The other day I was remarking to Southern Man that most people were non-confrontational; most people do not like to tell someone, directly, that they are upset by something s/he said. How and why I arrived at this observation is too long and convoluted to share (and a bit boring) so I'll just skip to the second part, which is that I read this post last week in Anti-Racist Parent by the blogger of Snarky Momma titled "Tiny Acts of Activism." In this post, Tiffany describes the small acts of activism that she (and others) are capable of by simply chiming in with, in her words, "gentle statements in everyday conversation" (click here to read the entire post).
And it got me thinking about the small things that people who are non-confrontational or who profess to be non-confrontational can do to help speak truth to power or work towards anti-racist practices (as well as other forms of social justice). Confronting someone when they make a racist statement or when you think someone is being racially insensitive doesn't have to be uncomfortable and it certainly doesn't mean you tell the person you think they are a racist (I've already discussed how using the "R" word, for me, isn't the path I choose when talking about racism since I've seen how people shut down the minute the word is introduced). But I do think it's important for us to speak up when we can. And I think it's important for us--those of us who want to walk the walk and not just talk the talk--to push our comfort zones in terms of when we are willing to confront something we believe is offensive.
I am a fairly direct person, and I will, in social settings, tell someone if I think their point-of-view offends me (Want proof? Go to the previous paragraph and click on the link where I say I've already discussed using the "R" word--I describe a very direct confrontation with WIWL (well intentioned white liberal) that was so intense that the friends who were at this party STILL tease me about it to this day). But I didn't pop out of the womb this angry Asian woman pointing my finger at people's chests and getting righteous on them (and truth be told, I'm really not like that--my own pedagogical style in the classroom is pretty much the opposite of cornering someone). I am not sure when I realized that I COULD speak--that I could chime up and say something. I don't think it was a sudden "AHA!" moment but more a gradual realization that not saying something, for me, was worse than saying something. That having that pit in my stomach after walking away from a situation in which someone said something racist was just the worst feeling in the world--and I would play that tape in my head over and over--the one where you step back in time and get to say the zinger that you thought up an hour ago--the one you didn't say because you were either too shocked, too afraid, too worried of hurting the person's feelings or causing a scene, or because you just didn't know WHAT to say.
And here's the thing I learned from my friend "J" while in grad school--that it's never too late. It's never too late to go back to the person, esp. if it's someone you know (and like) and open up that topic of conversation. It's never too late to write a letter to the museum about the docent who kept referring to Asian peopple as "Oriental" and who made you feel targeted and uncomfortable during the tour.* And it's never too late to decide that you can be an activist in whatever way is comfortable for you, right now, with the hope that you will be able to really speak truth to power when it counts so that you don't have that awful pit in your stomach wishing you had said something.
It's also never too late to expand the circle of what you find offensive. In the comment section of Tiffany's post, I realized that I am more inclined to confront racist rather than sexist or homophobic behavior. The "why" is probably a great question and something I need to examine further (and probably will in a future post) but what is most helpful, for me, is knowing that I want to be someone who walks the walk and dosn't just talk the talk. I want to be a queer ally and to stand up for my own rights as a woman and a feminist. And so I need to be speaking out more not less, in ways that people will be able to hear me, hopefully--because I AM a confrontation person. And by that, I mean that I just can't live with that sickening feeling in my stomach any longer--and I'm so glad that I've figured out that I don't have to.
*This is a real incident that happened to me while in grad school; on the urging of my friend "J" I wrote a letter to the museum about how uncomfortable I was by the docent's language and treatment of me (every time she pointed out a work of "Asian" art she turned to me and asked me what it meant--WTF???). 3 days after I mailed the letter, I got a phone call from the director of the museum apologizing to me and telling me that the docent (whom they had had complaints about by others for different reasons) would be spoken to, again, and welcoming me back for another tour whenever I was free. It really made me feel glad I had said/written something.
[REMEMBER: If you post a comment during the month of May (which is APA heritage month) you will be automatically entered to win one of five books donated by Hachette Book Group. Read the May 14 post (scroll to the bottom) to see the details of the books and how to win]
Showing posts with label speaking truth to power. Show all posts
Showing posts with label speaking truth to power. Show all posts
Friday, May 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
A spoken word trio of STRONG WOMEN
To close out National Poetry Month, I thought that I'd highlight three female slam/spoken word poets, StaceyAnn Chin, Alix, Olson, and Suheir Hammad. All three have been featured on Russell Simmon's HBO Def Poetry Jam and are notable for speaking truth to power and their extraordinary rhetorical and lyrical power.
For me, I think they remind me that poetry began as a spoken art form--it began in the tradition of Homer--the oral repetition of stories, recording the lives of heroic men and their exploits in love and war. These three women are the inheritors of Homer, taking the form to a new level, telling their own particular truths and stories, recording the heroic aspects of their own lives.
StaceyAnn Chin:
Alix Olson:
Suheri Hammad:
For me, I think they remind me that poetry began as a spoken art form--it began in the tradition of Homer--the oral repetition of stories, recording the lives of heroic men and their exploits in love and war. These three women are the inheritors of Homer, taking the form to a new level, telling their own particular truths and stories, recording the heroic aspects of their own lives.
StaceyAnn Chin:
Alix Olson:
Suheri Hammad:
Friday, December 5, 2008
T.G.I.F.: Fred Korematsu
In two days it will be December 7--the day that FDR said would always live in infamy after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. And I thought it would be a good opportunity to remind us all that while Pearl Harbor and the entry of the U.S. into WWII was a historic moment and a time when many Americans came together in national unity, it was also a time of racial hysteria that led to the unconstitutional incarceration of an entire race of people based on an irrational and unfounded fear that their enemy-alien race would lead to treason and disloyalty.
I am, of course, referring to the Japanese American Internment, a topic that I've blogged about in the past here and here.
The Japanese American internment was and is a matter of national shame. However, the redress and reparations movement that emerged in the decades that followed is a lesson in the greatness of America. One man crucial to that movement was Fred Korematsu.
[This is Fred back in the early '40s]
Fred Korematsu was one of four U.S. citizens who fought the U.S. government and had his case argued in front of the Supreme Court. He is one of three men whose cases were denied and thus he, along with Min Yasui and Gordon Hirabayashi, were approached, decades later, to have their cases taken up again--to try to correct the wrong that had been done when their cases were first argued in front of the Supreme Court.
A fantastic documentary, Of Civil Wrongs and Rights: The Fred Korematsu Story, documents Fred Korematsu's story. Here's an excerpt from the film's website:
Years later, a legal team headed by Peter Irons and staffed by largely young and idealistic Asian American attorneys, uncovered evidence that
A quote from Fred Korematsu sums up a simple but powerful sentiment that we would all be wise to heed:
"If you have the feeling that something is wrong, don't be afraid to speak up." - Fred Korematsu
Fred passed away on March 31, 2005 at the age of 86. He will always be remembered for his courage to speak truth to power during a time of enormous social and global pressure to stay silent and not to question authority. His life truly is a lesson in the Great Impossible Feat.
I am, of course, referring to the Japanese American Internment, a topic that I've blogged about in the past here and here.
The Japanese American internment was and is a matter of national shame. However, the redress and reparations movement that emerged in the decades that followed is a lesson in the greatness of America. One man crucial to that movement was Fred Korematsu.
[This is Fred back in the early '40s]
Fred Korematsu was one of four U.S. citizens who fought the U.S. government and had his case argued in front of the Supreme Court. He is one of three men whose cases were denied and thus he, along with Min Yasui and Gordon Hirabayashi, were approached, decades later, to have their cases taken up again--to try to correct the wrong that had been done when their cases were first argued in front of the Supreme Court.
A fantastic documentary, Of Civil Wrongs and Rights: The Fred Korematsu Story, documents Fred Korematsu's story. Here's an excerpt from the film's website:
Born in Oakland, California in 1919, Fred Korematsu is the son of Japanese immigrants. Until December 7, 1941, Korematsu had been living the life of a typical American man: he worked as welder in the San Francisco shipyards, owned a convertible and was very much in love with his girlfriend. However, as he was enjoying a picnic with his girlfriend on the eve of December 7, news of the Pearl Harbor attack started pouring out of his radio. Although he didn't know it at the time, Korematsu's life would never be the same again.
On February 19, 1942, President Roosevelt issued Executive Order 9066, which ordered the internment of all Japanese Americans. The Korematsu family was taken to Tanforan, a former racetrack south of San Francisco for processing. Korematsu decided to stay behind because he did not want to be separated from his Italian-American girlfriend.
Korematsu refused to relinquish his freedom and tried to remain unnoticed, to no avail. On May 30,1942, Korematsu was arrested and sent to join Tanforan. Later, all the detainees were transferred to the Topaz internment camp in Utah.
Persuaded by Ernest Besig, then Executive Director of the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) of Northern California, Korematsu filed a case on June 12, 1942. The premise of the lawsuit was that Korematsu's constitutional rights had been violated and he had suffered racial discrimination. However, the court ruled against Korematsu and he was sentenced to 5 years probation. Determined to pursue his cause, Korematsu filed an appeal with Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals and, later, to the U.S. Supreme Court. However, in December 1944, the Supreme Court ruled against him, stating that Korematsu "was not excluded from the military area because of hostility to him or his race."
Years later, a legal team headed by Peter Irons and staffed by largely young and idealistic Asian American attorneys, uncovered evidence that
"clearly showed the government concealed evidence in the 1944 case that racism — not military necessity — motivated the internment order. More than 39 years after the fact, a federal judge reversed Fred Korematsu's conviction, acknowledging the "great wrong" done to him."
A quote from Fred Korematsu sums up a simple but powerful sentiment that we would all be wise to heed:
"If you have the feeling that something is wrong, don't be afraid to speak up." - Fred Korematsu
Fred passed away on March 31, 2005 at the age of 86. He will always be remembered for his courage to speak truth to power during a time of enormous social and global pressure to stay silent and not to question authority. His life truly is a lesson in the Great Impossible Feat.
Friday, July 18, 2008
T.G.I.F.: Happy Birthday Nelson Mandela!
It's Friday, July 18, 2008, and 90 years ago Nelson Mandela was born in Transkei, South Africa. And there are so many things that are T.G.I.F. (The Great Impossible Feat) about the fact that Mandela is celebrating his 90th birthday today.
[I love this photo of Mandela--don't you wish you were able to laugh like that WITH him--that would be incredible!]
Nelson Mandela devoted his life to issues of social justice and civil rights for people in South Africa and people around the world. He was imprisoned in Robben's Island for 18 years (he was sent there in 1964) and after 1982 he was transferred to a Pollsmoor prison until 1990. So he was incarcerated for over 26 years--all for wanting something so basic: the equal and fair treatment of black South Africans--the end of Apartheid, a system of oppression, racism, and violence. And this was not 26 years of easy living--he experienced torturous circumstances--physical as well as mental and emotional. And he refused to compromise his political convictions to secure an early release. He lived by his principles.
[This was Mandela's cell at Robben's Island]
Nelson Mandela's life and work became known to the world during his imprisonment, largely through his wife Winnie Mandela, as well as the scores of freedom fighters in South Africa and around the world working to end apartheid. When he was released he became president of the ANC, but more importantly, he worked to heal the wounds that apartheid had left--he became a symbol to his people and to the world of courage, of fortitude, and of forgiveness.
To learn more about Mandela, you can read his profile on the Nobel Prize website (he won the Peace Prize in 1993), listen to this piece on NPR, read about the significance of his life and work in this Root article, and watch a BBC slideshow about his life, while listening to an interview with him.
For any one of us to turn 90 would be an incredible feat. For a man whose life has been so great--a man who has worked so long and so hard for the cause of equality and peace, to turn 90 is truly a Great Incredible Feat.
Happy Birthday Madiba (what he is affectionately called by those in South Africa)--may you celebrate this day with those you love--there are many around the world who wish you all the best and all the blessings that you richly deserve.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Proud to be an American
This morning on NPR they interviewed three people along Highway 10, the very most eastern and southern portions of it, asking them about the upcoming presidential race and which candidates had issues that spoke to them. And then they were asked whether they believed they were leaving their children with a country that was better than when they had inherited it from their parents. One man from Jacksonville, FL said that although these times seemed pessimistic, he was proud to be an American and therefore believed that he would leave his children with the state of the nation better than when he had inherited it from his parents.
And I was struck both by his naive sense of optimism and his patriotism. Because I don't know what he meant when he said he was proud to be an American.
So here I am, asking one of those obvious questions: What does it mean to say you are proud to be an American?
I am asking this literally--in other words, I'd be interested in hearing various opinions on this. And for those of you who do not feel or may have never felt national pride, why?
Also, for any readers of this blog not from the U.S. (or for those of you who don't identify as U.S. citizens), what does national pride mean to you?
I must confess that I am not someone who readily or easily takes on group identities. I've never really been a joiner or a fan. The sports I played in high school and which I continue to play are largely individual ones: tennis, badminton, golf, running. Aside from rooting for my High School football and basketball teams, I've never really cheered for a sports team or followed a particular sport (aside from golf, and again, it's individual players I watch and I don't know outside of Tiger whether I truly root for anyone). I'm spending a lot of time on sports because I think that there is a link between patriotism and sports fandom. Each seems predicated on wearing colors and symbols of your team--and supporting that team in good times and bad. There are songs and uniforms and anthems and a "home" base. Is my lack of sports fandom related to my lack of patriotism?
I really am not a patriotic person--or at least not in the same sense as the Jacksonville man. I don't tell people that I'm proud to be an American (at least not without irony); the history of the U.S. is too fraught for me in many ways. For every national achievement there is a darker underbelly. Western expansion and the building of the Transcontinental Railroad? Yes, it opened up the continent and literally and symbolically united East and West coasts of the U.S. It also displaced several American Indian tribes and the Chinese men, whose labor was necessary for the Western portion to be built, were summarily abandoned in Utah, not even able to gain passage on the trains whose tracks they had laid (since the trains were not open for Chinese to ride in). And of course, if you look at that photo at Promontory Point Utah, the silver spike ceremony, you will see Irish laborers and Railroad barons but no Chinese men.
And yet, I also believe that the fact that I (and many others) can point to the many flaws and fallacies of the U.S. is, perhaps, the moment when I do feel the strongest connection to a national identity. I do know that the time I felt the most pride in calling myself an American came during an Asian American studies class that I took in college. The professor, a visiting scholar from UCLA who self-identified as hapa, in his case, half Japanese and half African American, on the first day of class read a conference paper he had written about the Japanese American internment. And as I listened to him I started to get so angry about the suspension of constitutional rights and the racism that Japanese Americans had faced during World War II. And when he was finished he turned to us and said that he was proud to be an American. Because he could read a paper to us criticizing a major governmental policy. Because as a hapa man he could teach us this history at a major U.S. university. Because in the U.S. we have the freedom to speak truth to power, to criticize our government when they are failing us, and to vote our conscious (even though the cynical part of me wonders what good it often does if we keep repeating our mistakes or the votes don't get counted).
It is a moment I'll always remember, and on my less cynical days, I do like to think that this freedom--to voice dissent--makes me proud to be an American.
And I was struck both by his naive sense of optimism and his patriotism. Because I don't know what he meant when he said he was proud to be an American.
So here I am, asking one of those obvious questions: What does it mean to say you are proud to be an American?
I am asking this literally--in other words, I'd be interested in hearing various opinions on this. And for those of you who do not feel or may have never felt national pride, why?
Also, for any readers of this blog not from the U.S. (or for those of you who don't identify as U.S. citizens), what does national pride mean to you?
I must confess that I am not someone who readily or easily takes on group identities. I've never really been a joiner or a fan. The sports I played in high school and which I continue to play are largely individual ones: tennis, badminton, golf, running. Aside from rooting for my High School football and basketball teams, I've never really cheered for a sports team or followed a particular sport (aside from golf, and again, it's individual players I watch and I don't know outside of Tiger whether I truly root for anyone). I'm spending a lot of time on sports because I think that there is a link between patriotism and sports fandom. Each seems predicated on wearing colors and symbols of your team--and supporting that team in good times and bad. There are songs and uniforms and anthems and a "home" base. Is my lack of sports fandom related to my lack of patriotism?
I really am not a patriotic person--or at least not in the same sense as the Jacksonville man. I don't tell people that I'm proud to be an American (at least not without irony); the history of the U.S. is too fraught for me in many ways. For every national achievement there is a darker underbelly. Western expansion and the building of the Transcontinental Railroad? Yes, it opened up the continent and literally and symbolically united East and West coasts of the U.S. It also displaced several American Indian tribes and the Chinese men, whose labor was necessary for the Western portion to be built, were summarily abandoned in Utah, not even able to gain passage on the trains whose tracks they had laid (since the trains were not open for Chinese to ride in). And of course, if you look at that photo at Promontory Point Utah, the silver spike ceremony, you will see Irish laborers and Railroad barons but no Chinese men.
And yet, I also believe that the fact that I (and many others) can point to the many flaws and fallacies of the U.S. is, perhaps, the moment when I do feel the strongest connection to a national identity. I do know that the time I felt the most pride in calling myself an American came during an Asian American studies class that I took in college. The professor, a visiting scholar from UCLA who self-identified as hapa, in his case, half Japanese and half African American, on the first day of class read a conference paper he had written about the Japanese American internment. And as I listened to him I started to get so angry about the suspension of constitutional rights and the racism that Japanese Americans had faced during World War II. And when he was finished he turned to us and said that he was proud to be an American. Because he could read a paper to us criticizing a major governmental policy. Because as a hapa man he could teach us this history at a major U.S. university. Because in the U.S. we have the freedom to speak truth to power, to criticize our government when they are failing us, and to vote our conscious (even though the cynical part of me wonders what good it often does if we keep repeating our mistakes or the votes don't get counted).
It is a moment I'll always remember, and on my less cynical days, I do like to think that this freedom--to voice dissent--makes me proud to be an American.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Self Silencing
I've been thinking alot about silence and in particular self silencing and all the various ways that we self-silence: holding your tongue, being afraid to speak truth to power, feeling intimidated into silence, choosing silence in order to let other voices be heard, silence as a goal in itself, and other variants of this nature.
I've been thinking of self-silence because there are sometimes things I choose not to write about in this blog because I know it's public, and especially now that I don't require people to be invited to view this blog, I have no idea who is reading my words and the conclusions they are drawing about me and my work/research and how what I write in this space may or may not have ramifications for the people who comment on this blog, my academic reputation, or the professional and personal affiliations I have.
I have been thinking of self-silence because I have had thoughts about the Duke lacrosse case in Durham and the fall-out of that case and the reaction of the communities in the South and around the nation to this case, and the way it links up to other contemporary racial issues like Jena 6, Clarence Thomas's new book, and even Jimmy Carter's trip (along with other humanitarian representatives) to Sudan. And I know that I am not writing about the Duke Lacrosse case because of the negative experience I had 2 months ago, and it makes me feel like a coward--that I am not speaking truth to power, that I am censoring myself, that I am letting the mass group of (I believe largely) men who sent me hate mail or wrote scathing comments win.
And yet, I also feel like what would be accomplished by inviting another feeding frenzy into this blog space? It's not dialogue that many of what I'll call "the rabble" want--it's blood. Or at least it feels that way to me. And it also takes up so much energy to respond or to even choose not to respond. And it does raise the question of whether the blogosphere is the appropriate medium/venue/forum to have difficult, challenging, and respectful discussions about race from people who don't agree with one another.
Yet, how are we to reach any sort of understanding if we don't try? And why does civil discourse seem so hard to come by, especially surrounding issues of race?
Any thoughts?
I've been thinking of self-silence because there are sometimes things I choose not to write about in this blog because I know it's public, and especially now that I don't require people to be invited to view this blog, I have no idea who is reading my words and the conclusions they are drawing about me and my work/research and how what I write in this space may or may not have ramifications for the people who comment on this blog, my academic reputation, or the professional and personal affiliations I have.
I have been thinking of self-silence because I have had thoughts about the Duke lacrosse case in Durham and the fall-out of that case and the reaction of the communities in the South and around the nation to this case, and the way it links up to other contemporary racial issues like Jena 6, Clarence Thomas's new book, and even Jimmy Carter's trip (along with other humanitarian representatives) to Sudan. And I know that I am not writing about the Duke Lacrosse case because of the negative experience I had 2 months ago, and it makes me feel like a coward--that I am not speaking truth to power, that I am censoring myself, that I am letting the mass group of (I believe largely) men who sent me hate mail or wrote scathing comments win.
And yet, I also feel like what would be accomplished by inviting another feeding frenzy into this blog space? It's not dialogue that many of what I'll call "the rabble" want--it's blood. Or at least it feels that way to me. And it also takes up so much energy to respond or to even choose not to respond. And it does raise the question of whether the blogosphere is the appropriate medium/venue/forum to have difficult, challenging, and respectful discussions about race from people who don't agree with one another.
Yet, how are we to reach any sort of understanding if we don't try? And why does civil discourse seem so hard to come by, especially surrounding issues of race?
Any thoughts?
Monday, July 9, 2007
Talking about race
Why is it so hard to talk about race? This may seem a naive/obvious/pointless question to ask, but I come back to it, again and again, when I find myself in situations where race is either the main issue or subtext or pretext of the issue at hand. And all of a sudden it's like there's the proverbial elephant in the room and no one wants to offend and everyone is well intentioned and no one wants to utter the "R" word (racist/racism) and so things get swept under the rug, or not, and people get tense and everyone wants to avoid the confrontation. And more likely than not, this discussion occurs among mixed groups of whites and non-whites, of people of color and non-people of color, and even among people of color and whites, points-of-view don't always adhere the way you think they will.
I'm thinking of a particular case-in-point, but professional courtesy as well as issues of confidentiality prevent me from giving particulars. Suffice it to say, the group in question are all highly educated, liberal minded, people, trained in critical thinking and dedicated in their respective activist causes. And yet, even in such a group of people there is a tendency to hide behind politeness and an unwillingness to probe further the real role of race and white privilege, in order not to offend or because people are well intentioned.
And I admit, I hold my tongue sometimes. Because tension is hard to deal with and everyone wants to be liked and respected and it's hard to be the sole person speaking truth to power, especially when there are things like pre-tenure review and politics of academia. But I also think that at heart, I sometimes hold my tongue, not only because I don't think it's an educational moment or because it's not politically expedient but because I don't want to offend--I am caught up in my gender role of compliant female, of quiet Asian American woman. And perhaps it's not gender or race, perhaps it really just is the desire not to be mired in conflict, not to create tension, to let sleeping dogs lie.
But in my classroom, I espouse and encourage my students to speak honestly about race, and I have made this my top pedagogical priority, because I think there are far too few places to speak honestly and openly about race, particularly in mixed-race settings.
I just feel discouraged over this particular professional incident, because it seems that if the best and brightest and most liberal in our midst can't come to the table to talk about race--if we continue to feel hemmed in by a need not to place blame or not to make people feel uncomfortable, how are we going to address the real issues of inequality, oppression, and racism?
I'm thinking of a particular case-in-point, but professional courtesy as well as issues of confidentiality prevent me from giving particulars. Suffice it to say, the group in question are all highly educated, liberal minded, people, trained in critical thinking and dedicated in their respective activist causes. And yet, even in such a group of people there is a tendency to hide behind politeness and an unwillingness to probe further the real role of race and white privilege, in order not to offend or because people are well intentioned.
And I admit, I hold my tongue sometimes. Because tension is hard to deal with and everyone wants to be liked and respected and it's hard to be the sole person speaking truth to power, especially when there are things like pre-tenure review and politics of academia. But I also think that at heart, I sometimes hold my tongue, not only because I don't think it's an educational moment or because it's not politically expedient but because I don't want to offend--I am caught up in my gender role of compliant female, of quiet Asian American woman. And perhaps it's not gender or race, perhaps it really just is the desire not to be mired in conflict, not to create tension, to let sleeping dogs lie.
But in my classroom, I espouse and encourage my students to speak honestly about race, and I have made this my top pedagogical priority, because I think there are far too few places to speak honestly and openly about race, particularly in mixed-race settings.
I just feel discouraged over this particular professional incident, because it seems that if the best and brightest and most liberal in our midst can't come to the table to talk about race--if we continue to feel hemmed in by a need not to place blame or not to make people feel uncomfortable, how are we going to address the real issues of inequality, oppression, and racism?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
