Learning to Listen #17 - White Fragility

 This week I read "White Fragility" by Robin Diangelo, a white woman who works as a facilitator for anti-racist training. I believe this is the first book I've read on the subject by a white author, which gave me pause, as part of my unlearning journey has been to focus on amplifying Black voices. However the book had lots of press (good and bad) and I wanted to dive in and see for myself. There is an important place for race conversations among white people; I have learned that it is important not to expect a Black person to educate me. As a facilitator of these conversations for a while, Diangelo brings a certain amount of experience in race relation conversations.

The strongest point I took away from the book was not so much about white fragility, but about the insidious and evolutionary nature of racism. It is so common to hear the mantra "racism is something of the past" or "racism doesn't exist anymore". We look upon our society as enlightened, our eyes opened to the horrors of slavery, and our laws struck down that kept Black people in metaphorical chains when real ones were no longer acceptable.

But Jim Crow was years ago, before my time. Racism is struck down then, and exists only as a prejudicial feeling, right? No - the racism will not die so easy a death. It began in the western world as slavery, then evolved into Jim Crow laws. And when those laws were abolished it evolved into incarceration, red-lining, white flight, income-disparity - behaviours that are not law but nonetheless hold back any possibility of equity. Charles Baudelaire quoted "the loveliest trick of the Devil is to persuade you that he doesn't exist."

Racism, when viewed simply as prejudice, makes us squirm, fight, and get defensive. But I fully embrace the new definition: prejudism + power, because it is that definition that reminds us the racism is still here. In the 1940s people looked back at slavery and said "thank goodness we aren't racist like that." And in the 2020s we look back at Jim Crow and say "thank goodness we aren't racist like that."  Well in 50 years I have no doubt people will look back and say "thank goodness we aren't racist like 2020." Because they will look back and the systems that hold Black people and people of colour back, that give privilege to people born with white skin, that send messages through media to the world of the supremacy of white concepts of beauty and cultural norms, and they will see with clear eyes the traumatic reality of the system in which we live. My only hope is that in knowing and acknowledging the devil we can finally terminate it before it evolves to yet another disguise.

(In order to stay true to my desire to amplify Black voices, I have chosen not to include any excerpts from this book. There are many quotes that stayed with me, and if you have the chance to read the book I'm sure you will find many that resonate with you, too).

Learning to Listen #16 - Alma and How She Got Her Name

 This week I read "Alma and How She Got Her Name", a picture book by Juana Martinez-Neal. Alma Sofia Esperanza José Pura Candela has a very long name, but as her father unlocks the history of her ancestors by whom she is called, Alma starts to see the generational gifts her grandparents have given her through their names. But her father also tells her that her first name, Alma, is her very own name, one that Alma will use to make her own story.

At the end of the story, author Juana Martinez-Neal gives the story of her own name, and then poses the question to the reader: What is the story of your name? What story would you like to tell?

The idea of names always fascinates me. My own name has a unique story behind it, a story that I love even though the name itself has always given me trouble. With so many letters in both a first and (now married) last name that are impossible to spell on their own, I have spent my whole life spelling out my names to people. I also always yearned for a middle name, left conspicuously blank (I firmly believe it should have been Elizabeth, after both my grandmothers).

Having a compound name has meant that over the years I get any number of combinations as people try to remember: Terry-Lynn, Kerri-Ann... Tara-Anna. My reaction was usually to ignore it and answer anyway - too much trouble to get people to get it right.

Now, as a teacher, I see it differently. I see the opportunity to honour a person through their name. International names are often difficult because the syllables are unfamiliar, the letter combinations unusual, and the rules for long or short vowels different than in English. Now, as a teacher, I make a point to ask for pronunciation, to show that it matters to me that I say their name correctly.

We have created language to communicate, and the nuances of pronunciation are an integral part to effective communication. Getting it right matters. And more than that, I can teach my brain to understand the nuances of other languages, to learn patterns in Hindi names, or how letters are spoken different in Spanish, or how to roll new sounds in my mouth. We are not as stuck in our ways as we think we are.

From the author's words:

"My name is so long, Daddy. It never fits," Alma said. "Come here," he said. "Let me tell you the story of your name. Then you decide if it fits."

"Sofia was your grandmother," he began. "She loved books, poetry, jasmine flowers, and, of course, me. She was the one who taught me how to read." "I love books and flowers...and you too, Daddy!" I am Sofia."

Learning to Listen #15 - When I Was Eight

 This week I read "When I Was Eight" by Christy Jordan-Fenton and Margaret Pokiak-Fenton. This picture book is Margaret's story of coming to a residential school in a desperate search to learn how to read. Her triumph is the direct result of a resolve like none other, and she is the victor despite the educators who try to beat her back.

Stories like these break my heart a someone who has been a teacher my entire adult life. That anyone could hold someone's education hostage, that anyone might believe it is a power only for some, that anyone might think they have the right to bestow or deny as they wish - these are the very worst poisons in our society. We are only beginning to purge the scourge, and we have so very far to go.

It was the very first paragraph, though, that stayed with me all week. Margaret write about all the things she knew when she was eight - sled dogs and caribou and the sun cycle and fur trading. She knew. She knew. She had knowledge at eight that I don't have now as an adult. In my search for understanding, perhaps my greatest enlightenment is that the white centering of importance is an ignorance that must be dug out from deep in ourselves. White people have decided what knowledge is worth learning. They have defined what it is to be educated. They have decided what family should look like and what foods and customs are better than others. White people have placed themselves at the top of the pyramid, and while we might tolerate difference there is no doubt that we have still placed it in a hierarchy. Consciously and unconsciously we look down on different from the top of the pyramid and rate it in terms of its closeness to whiteness, or its value in its exoticness, but never do we embrace it as equal.

I find as I walk through my days now, I open my eyes to the multicultural tapestry around me. I listen to a different lilt in the English language and I will myself not to hear "broken" English but instead a beautiful variation. I see the shift of a colourful fabric draped in an unfamiliar style and I wonder at the feel and freedom it might give. I smell a new spice and wonder at the hands preparing the dish and the comfort it gives of home, and marvel at the thousand flavours that dot the earth.

It is a conscious shift in thought - like the practice of gratitude when we must will ourselves to think each morning of what blessings we have, big or small. This practice is willful right now, but I hope as I continue that my mind will gradually adopt this new way of thinking.

In the author's words:

"I knew many things when I was eight. I knew how to keep the sled dogs quiet while Father snuck up on caribou, and to bring the team to him after a kill. I knew the sun slept in the winter and woke in the summer. And I knew that when the sun-warmed Arctic Ocean shrugged off its slumbering ice, we would cross it to trade furs with the outsiders."

"I pulled the handle. It was locked. A scream built in my chest, but I held it in. I closed my eyes, pulled up my stockings, and breathed deeply, until I could feel my father's presence. He wrapped his arms around me in the darkness and I spelled out my Inuit name to him, whispering, O-L-E-M-A-U-N. His proud smile made me stronger, so I worked through the name of my distant home, B-A-N-K-S- I-S-L-A-N-D.

"I felt a great happiness inside that I dared not show. I quietly took my seat. I was Olemaun, conqueror of evil, reader of books. I was a girl who traveled to a strange and faraway land to stand against a tyrant, like Alice. And like Alice, I was brave, clever, and as unyielding as the strong stone that sharpens an ulu. I finally knew this, like I knew many things, because now I could read."