closed my eyes, and prayed for those in the room. Should I walk out in protest? Or are they so uneducated and spiritually immature that they do not know any better? I stayed. As with so many times in my past, I thought that from the experience a teachable moment might emerge. I am misjudged daily by whites and others. On the surface, people merely see me as a young-looking Black single mother. They do not see the scholar, the leader, the teacher, the mentor, or the guide. They see a fraction of my experience and often make erroneous assumptions based upon them. I stayed throughout the service to see what would come of the experience God placed before me.

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At the end of the service, I woke my son, who thankfully slept through most of the ordeal. The minister made no effort to welcome us. We received some faint smiles upon our exit, but no one approached us. I realize now why the church woefully lacks diversity. As we walked to our vehicle, my sixyear-old son declared how that church was “no good.” Out of great disappointment, I agreed with him and discussed how they needed help and how I helped them by praying for them. Once again, we were the purest hearts and the consciousness within the sanctuary. Was the experience a teachable moment? Yes. It taught me that in the face of bigotry and ignorance I was strong enough to choose love and pray for the church rather than walk out in anger. It taught me that there continues to be work we must do at the social, political, educational, and spiritual levels to shift toward change. So how can this mother, scholar, and teacher contribute to this change? I am a member of a citywide committee committed to creating positive change in St. Louis through cultivating greater compassion. After learning that the police officer in the Garner case was not indicted, the committee met to view a presentation of varied works of art painted on boarded-up businesses in Ferguson. All were amazing messages of hope and calls for peace, equality, and compassion. I have faith that in time and with diligent work by all, our city will be changed for the better where compassion and efforts toward understanding reign. CHRISTOPHER DEANES: REFLECTION As I watched the Ferguson reports and made contact with St. Louis family members, my heart filled with disdain and anxiety all at once. Never before have I longed so deeply for justice, in the face of intolerance. As an African American male, I asked myself, “Why does this have to be our America?” The America I was brought up to know is a land of justice, fairness, and opportunity. Opportunity and benefits are produced by having resources. There are communities, however, that lack resources and opportunities right here in America. If a man’s hands are filled with work, his family’s wellbeing, and his dreams, and you back him into a wall, taking everything out of those hands, why would he not rebel? What else would he have to lose? My St. Louis community is a place that is widely segregated in economy. It is the belly of America. I also grew up in the belly of social thought that drives perception, defining the poor and middle class. The feelings of social consciousness led me to question white privilege. This has gone on for too long. Why should I sit down on this? Nothing will change without something being done. We must keep people accountable for laws and creating and maintaining equitable systems that we have the power to change. Our system

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must be restructured for change. Though the process can be difficult, it can be done. Mindful and conscious community development encompasses economic, social, and political structures that strengthen and stabilize, thereby providing a foundation for hope. Before ideas are shared, we must devise the structure of the ideal society that we seek to reach . . . and stretch long and hard to reach it. CONCLUSION It is evident that racism is alive and well in Ferguson and the nation as a whole. Youth must be taught the history of the Civil Rights Movement and prompted to continuously reflect upon how the strength and genius of those before us inform current and future work toward equality. To move forward, we must look back.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Living the Silence An Impediment to Culture and Equity Adonay A. Montes

What do you see when you look at me? Are you really seeing me for who I am or are you judging me? Do you see an empty canvas that you can paint based on your personal scripts of me? Are you really looking at me? Yes, do you see me? Why do you assume I know nothing? Is it because I look different from you? Is it because I have an accent? Is it because my skin is darker than yours? Am I to remain silent and obey your prescriptions? If I obey, will you accept me into your circle? Will you teach me your cultural code? Will I really be accepted or just simply tolerated? Do you really see me? Do you see my potential? Do you see the richness of my uniqueness as an individual? Will you give me a chance to show you what I know or will you just resort to your reservoir of labels and attach a label to me? I don’t want to be sedated with your paralyzing discourse, I want to use my voice to paint my own canvas or if you give yourself an opportunity, you and I can paint it together. Growing up as a young boy in El Salvador I learned that being different mattered. If you had lighter skin, you were accepted and celebrated; being of 203

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darker skin devalued your personal real estate. When my family decided to immigrate to the United States, I thought it was all going to change. I quickly learned that this was not the case, as my name, hair, skin, language, culture, and customs were not embraced. Instead, it was used to racially profile me. I oftentimes thought about it and felt frustrated because it seemed like the colonization tape was being played again, except this time, it was taking place in a different geographical location and in a different language. Soon, I realized other minority groups faced similar situations; if you were Mexican, an immigrant, Black, and so on, you did not fit in. I refused to relive the silence I adopted growing up in El Salvador due to the injustices I experienced there. I no longer wanted to wear a lock on my mouth, I no longer wanted to protest within the confines of my home, I did not want to feel the fear that I once felt to take over me and silence me. I wanted to find the freedom I was told existed in the United States. Freedom I have come to understand has a lofty price. A cost of acculturation and assimilation in which one must strip off their heritage and espouse a new identity encouraging minorities to conform to the reality prescribed. Why can I not be who I am? Why can ethnic groups not be who they are? Is it problematic to the United States to allow Latinos to become Latinos, Asians to become Asians, Blacks to become Blacks, and so on. I wonder if there is a degree of fear in white communities of the United States becoming too ethnic. Could it be that if the new ethnic composition in the United States is celebrated, valued, and supported, it would mean that the new groups that encompass our social fabric are unmeltable? Would it be that the United States would no longer be able to acculturate disadvantaged groups? Am I unmeltable? Why is it that my choice to remain true to who I am becomes a problem? Is it because my skin speaks a different language? Is it that I do not fall within the definition of being an American? Historically, the United States has viewed its tapestry as a reflection of European ancestry, which means being an American has traditionally reflected being white. I have had this definition applied to me as well as other peers. The following is an example of a typical conversation between a member of the dominant group and a minority group member. DG—How long have you lived in the United States? MG—I was born in the United States. DG—You speak English well!

When I hear these types of conversations, I am often reminded that members of minority groups are not seen as stakeholders in our society. Most importantly, they do not seem to fit the American profile. Ironically, minority members find themselves retelling their story, clarifying their U.S. citizenship. Diversity is not a premise foreign to the United States; the increasingly

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diverse demographics, however, continue to pose a challenge to the United States’ definition of what it means to be American. Soon the new generation of Americans will begin to trace their ancestry to other different locations throughout the world. Could it be that the sudden change in the cultural composition of this country is challenging the perception of the United States? What will it mean to the United States to become a minority majority nation? Will this change mean that incidents like the Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown deaths will not take place any more because racial profiling will cease? Will it mean that white America will want to get to know me? Will it mean that you will come to understand that because I had to learn your discourse, I have had to live in multiple realities and multiple worlds while remaining true to who I am? Will this mean that you are willing to cross the unspoken borders that exists between your cities and mine? It is exhausting to sustain a double life, and it is exhausting to keep redefining oneself to fit in. The color of my skin is indelible; I love my strikingly dark hair, my brown eyes, and so on. I no longer want to do this. I no longer want to pretend that I belong, I WANT TO BELONG! I no longer want to stand outside looking in, I want you to let me in. There is more to me than what you see, I bring knowledge and culture Give me a chance Give yourself a chance! If you come to understand me, a profile you won’t need!

Chapter Thirty-Eight

New-Freedom School Movement Issac M. Carter

The fiftieth anniversary of the Freedom School movement initiative in Mississippi will be commemorated this year. Started in 1964, the Freedom School movement was a major component of the Freedom Summer initiative planned and implemented by a group of social justice organizations known as the Council of Federated Organizations (COFO). The COFO included organizations like the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), and the Congress on Racial Equality (CORE). The Freedom Summer initiative was a response to centuries of racial violence and the all-white political control that permeated Mississippi’s institutional structures. The long-term goals of the initiative were to shift the power structure in Mississippi to be more representative of its citizens. The short-term goals were to educate, inspire, and organize the citizens of Mississippi to act, emphasizing the necessity for Black participation in the electoral process and the creation of schools that serve as institutions dedicated to social change. While the Freedom School movement did not achieve all of its goals, it was an influential component of the Civil Rights Movement and the passing of the 1965 Voting Rights Act. The success of the Freedom Summer strategy was not without causalities, including loss of property and life. Similarly, this summer’s killing of unarmed Michael Brown by Ferguson police officer Darren Wilson reminded the nation of the historical legacy of violence against Black men, the problematic necessity of electoral politics, and the possible influence of organized, public response. In the wake of this tragedy and the grand jury determination to not indict officer Wilson, the country witnessed domestic militarized police aggression, community protesting, and public rioting—some effective, some destructive—that only underscore the racial tensions still tearing at the fabric of our society. 207

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While awaiting the grand jury ruling, the November midterm elections occurred in Missouri. Most of the predominantly white incumbents retained their seats, including St. Louis County prosecuting attorney Robert McCulloch, who presented the facts of Brown’s death to a grand jury. Only about 40 percent of Ferguson’s registered voters participated in the midterm election, and as we have seen in Ferguson and other cities across the nation, local elections can have a direct and harmful impact on communities of color. Now, after the dust has settled, the officer cleared of wrongdoing, and the majority of city officials still in place, what are the next steps? The citizens of Ferguson and all those across the nation and the globe who stand in solidarity have an opportunity to make a historical contribution to society, just as those who participated in the Freedom Summer. We in the Academy, as influential members of society, have a duty and responsibility to Michael Brown, Ezell Ford, Trayvon Martin, and the countless others in our communities to leave our armchairs and act. The events that have taken place in Missouri are not isolated anomalies; rather, they are analogous to the historical continuity of targeted violence that communities of color have combated since the inception of this nation. Let this year signal the beginning of the New-Freedom School Movement, a movement to be co-facilitated, supported, and collectively engaged in by colleges and universities, political organizations, and community members. Those of us in the Academy, who represent targeted communities, must not forget how we came to this point. The blood and tears shed to provide the career opportunities enjoyed within higher education did not come without cost and will not endure without similar sacrifices. The historical legacy of slavery and racial violence remains tethered to our laws, enforcement practices, educational systems, and social consciousness. Black life in America has always been contested or subject to attempts to confine it to the imposed limitations and impulses of the White-Supremacist-Capitalist-Patriarchy, a phrase and tool of analysis employed by bell hooks. The Red Shirts after Reconstruction, the Klu Klux Klan and lynch mobs that followed, and the Southern Strategy authored and executed after the Civil Rights Movement to form the prison-industrial complex have never relented in their pursuit to control, incarcerate, and determine the value of Black life. The hip-hop duo, Dead Prez, poignantly reminds us that the same privilege and power creating and controlling the prison system also control our school and social systems. The New-Freedom School Movement recognizes the historical and contemporary connections between higher education, social justice advocates, and the community. The movement builds relationships with existing entities, while simultaneously creating space for new paradigms and forms of community to emerge. The voices and creativity from political movements, academic scholarship, and higher-education practitioners will be engaged to create a new model of education. Many of the tools and technologies to

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support this movement already exist, including social media outlets and Massive Online Open Courses (MOOCs) and open source media. Civic engagement projects have become more popular within higher education, and organizations like Campus Compact, a national coalition of college and universities also supports community-based pedagogical practices and the idea of higher education serving a public purpose. The merging of scholarship and action as exhibited by Angela Davis’s work against the prison-industrial complex and Saul Alinsky’s work in Chicago’s poor communities serve as examples linking education to community action. The emergence of statewide youth organizations in Florida, like the Dream Defenders and Students Working for Equal Rights (SWER), are contemporary examples where students and the community have cultivated deep relationships with political implications. The projects represent radical shifts, beyond the creation of parallel and opposing structures that answer the same vocational and economic questions within higher education. The Academy can serve as a convergence point for these projects seeking alternatives to an oppressed and divided humanity. The New-Freedom School Movement asks and answers questions, geared toward the collective production of knowledge, community safety, security, and the overall well-being of all. To ask and answer questions of community and humanity requires the curriculum and pedagogy of this new movement to depart from the Western constructs of hierarchy, high versus low culture, and the persistent neoliberal fantasies attempting to serve the community and corporations simultaneously. We in the Academy must be honest that the professional and career-focused education offered by universities does not keep our communities of color safe from violent acts of oppression or prepare individuals to navigate and interrupt systems of discrimination. Moreover, those within the university, even among the left, must recognize that we are complicit in our critique of the current social order, to the extent that very few collective alternatives exist within higher education. Pipeline programs, retention initiatives, multicultural course requirements, and minority-based scholarship programs are progressive initiatives; however, these programs are limited and do not fully address the systematic implications of oppression, within or outside the Academy. The programs often prepare youth of color to function in society, rather than fashion a new society. Culturally rooted academic programs may open minds but do not provide the skills to change hegemonic ideologies. It is not to suggest that higher education should abandon these programs or that higher education is without sites dedicated to anti-hegemonic political education and training. The questions remain: How do we broaden these programs to a scope and scale capable of asking and answering individual, community, and institutional questions, aimed at transforming the current power structures?

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For higher education to take the lead in the New-Freedom School Movement, it must first address the structural inequities built into the current system. The same social, political, and economic systems that are in play in Ferguson, Missouri, are also fostered within higher education. The Academy is not a utopian institution; conversely, it is a site of systematic injustice. Within the Academy, racialized power manifests in anti–affirmative action admissions policies (i.e., Michigan, Texas, and California), oppressive pedagogical practices, discriminatory hiring practices, and rising college tuition costs that severely limit access, matriculation, and graduation rates for people of color, especially men. It is time to remember our history and engage in those practices that have advanced our freedoms. Contesting the inequities within higher education requires the curricular, co-curricular, and administrative functions to be reimagined collectively. The intellectual resources need realignment, alongside the de-professionalized knowledge and indigenous leadership within our surrounding communities. The overall institution needs to cultivate a new hegemony of thought and leadership where the marginalized and targeted are prioritized and have a seat at the tables where decisions are being made. To create such a movement, the Academy must relocate itself, not only geographically, but also ontologically and epistemically. The very nature of our educational institution, as well as the knowledge produced, must interrogate and challenge the status quo to end all forms of oppression. The challenges associated with building the New-Freedom School Movement are vast, and substantive dialogue is needed to design a flexible model of inquiry and intervention capable of addressing national and local race, gender, and class disparities. The Mississippi Freedom School curricular model was comprised of three components: academic, citizenship, and artistic/recreation. The goal of this curriculum was to facilitate analysis of reallife situations and to develop community-based strategies. While the form and shape of the New-Freedom School Movement is yet to be determined, the components of the Freedom Summer strategy serve as fertile fodder for the creation of the New-Freedom School curriculum. The New-Freedom School curriculum model would focus on a number of areas including transformative leadership, shared intersectional analysis, electoral education, lobbying, campaign management, cultural studies, and grassroots organizing. The pedagogical approach would draw from popular education and popular culture to create a synergistic praxis of social change. The killings of Michael Brown and Trayvon Martin are beyond tragic. The community outcry has been substantial; nevertheless the impact of the organizing efforts and the emotional outbursts have not led to the systematic change necessary to safeguard communities of color. The Academy has been asked to respond, although the effectiveness of our response is open to critique. Young people of color have fueled and maintained much of the energy

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of the protests following these tragedies, yet the popular media would have you believe youth within communities of color are perpetually flawed and a danger to society. The New-Freedom School Movement aligns all segments of society to construct a new model of education dedicated to servicing the community and the fulfillment of the highest ideals of humanity.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Dreaming of Revolution My Struggle to Understand the Assault on Blackness Rochelle Brock

I dream a revolution. I dream that the world, or at least the United States, has a transformation of mind, spirit, and body. In my dream of revolution, we destroy all of the institutions that have screwed with Black people since time began for us in this land. Without my dream I feel hopeless. Like what is happening to my people is abiding, ageless, amaranthine, boundless, ceaseless, constant, continual, continued, continuous, dateless, deathless, enduring, everlasting, forever, illimitable, immemorial, immortal, immutable, imperishable, incessant, indefinite, indestructible, infinite, interminable, lasting, never ending, perdurable, permanent, perennial, perpetual, persistent, relentless, termless, timeless, unbroken, unceasing, undying, unending, unfading, uninterrupted, unremitting, without end. This morning I awoke early feeling consumed by anger and hurt and frustration. As I sat at my computer wondering what to write to make it all go away, my mind kept returning to the fact that, while powerful, can they really be crafted in a way that will make the situation with my Black brothers and sisters in Ferguson, Cleveland, Florida, New York, everywhere, into something better? And then what do I even mean by better? For many, if not most, the situation was dire prior to the various verdicts or nonverdicts. Why? I know the answer but, then again, maybe I do not. And now, this week, I watch the news and I listen to the radio and I read the paper and my heart cries out against the injustice, yet who is listening and who cares? Images flood my mind of people I do not know, yet we have a genetic and historical connection. I am removed from their situation because of geographic and economic distance, yet I also experience their reality through an esoteric connection. 213

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Someone very close to me posed the question of why we [read Black people] were so hated. Although I knew the answer, or at least part of the answer, I could not articulate it in a simple sentence; the reasons are varied and multiple and convoluted and psychotic and historical and evil and. After a fitful night’s sleep, of trying to find the words to develop a prudent answer to a question that is not rationale, I still did not know why we are hated as we are. I mean I can give you the academic reasons, and I can talk about the ways the hatred is maintained and grown vis-à-vis popular culture, politics, education, and so on. I can relate the Story of Ham providing the biblical reasons that have been used for our oppression and subjugation and mental and physical genocide. But when it really comes down to me, I still do not understand. Maybe I am too logical or maybe not logical enough to fully comprehend something that is incomprehensible. Does any of it make sense? Am I just too dumb to see or accept the reasons behind why people treat each other as they do? I have to ask myself how much can I rely on all that I thought I knew because now none of it seems to genuinely explain my confusion. BUT STILL I MUST TRY. . . . So I do what all good scholars do when confronted with a problem, I run to my books searching for an answer to at least part of my bewilderment. Wretched of the Earth. Fanon; damn, I would have loved to have known that wonderful Black Algerian man. His words, his thought can hopefully help me provide the needed answers. Manichean, a binary where the oppressed are constructed as totally evil and the oppressor as completely good. Good and evil, those worthy and those unworthy. Yes, maybe that can elucidate the Internet account of the protest happening in cities throughout the United States. The situation in Ferguson, New York, Berkeley, Oakland, and so on, has been set up as a Manichean allegory, which explains not only the police action but also that of the people who called Mike Brown a thug or Trayvon a thug or Garner a thug. How else can we shed light on the total disregard for Tamir Rice and who/what he represented except through a theory that explains the creation of the colonized and the colonizer through a binary of good and evil? If I believe that you are a human being and therefore deserve to be treated as such I cannot in good conscious treat you as anything else. And based on the unequal distribution of power that exists in America I can, in good scholarly conscience, call it a colonized state. But am I being too simplistic; as an academic, I am expected to theorize using complex and compound theories and I am not being complex enough or compound enough. But again, when the rubber meets the road, how complex do we

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really need to be? A better question is how complex do I even care about being at this point. What will my complex thoughts get any of us—will they make things better? More understandable? Different? No. They (the big they) see us as less than. As an educator I think that if only the educational system could/would provide Black children with the tools to regain their full humanity, then my revolution could come to fruition. Those who do not know and who insist on living with false truths think Black people are stupid and do not see or comprehend what is out there. That they (we) are clueless to how society defines us. Many people think we are less intelligent. That we are inhuman and deserve everything that has happened to us. Think about Ferguson and the disenfranchisement the residents have experienced for years. So “the good folks” just figured that the Black residents of Ferguson were too ignorant to realize they were being rejected for saving in favor of others who were richer and perhaps whiter. Ferguson’s Black residents were metaphorically left behind because they lacked sufficient cultural capitol to be deemed important. Their cultural capital was null. Now when I talk cultural capital, I do not just mean the economic part; I also mean that internal piece: education, values, political savvy, power, all of which are married to the economic piece. Generally what Black people possess, and specifically what poor Black people possess, carries little oomph. AIN’T SHIT CHANGED I am sitting in my office at Indiana University Northwest putting the final touches on what I have come to call my little “think” piece. On my small office television I am watching Disney’s Ruby Bridges (preparing exam questions for my students) and thinking to myself “ain’t shit changed in America since the struggles of the 1960s?” Then 1960. Now 2015. Then segregation, inequality, hate, poverty. Now segregation, inequality, hate, poverty. Then malignant slowly moving into benign neglect, faces of hate. Now complete benign neglect, faces of hate hiding behind false meaningless smiles. I am angry. I am self-righteous in my anger when I hear others, not people of color, speak about their indignation over what is happening. My anger is so pervasive at this point that I cannot abide by well-meaning white folks’ sympathy. My soul is crying and I am scared because I do not know when or if things will change. What have been the areas of improvement for the vast majority of us? Needless to say, we now have a Black president and Black CEOs and Black millionaires and Black entertainers, and I have a PhD, but what about the millions of my people who are still struggling? How do I help? Can I even help? Who will or can help? Who even cares?

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Yes, a revolution is what we need.

Chapter Forty

Postmodern Fire Hoses Media Recollections from Southern California Shirley R. Steinberg

In a mediated society, images define our context, structure our memories, and influence our behaviors. My recollection of significant racial events rolls out as a timeline of American newscasts. While I cannot remember discussions or written text with such ease, I can mentally run my newsreel at any time. The murder of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, recently replayed my cultural and historical context of violence against Black America. In this short chapter, I write to understand how these memories are forgotten, ignored, and/or dismissed by so many. I remember my childhood Woolworth’s in Los Angeles: the smell of the wooden floor, the dry goods, and the anticipation of a grilled cheese sandwich and chocolate shake. My memories of Woolworth’s, however, are best captured in the photo repeatedly aired on ABC, NBC, and CBS sometime in a 1960s newscast showing four “negro” college students in Greensboro, North Carolina, sitting at a Woolworth’s counter . . . refusing to leave . . . asking for service. Police and onlookers waited for a final solution to the event. I did not grasp the significance of their actions, nor the anger it garnered. I did not understand why the Black students were not served. It was the first time I remember seeing Black people on the TV news. Los Angeles was a city apart from much of the United States, mixed with cultures and colors, and political differences in the early 1960s were not apparent to this Jewish white girl. My understanding of the Greensboro action was clarified three years later, while in junior high when I saw repeated images of “colored” men, women, and children being hosed down by the police in Alabama. The Birmingham Campaign’s images of pulsating fire hoses held by the police, aimed 217

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at unarmed citizens, left no doubt in my mind that the police were in power. Around the same time, the reports started coming in about Black people being unable to vote. Naturally, all of these images were explained to me as a “Southern” issue. In 1963, Governor George Wallace, blocking Black students from the doorway of a building on the University of Alabama campus, became an equally repeated image for me, along with police, guns, and the National Guard. This ole’ redneck had no place in the North or the West . . . but in social studies we watched newsreels, all of which geographically situated racism in the South. I was a tacit observer, living away from all of this; it was clearly a localized issue. In August of 1963, we watched Dr. King lead the March on Washington and were mesmerized by his speech. So many people joined the event—King was a great man—and I regarded him as a savior for the South. I was certain Black America would be “set free.” We awaken when our own are affected. This most certainly happened, when, in 1964, three Civil Rights workers were murdered in Mississippi. Two were Jewish, and this made the news. It was then that I learned about the Klan. Their evil images burned into my mind, the crosses on fire, white devils with pointed heads; and the killings awakened me to the fact that it was not just a Black thing. Thirty years later, living in South Carolina, I drove to a local store to find Klan members handing out flyers; cold sweats invaded my body. The year 1964 was when President Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act. The news coverage assured me, again, that the South was going to change. Los Angeles of 1965 leaves the strongest imprint from those news stories of the early 1960s. Driving on highway 110 to a Dodger’s game at Chavez Ravine, my stepdad drove by Watts. I was riveted at the backseat window. Pillars of black smoke rose from the burning neighborhood, continuing for almost a week. People died, police responded, and many were arrested. The cause of the riot, made known in later days, was anger generated by a Black man arrested by police for unsafe driving. I remember the smoke and the unending queries of the press as to why people would do this to their own neighborhood. LA police chief William Parker called in the National Guard and remarked that the rioters were “acting like monkeys in a zoo.” The riots were cordoned off in Watts, some white businesses burned, but the majority of the harm was to Black people. Californians were aware that the state had changed; it was the first time I recall hearing unapologetic racist remarks from whites. Relatives phoned from the east to make sure we were safe—we were never in danger. I often drive by Watts when I am in LA, and still smell that smoke and see the burning. That week was a turning point in the history of Black America, and racism was not simply a Southern thing. California became a nucleus for Black activism. In 1966, Bobby Seale and Huey Newton formed the Black Panthers in Oakland, and not only was

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there frequent news about the movement on television, but my parents and the neighbors became verbal about the spreading Black “threats.” The riots in Watts brought racial tensions out of the South for me, and the formation of the Panthers evoked responses from everyday people. The discourse was one of anger and fear, from criticisms of the Black Is Beautiful movement and afros, to images of Panthers holding rifles, underscored by fearful sound bites articulated by white male news anchors (they were all white). With their McCarthyist rhetoric, newscasters painted the Panthers as communist revolutionaries, a threat to democracy, and all things American. I clearly remember the fury elicited by the use of the words Black and African American used to replace colored or Negro, and the refusal of white adults to change their lexicon. At the same time, my parents voiced their opinions about who I could hang out with, and who was verboten. I was prevented from dating a Mexican guy from school, warned about getting “too close” to colored kids, and had to tell a long-haired male friend and a barefooted friend that my parents would not let me date them. By 1966, there was a list of people I was not allowed see outside of school. Racial epithets became the lingua franca at home and in adult social settings. I saw moments of “racial forgiveness” in my parents, for instance, in 1967, when Muhammad Ali (hero, Cassius Clay) refused the draft and voiced his opposition to the Vietnam conflict. As he was a favorite sports figure of my parents, he was forgiven for his opposition to serving. The same kindness was not afforded, however, to Jimi Hendrix when he astounded the musical world from Woodstock in 1969; he was clearly a communist, hippie traitor. . . . Angela Davis was another communist, and her hair erased her PhD, her writings, and her politics. My high school years solidified the caverns of ideology between my parents and me, and by 1969, I could not leave home fast enough. Media became my counterinfluence; as it reinforced my parents’ beliefs, it became the noise machine in the background. Everything on the news was an object of my political commentary and disdain. I review the above milestones in media in order to capture moments I believe I have a shared media history with. Bringing Ferguson into focus— and not disallowing Amadou Diallo, Abner Louima, Oscar Grant, Eric Garner—I keep returning to my thought that it has always been there. And therein lie my anger, my disbelief, and my own apology: How can we (white America) have lived through these decades without any examination of the realities for Black American citizens? What the fuck were we thinking? For decades, we have been separated from the Black experience through a media lens created by white, male Americans. Media has defined our relationship to Black America as distant voyeurs. Black America was in the South, “IT” came to California, and became militant and violent. White Americans consistently chose the good Blacks and named the bad Blacks.

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Conservatism opened its arms to Clarence Thomas, a good Catholic Black man who defended himself against the tirade of the aggressive Anita Hill, and races became distinctly divided by the O. J. Simpson jury trial, defining the ultimate us versus them scenario. The Rodney King riots sparked anger from the Black community, yet white America watched the tapes over and over again, still proclaiming King guilty of something. Forty-two shots fell upon Amadou Diallo in a New York doorway, forty-two shots! Michael Brown raised his hands, came toward a cop, and was felled by at least six bullets. Oscar Grant’s and Eric Garner’s deaths were filmed. They were filmed! Yet the cops who murdered them were not accused of murder. It has always been there. Cell phones have not opened a special new millennial way to see the news. I have been watching the same story since the 1960s. Fire hoses have given way to chokeholds and firearms, and the recipient of the violence has always been Black America. It is not like we did not see it. Where was the anger when those four brave students sat at that lunch counter? How could we sit and watch the hosing of voters in Alabama, the coverage of murders in Mississippi, and that march in Washington? How did we control our consciousness to partition Black America from the rest of the country? On the one hand, we studied that the Civil War was the reason slavery was abolished. On the other hand, we never experienced a dialogue, which queried Jim Crow and the Strange Fruit, often swinging from American trees. It has always been there. We saw Rodney King beaten; a myriad of cops towering over him. How could we deny what we saw and accept that he was hyped up and drugged out of his mind? Was he a threat to six police officers? Michael Brown “stampeding like a football player” at an armed cop? Oscar Grant, shot in the back while lying on the ground? Eric Garner being choked in front of our eyes, calling out he could not breathe? Myth is easy to question, to dismiss. Yet many use myth to define life choices, beliefs, and convictions. The evidence we have seen since 1960 is not myth. I cannot explain it any way other than blatant, overt racism. And, unfortunately, this is the most frightening explanation. This fear defies logic, humanity, and righteousness. It is seeded by centuries of white supremacy, fueled by power, and sustained by generations. I want to write a deeply analytical pedagogy, an antiracist, postcolonial, equitable, and socially just one. But how do I create this text when it is impossible to find that hook that can change minds? If watching a clip of a man being overcome by at least six others, on the ground, his breath extinguished as we watch is not enough, what is? How do we make a difference, create that key moment when it is no longer appropriate to harass, incarcerate, or murder a Black male? How do we influence underpaid, poorly educated, politically uniformed police to stop their violence? I have no answers, only questions. As a critical pedagogue, I want to pave an emancipatory path, facilitating empowerment and equity as I go. I thought

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visiting my media history would shed light on the ways in which we have fallen into a pit of human waste. It did not. The United States is the most racist country on Earth, the polarization of the white and Black races is beyond any historical comparison. We have the evidence, the histories, and the participants to testify to the inequities, and we continue to acquit. The acquittal of crimes against Black America is the ultimate humiliation of a country, which espouses to be democratic and the world leader. And I have no idea how we will change this narrative. It has always been here.

Afterword Ferguson, Florida, and Fruitvale: A Requiem for Black Males in the Key of F-Minor Fred A. Bonner II

During my adolescent years, we referred to the elder statesmen and stateswomen in my church as our “seasoned saints.” I vividly remember the call and response rounds they would engage the church in when they sang one of my favorite gospel songs; the refrain: I don’t want no trouble at the river, I don’t want no trouble at the river, I don’t want no trouble at the river when it’s time for me to cross to the other side. We have made it to the river, and we have trouble in our efforts to cross to the other side. What this book offers is a collection of powerful narratives that give us multiple perspectives and vantage points to consider as we divine solutions that will provide us safe passage to our destination of racial equality, solidarity, and uplift on “the other side.” Critical times call for critical measures, and what the editors of this volume have required of us is to move ourselves to a place where our business as usual stance on issues impacting communities of color is at best challenged and at worst completely disrupted. The forward-thinking and timely approach that they engaged in to bring this volume to life is to be commended. I am sure this work will make a major impact on how we tackle the many thorny issues that have led to the numerous contemporary assaults we have witnessed on our communities of color and their inhabitants. It was Josh Harkinson’s article “4 Unarmed Black Men Have Been Killed By Police in the Last Month” that helped me to frame a Commentary I was commissioned to complete for Teachers College Record. The stark reality in the author’s portrayal of what was seemingly becoming an eerily dire trend 223

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in the country made me take pause and begin the deliberate process of trying to digest the news in small bites. Yet despite my best efforts to swallow this jagged little pill, the acidity of racial reflux not only troubled my stomach but also disquieted my soul. Somehow at an organic level, perhaps as a way to ease the pain of my own personal feelings about what I perceived to be an “open season” on Black men in the country, I unwittingly started to shift my discourse about these men, particularly when I was required to talk about them in public spaces I described them not by name, but by the locations where they met their untimely demise. Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, and Oscar Grant III became coded as Ferguson, Florida, and Fruitvale—a congeries of locales that allowed me to reframe and rename these tragedies in a way that took away a bit of the sting coming from the lash of the whip that appeared to indiscriminatingly mete out punishments to my fellow brothers. Notwithstanding my best efforts at psychological subterfuge, I had to face the harsh reality that it was not the place or space where these tragedies occurred that required my attention, but it was the cohort of individuals in these settings that required the focus of my gaze. I discussed the power of words, especially the use of labels, in two separate articles I completed in 2006 that underscored the implications of the Hurricane Katrina tragedy on the African American residents in the city of New Orleans. I spoke to the use of the term “refugee” by those who reported on this incident and the residents who sought living accommodations and shelter in surrounding cities and states. The mainstream media was particularly culpable in their application of this moniker. My sense was that the use of this label made these American citizens appear not only nonresident but also foreign. It was something about the zeitgeist of that time related to the Katrina incident that appeared to set the stage for the subsequent framing of these Katrina survivors in a particular way. Perhaps the best explanation I can offer to explain how I viewed these occurrences is reflected in the theme I used in the article to categorize these events. I titled the section, The Person Who Labels Has the Power. In essence, because the media was able to set the stage, they named both the story and the people. While I did not fall prey to following the direction of the drum major in regard to the Katrina tragedy, I did find myself sinking into the abyss of speaking about the shooting deaths of these young Black men in terms that were from my perspective media directed. Beyond my personal sadness and struggle to comprehend the shooting deaths of Michael Brown, Oscar Grant III, Trayvon Martin, and Tamir Rice, as well as the choking death of Eric Garner, I reflected on a number of issues that I perceived to be critical in framing the plight of young Black males in not only my professional field of education, but in society in general. What I have divined is that the experiences of Black males in P–20 schooling contexts, particularly as it overlaps with broader society, is quite parallel. Perhaps the most fitting axiom to underscore my viewpoint is a statement that I

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share whenever I speak to audiences about my research on African American males in education settings; namely, These men are not just Black and male when they come to school—they are Black and male all the time and that means something “in here” and especially “out there”. These reflections led me to the development of what I saw as four key themes that have meaning for how I attempt to understand the ways Black males interface with society in general and the education system in particular. Michael, Oscar, Trayvon, Tamir, and Eric were not murdered in schools; my argument, however, is that Black males are killed in our nation’s classrooms on a routine basis. The four themes include: Theme 1: Speaking in Tongues: Black Masculinity and the Tower of Babel Theme 2: Referencing Rachmaninoff: A Threat to the Black Male Stereotype Theme 3: Talking about My Generation: Black Male Millennial Culture Theme 4: Meaning Making Beyond Morse: Code Switching and Survival Strategies

THEME 1: SPEAKING IN TONGUES: BLACK MASCULINITY AND THE TOWER OF BABEL This theme was developed to reflect the complexity and confusion that I have witnessed among agents within and external to educational settings who have attempted to explain and provide context for the expression of Black masculinity. All too often the first steps in this process of problematizing and subsequently offering solutions for understanding just how Black masculinity could be molded and shaped to fit the environment begins with separation of the constituent identity elements that make these individuals who they are. Thus, being a concomitant—Black/male becomes how we parcel Blackness and maleness to seek viable solutions that will address these identity vectors in isolation. In actuality a true understanding of these individuals is not found in silos that contain representative identity parts, but in crucibles that allow for the mixture of these elements to come together that make the whole. In circles, often drawn by academics, conversations about intersectionality and what it means to be all of one’s identity at the same time as opposed to a set of unconnected dots awaiting the #2 lead pencil to connect them abound. The talk about Black masculinity becomes at best fragmented and at worst distorted because the respective parties involved in the discourse are reflecting on constituent parts as opposed to the aggregated whole.

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THEME 2: REFERENCING RACHMANINOFF: A THREAT TO THE BLACK MALE STEREOTYPE Claude Steele masterfully unpacks the situational predicament known as stereotype threat in his book Whistling Vivaldi. What Steele problematizes in this work is the resultant impact of stereotype threat, which is the belief held by individuals that they would confirm negative stereotypes about their social group. Steele provides vivid context for the book by chronicling the story of a young African American male who routinely walked down a particular street on his way to his intended destination. The usual course of action for many of the White pedestrians he would attempt to pass on his journey would be to cross the street in order to avoid coming in close contact with him; however, on one of his walks he started to whistle a tune, and that tune was the music of the classical composer Antonio Vivaldi. What the young man noticed is that individuals who would have ordinarily crossed the street did not do so. The implication is that by whistling Vivaldi he seemed less menacing and less of a threat. After all, how could this man be all of those stereotypical things that are associated with Black men when he knew classical music. Thus, by whistling this tune he was able to in some ways disrupt the narrative about what it meant to be Black and male in the inner-city space. As an African American male my own emic experiences corroborates this phenomenon. My selection of this theme is an adaption of Steele’s book title, but it is an authentic representation of experiences that I have had in my attempts to establish some sense of agency in White academia as well as in society writ large. As an undergraduate I majored in chemistry and for several years maintained a minor in music (piano performance). I find that these two biographical factoids have provided me fuel, and subsequently mileage, on the long and circuitous journey through mainstream American culture. I surreptitiously infuse into conversations in which I know that my intellectual acumen is being adjudged those facts about my background. One of my favorite composers I used to satisfy my musical appetite when I was steeped in music theory courses and piano lessons during my undergraduate days was Rachmaninoff. I would sometimes lock myself away in one of the “piano rooms” on the University of North Texas campus and play to my heart’s content or at least until I could ease my level of stress from trying to balance a very demanding course schedule. So, dropped right into conversations at the time when the cultural capital vetting process seems to be at its most heightened state, I mention my K–12 experiences advancing to state-level competition in piano during both my junior and senior years in high school. Just as the Black male whistling Vivaldi took notice of the warming of the chill that was in the air, I too found that I could slip out of my coat for just a few moments.

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THEME 3: TALKING ABOUT MY GENERATION: BLACK MALE MILLENNIAL CULTURE In 2011 I co-edited a book with my colleagues titled Diverse Millennial Students in College: Implications for Faculty and Student Affairs. What this volume attempted to accomplish was to shed light on the millennial cohort of college students that were occupying postsecondary institutions. The book highlighted millennial culture with a fine-grained focus on millennials from diverse ethnic and racial enclaves. The authors each provided data and information that would assist faculty and student affairs practitioners to better understand this generational cohort. Readily apparent in the book is that Millennials of color who in some ways paralleled their majority peers in relation to their interests and motivations had an almost equal list of dissimilarities. For Black male populations in higher education the challenge for institutions is to understand who they are not only from ethnic, gender, and racial perspectives, but also to consider where they are coming from based on their generational affiliations. THEME 4: MEANING MAKING BEYOND MORSE–CODE SWITCHING AND OTHER SURVIVAL STRATEGIES A sociolinguistic term that has been consistently threaded across my scholarly and research engagements has been the concept of code switching. Recognizing the importance of altering behavior (code) is essential for Black male survival. In Theme 3 above, I along with the Black male mentioned in Steele’s work engaged in a process of code-switching by altering our behavior or conversational patterns to fit the contexts in which we were situated. A lack of understanding of when and where to switch codes for Black males can prove to be deadly. Some Black males have expressed that shifting away from their preconceived notions of what Black maleness looks like and how it should be performed leaves many of these men expressing angst about what they perceive to be an inauthentic representation of who they really are. Thus, statements like, “I keep it 100” is their attempt at expressing the need to be authentic. So, as we gather in an encampment at the banks of the river, it will be essential for us to find ways to “sing off the same song sheet,” and perhaps we will then find ways to harmonize joyful songs of celebration and triumph as opposed to blending foreboding melodies of sadness and defeat.

About the Editors and Contributors

ABOUT THE EDITORS Kenneth J. Fasching-Varner, Shirley B. Barton Endowed Professor, College of Human Sciences and Education, Louisiana State University Nicholas D. Hartlep, Assistant Professor, College of Education, Illinois State University Lori L. Martin, Associate Professor, Department of Sociology, College of Humanities and Social Sciences, Louisiana State University Cleveland Hayes, Associate Professor, College of Education and Organizational Leadership, University of Laverne Roland W. Mitchell, Interim Associate Dean and Associate Professor, College of Human Sciences and Education, Louisiana State University Chaunda M. Allen-Mitchell, Director Office of Multicultural Affairs, Louisiana State University ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS Joni Boyd Acuff, Assistant Professor, Department of Arts Administration, Education and Policy, The Ohio State University Enrique Alemán Jr., Associate Professor, College of Education, University of Utah 229

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Subini Ancy Annamma, Postdoctoral Fellow, Interdisciplinary Research Incubator for the Study of (In)Equality (IRISE), University of Denver René Antrop-González, Professor and Goizueta Foundation Chair in Education, School of Education, Dalton State College Rick Ayers, Assistant Professor, School of Education, University of San Francisco William Ayers, Distinguished Professor (Retired), College of Education, University of Illinois, Chicago Theodorea Regina Berry, Associate Professor and Director of African American Studies, College of Education, University of Texas at San Antonio Dana L. Bickmore, Assistant Professor, College of Human Sciences and Education, Louisiana State University Rochelle Brock, Associate Professor and Executive Director, Urban Teacher Education Program, Indiana University Northwest Larry C. Bryant, Assistant Professor, Division of Education and Human Services, University of North Texas at Dallas Eilleen Buckner, Teacher, St. Louis, the King School Roderick L. Carey, Doctoral Candidate, College of Education, University of Maryland at College Park Isaac Carter, Director of Student Experiences, College of Law, University of LaVerne Jahaan Chandler, Doctoral Student, Department of Sociology, College of Humanities and Social Sciences, Louisiana State University Cassandra D. Chaney, Associate Professor, College of Human Sciences and Education, Louisiana State University Christine Clark, Professor and Senior Scholar in Multicultural Education and Founding Vice President for Diversity and Inclusion, University of Nevada at Las Vegas

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Dewey M. Clayton, Professor, Political Science, University of Louisville Susan Anne Cridland-Hughes, Assistant Professor, Eugene T. Moore School of Education, Clemson University Dannielle Joy Davis, Associate Professor, College of Education and Public Service, Saint Louis University Jason S. Davis, Director, Department of Radiology, St. Joseph's Medical Center Linda M. Davis, Board Member, Seeds of Hope Christopher Aaron Deanes, Administrator and Interventionist, Sanford Middle School Robin DiAngelo, Associate Professor, Education, Westfield State University Donna Y. Ford, Professor, Peabody College of Education, Vanderbilt University Paul C. Gorski, Associate Professor, New Century College, George Mason University Carl Grant, Professor, School of Education, University of Wisconsin, Madison Paul D. Grant, Assistant Professor, School of Liberal Arts, Georgia Gwinnett College Dari Green, Doctoral Candidate, Department of Sociology, College of Humanities and Social Sciences, Louisiana State University Leigh Jefferson Griffin, Doctoral Candidate, College of Human Sciences and Education, Louisiana State University Robert Gutierrez-Perez, Doctoral Candidate, University of Denver Lisa B. Haileab, Counseling Psychology Doctoral Student, School of Education, Howard University, Washington Center for Psychoanalysis Fellow Horace R. Hall, Associate Professor, Educational Policy Studies and Research, DePaul University.

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Cleveland Hayes, Associate Professor, College of Education and Organizational Leadership, University of Laverne Jason G. Irizarry, Associate Professor and Director of Urban Education, College of Education, University of Massachusetts, Amherst Melinda Jackson, Doctoral Candidate, Department of Sociology, College of Humanities and Social Sciences, Louisiana State University Kelsey Jones, Doctoral Candidate, Graduate School of Education, University of Pennsylvania Brad Kershner, Doctoral Candidate and Teaching Fellow, Lynch School of Education, Boston College LaGarrett J. King, Assistant Professor, Eugene T. Moore School of Education, Clemson University Audrey Lensmire, Assistant Professor, Education Department, Augsburg College Lori L. Martin, Associate Professor, Department of Sociology, College of Humanities and Social Sciences, Louisiana State University Amanda R. Martinez, Assistant Professor, Sociology Department, Davidson College Cheryl E. Matias, Assistant Professor, School of Education and Human Development, University of Colorado at Denver Adonay A. Montes, Assistant Professor, College of Education and Organizational Leadership, University of Laverne Roberto Montoya, Doctoral Candidate, College of Education and Human Development, University of Colorado at Denver Shirley Mthethwa-Sommers, Director Institute for Pluralism, Associate Professor, School of Education, Nazareth College. Lisa (Leigh) Patel, Associate Professor, Lynch School of Education, Boston College

About the Editors and Contributors

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ReAnna S. Roby, Graduate Fellow, College of Education, University of Texas at San Antonio Jonathan Rosa, Assistant Professor, College of Social and Behavioral Sciences, University of Massachusetts, Amherst Christine Sleeter, Professor Emerita, College of Professional Studies, California State University at Monterey Bay. Shirley R. Steinberg, Research Professor, Werklund School of Education, University of Calgary Howard C. Stevenson, Constance E. Clayton Professor of Urban Education, Graduate School of Education, University of Pennsylvania David O. Stovall, Associate Professor, College of Education and College of Liberal Arts and Sciences, University of Illinois at Chicago Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor, Assistant Professor, Center for African American Studies, Princeton University Ivory A. Toldson, Associate Professor, Howard University, Editor-in-Chief of The Journal of Negro Education Donna Vukelich-Selva, Associate Professor, School of Education, Edgewood College Chezare A. Warren, Assistant Professor, College of Education, Michigan State University