I am one of those people who receives a Google Alert whenever my name appears on the worldwide web. Sometimes, I receive "old" alerts or previously posted material that undergoes a URL or other technical change. Today I received one of those "old" alerts on a college op-ed I wrote for the former left-wing magazine I co-founded with Julian called the W&M Progressive. I must have written this spring semester, junior year (2006) in the days when I was going to be a sociologist. It reminded me of the Tavis Smiley podcast I listened to this morning on the housing crisis impact on communities of color--the theme of old racism by a new name.
Understanding 'Standardized Racism' by Richael Faithful
If I cannot serve any other purpose at William and Mary than combating subtle racism, I might consider myself extremely useful. It is usually the implicit signs which make me a self-conscious black student at this majority institution, however, occasionally, I am impressed to witness the silent pervasiveness of intellectualized racism on campus. This form of racism is the only acceptable type at the College, which is equally encouraging and menacing.
But recently, I was struck by claims in the final Remnant issue article which discussed “SAT Diversity.” Although I have reached the point of not dignifying many of their arguments, I found this particular argument threatening because it seemed reasonable on its surface. In other words, it seemed believable even though it was starving of facts, and lacked sufficient clarity. I was afraid other people would actually believe this, so I wanted to respond to the article while pointing out how many of these arguments reveal prejudicial attitudes—a normalized type of intellectual racism, which I call “standardized racism”.
Standardized racism is an originally coined term for overstatements about the implications of the widely known black-white test score gap. The Remnant article hyperbolized the issue by claiming that lower SAT scores of some black students necessarily make them less qualified applicants. That’s bogus. Let us briefly review the black-white test score gap topic, popular explanations, and how this reasoning is inappropriately linked to affirmative action.
The test score gap represents patterns of minority under-achievement and continues to be a well-documented phenomenon. African-Americans currently score lower than European Americans on vocabulary, reading, and mathematic tests, as well as on tests that claim to measure scholastic aptitude and intelligence. This gap appears before children enter kindergarten and persists into adulthood. However, when scores are comparable, figures show that blacks are more likely to complete college than whites (a subject we will discuss later)1.
The body of literature shows that often urban and rural students, regardless of race perform worse than suburban students. When race is factored in, blacks still under-perform across the board, especially poor blacks, and those who live in the South. The desegregation of the American public school system drew attention to a significant gap between the achievements of black and white students. As concern over this gap increased, various interventions were attempted to raise black students’ test scores. Some progress was made over the years, but the differences were not eradicated. 2.
New data on the achievement gap between black and white high school students in desegregated, suburban, middle-class schools add to the complexity of the issue3. These results imply that social class is not an adequate explanation for the achievement gap. The black-white achievement difference remains a defining mark of racial inequality in public education today. These are not controversial claims.
Nevertheless, how we assemble the complex puzzle to explain this under-achievement and its meanings has spurred pluralistic, and sometimes, contentious discussion (although, the truth of the matter probably borrows from a combination of theories.) Some of the most popular are the stereotype threat theory, economic/social/human/cultural capital deficiency theory, organization theory, and effects of de-segregation theory. Regardless of explanations, consistent patterns of minority test under-performance, particularly on the SATs has alerted red flags for educators. The conclusion: by no means alone can the SAT be a standard for college preparedness (nor has it ever been for that matter.)
One of the fundamental shortcomings of the Remnant article was its failure to qualify the importance of standardized tests in the admissions process. John Williams exposes this over-attribution by explaining that “the problem with such fears [that blacks with low test scores replace “qualified” whites] is that they inadequately reflect ways colleges and universities actually operate, and overlook the existence of race discrimination. Where admissions standards are concerned, it is by no means clear that admissions officers at white campuses consider a SAT score of 750 as a minimum acceptable standard. In fact, considerable disagreement exists among college admission professionals, and many public institutions which were previously segregated do not consider a minimum SAT score for any student, a relevant fact to bear over, SAT officials argue strongly that SAT scores should be used along with other indicators for adequately projecting college performance. Using them to establish minimum standards involves using them incorrectly.”
Yet small, selective colleges and universities (which tend to be the only institutions that practice affirmative action; see Source of the River citation below)4 have minimum standards—which all seriously considered applicants must meet. This refutes the frequent charge that “less-qualified” black applicants take the place of a “qualified” white applicants (this is presumptuous in itself.) A black applicant may or may not have a lower SAT score but this does not mean that they are competitive on other levels, or offer different strengths to the pool (white students are admitted under these same standards.) Therefore, it’s fallacious to confound the relationship between the test score gap and affirmative action. The SAT is one of many factors, and affirmative action only affects holistically qualified applicants, black or white.
What is more is that racial (often racist) attitudes which underlie claims of prototypical “less-qualified” black applicant. As it turns out the profile of a black applicant to attend William and Mary are amongst the most competitive in the country. As a result, the likely beneficiaries of affirmative action tend to over-achieve compared to other black students, studies show. One recent study was featured in the Chronicle for Higher Education in 2004. According to the results of a study presented in August at the annual meeting of the American Sociological Association, “Black and Hispanic students are more likely to finish college if they attend a relatively selective institution—even if that means they are surrounded by “better-prepared” students.” Counter to the “argument [that] posits that affirmative action programs place black and Hispanic students in academic environments for which they are unprepared, and that such students therefore become demoralized and drop out at relatively high rates, Ms. Alon and Ms. Tienda found, however, that while black and Hispanic students at selective colleges did drop out at relatively high rates (due to other non-academic reasons), equally prepared black and Hispanic students who choose less-selective colleges are even more likely to drop out.” The final determination is that “we found no evidence that race-sensitive admissions practices have any disadvantage whatsoever for minority students.”
Evidence points toward SAT scores as being poor indicators of first-year success when considered alone; otherwise qualified black applicants might be considered competitive, though, this might be true for white applicants without suspicious discernable test patterns; and black applicants who enter into selective institutions are actually more likely than their counterparts to graduate even if they attend amongst better-prepared students, or white students who score higher on the SATs. Thus, telling black students with lower SAT scores (notice that I said “lower” and not “low”) that they are not qualified to be here is a bias opinion, and one based on racist attitudes, not fact. It is irresponsible, and dare I say, just racist rhetoric.
Finally, SAT “diversity” is merely an abuse of an already diluted term. The imprecision in language reflects an imprecision in analysis. Taking a superficial glance at data and drawing poorly-informed interpretations is insulting to an intellectual environment, and takes on a corrupting guise. Guys, leave your racist thoughts to yourselves, because frankly, the campus, and this affirmative action beneficiary is tired of hearing it.
Post-script: I've long considered this topic and affirmative action as very personal issues. I'm an affirmative action baby myself. I've also have always had lower test scores, including on the SAT and LSAT, and I am yet to be convinced that either test has indicated much about my future.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Seeing Me
My friend, Lucy, shared this photography documentary with me. I cannot comment about it; it is one of the most moving displays I've seen. I hope you agree:
http://lens.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/06/27/showcase-12/
http://lens.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/06/27/showcase-12/
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Joy Lives Here
Yesterday I had lunch with a dear friend. We had a rich conversation that revolved around adult-children forgiving their parents as a way to re-define their relationships. I had made this difficult choice during my first college years, importantly, when I was no longer living with either parent. I shared with my friend that I did not forgive my parents to intentionally relieve myself from guilt, resentment, or another heavy feeling. Rather, I forgave my parents, because I saw more and more of myself in them.I made some significant mistakes in my early adult life, some of which required parental support and care to correct. The more I understood life's complexity, the more I understood them as fantastic and flawed people who were doing their best. Each relationship naturally changed once we were re-introduced as friends because, after all, people change too.
Our conversation is timely for Father's Day. I maintain a close relationship with my father who is my primary source for material stability. Interestingly this year, Father's Day, and my father's 15th year gambling-free anniversary, fall within the same week. This is no coincidence--it's a meaningful outcome.
My father is very open about his gambling-addiction recovery upon reaching this milestone. I vividly remember myself as a 9-year old living a double-life like my father. I was a mild-mannered, high-achieving little girl during the day, and an anxiety-strangled, ultra-sensitive little girl at home. Our family struggled with gambling addiction, alcoholism, verbal violence, financial security, and lovelessness, while at the same time, experiencing gambling-and-alcohol free, peaceful, materially-secure, and loving lives. In our self-created, schizophrenic reality, as my parents silently suffered, so did my brother and me. It was deeply impressed onto us, typified by my brother's sickness--for about two years, every morning high-anxiety drove him to vomit before school. We never diagnosed his sickness, although, I am sure each of us easily identified with him.
My parents were finally forced to move into separate places when I was in late grade-school. The onset of this new life, paired with adolescence, overwhelmed me. I look toward myself in total disorientation, failing to recognize very little in me, my family, or the outside. Horomonal imbalance played a small part in my early teen depression compared to the belief that I was damaged in a way that could never be fixed. I shut-off; I was a ruined person from another dysfunctional family.
As I sit here, I honestly cannot describe how I left the fatalistic place where I resided, for my formative years. Somewhere along the way, I found ease in our family's cynical, self-reflective humor about ourselves. Introspective, politically-incorrect humor lit a path toward a place called joy. I'd visit it more often during and after my college years. Joy is an eclectic place. It contains everything I have known from pleasure to pain, except, it does not one guest: worry.
During yesterday's LGBTQ sangha, I mused a lot about joy. Many Buddhists and non-Buddhists lament that joy is absent from the Buddha's teachings. I have asked, like others, "why do these teachings seem so dire?" Or "why is Buddhism silent about joy?" My views have since changed because I'm discovered that Practice, itself, brings joy.
All that I can offer is that joy is sewn by presence. Satisfaction and dissatisfaction are "mental formations" that come and go. Contentment, too, is like a pond, easily changed by rain or wind, so to speak. Joy is a robust commitment in being freely here in whichever way here exists. Some say that such a commitment is closer to awakening, even a form of awakening. That's well. My intention is to stop visiting Joy for no other reason than Joy lives here.
Buddhism has offered a full understanding about joy, which mirrors how I understand joy through the Black-American tradition. We are the People who dance, sing, eat, and worship ourselves into freedom. We have known, and continue to know freedom, where none can be seen.
Today, I make the courageous choice for Joy, like my blood ancestors, and like my spiritual kinspeople.
Post Script (Mon, June 22): Both my parents immediately called me after learning about the fatal metro-train crash earlier this evening in D.C. If it was not evident from the post, I love my parents dearly. I will be also sending lovingkindness to those affected by the accident.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Skillful Livelihood
An externship class requirement is to write bi-weekly journal entries. I have not decided whether to post future entries but I thought the first one offered an interesting glimpse into this working life of mine. Enjoy. (And a shout-out to RWG because I was not able to concoct one in my Washington Blade interview...).
Journal Entry - Week 1 & 2 Richael Faithful - Grp. B
I had never known the organization’s name for which my (Buddhist) sangha-friend, Pabitra, worked as a national organizer before I was hired there. Admittedly, I should have remembered from our social outing over a year ago when we met as community organizers. We discussed our queer activism histories and present political lives which at some point invited a conversation about the potential collaboration between my organization, the Virginia Organizing Project (VOP), and her organization, the Rights Working Group (RWG).
Then, I grew suspicious about our get together. National groups always poured over local, multi-issue groups like VOP to “collaborate.” VOP’s founder and personal mentor, Joe Szakos, plainly described these national groups that suggested such collaborations as none other than “vultures.” Worse, Pabitra had asked about our membership—a red flag with neon bulbs and florescent fireworks. We had little “capacity” as organizers call it in my region; in fact, my purpose for the year was to deepen relationships with old supporterse and to bring in new ones. This was a tricky proposition especially because VOP, as an opportunistic, multi-issue group, did not claim members; rather, we assembled a database. There was a big difference. We were not able to hand over a member-list because we reached out to supporters based on the issue and timeliness for “the ask.” Therefore, national groups, by default, were parasites because they wanted database access. Didn’t they know that there are only so many open-minded, politically engaged-Virginians?
So after we left dinner that particular evening I never followed up with Pabitra, although we continued to see each other at sangha. After all, I was VOP’s Northern Virginia organizer for a short year which made me deeply discriminatory about with whom I spent my organizing time and extremely limited resources. Today, I smile to think about my rigidness a year ago, though, I understood why I never followed up. Non-profits are no different from any other private or governmental organization that meticulously guards its resources. VOP was building in the most powerful part of the state for the first time in its ten-year history. It was the first time, in part, to avoid national inside-the-beltway vultures. Besides, as an apprentice, my discretion to forge those friendships was limited. VOP’s culture was in many ways anti-establishment in that the staff teased me mercilessly about leaving organizing for law school. I assured them that I would not “turn corporate” and remain active with them. My post-1L assessment: so far, so good.
Since my departure last August I have learned that organizers-turned-lawyers exist and they do so without compromising their core values or personal purpose. There is indeed a wide universe of radical people within the legal world. My only task now embark on the long process to identify my place within it. Determining my summer work was emotionally complicated. I did not mind starving a little if I was doing “good” work. I had found a part-time research position at my law school on its prison rape project, which was a good fit considering that I did undergraduate research with a woman who later became a mentor and friend. Yet my summer schedule looked incomplete. I did not want to work for the sake of working because, after all, I reasoned, I could always write law articles, but ideally I would spend my time “making (more direct) change.” Literally moments after I made my decision to seek out a second job, Pabitra sent me a Facebook message:
“Do you know of any law students looking for summer internships? We had two prospects but one we didn't think worked and the other took another position. Would love to bring on someone real cool, like you!” I took the hint from both Pabitra and the Universe. I had a second job.
I’m entering my third week of my RWG externship. All indications show that I am on the right track. I am surrounded by passionate, grounded, and intelligent people who are connected to their communities for which they work. Jumana, my supervisor and RWG’s Policy Director, is an attorney from a prestigious DC law school, who is rather neat, despite her program’s pedigree. She has a quick-wit and like myself, plays down her humor with a nonchalant demeanor. She is also extremely knowledgeable about immigration policy (it is much better to have a smart supervisor, I hear). I told myself on the second day when we were having a late-morning tea break at a nearby vegan cafe to discuss my internship, “Yes, me and Jumana are going to get along just fine.” I acknowledged that our personalities were complimentary: she was a fast-talking, sometimes scattered extravert; and I was, well, not. I was especially pleased that offered me a break from the policy report pile to which I was assigned for “getting informed.” She did not even lift an eyebrow when I had to dispose of the molasses-lump-in-a-cup, which she paid for. “We will be just fine.”
I had one other observation about the office—a profound one: I was one of two Blacks at the Asian American Justice Center (AJC). In other words, I was amongst Asian people. This was a day 1 discovery, one which I cannot say that I entirely learned on my own. Lisa, the administrative support staffer, like myself, has dreadlocks so I was only mildly surprised when I was mistaken for her by another staff member from behind. I gave this person the benefit of the doubt even though Lisa and I are thirty years apart and look nothing alike. I laughed out loud when later that afternoon it was relayed to me about a different staff member that I was related to Lisa. Of course. The funny thing is that I had never been misidentified by non-whites. Perhaps it was not a White curse to see all non-whites as the same. Truth is, though, it is much more hurtful when Whites confuse non-whites because most Whites lack the empathy attached to experiencing the mistake from the other side. Nonetheless, the good news is that all five RWG staff people can distinguish me from Lisa, which was especially comforting when Lisa informed me that she had a son older than me. They say when you reach 24 aging takes on a whole new meaning but I thought that was extreme.
I was self-conscious about my racial exotic-ness at the office until last Tuesday. RWG was hosting a “convening” to plan with member and allied organizations our new racial profiling campaign. Overall, it was a successful meeting and pleasant day. Larry Yates, my bearded VOP buddy, attended, and later reported to me that he thought the meeting very useful. I was wearing a rich cyan polo with brown khakis and brown shoes. I was not certain whether my shirt really matched the khakis but none of this does not really matter when I am so uncomfortable in “professional” clothes anyway, and when eliminating racial profiling (fortunately) did not depend on my outfit that day. The idea was that I was feeling self-conscious about sticking out a little, which is hardly a new feeling but one I had not felt in a long time as an intentionally anonymous law student.
Near the end of the meeting, Aadika, RWG’s policy associate, approached me. She complimented my shirt saying that she liked the color. I cannot remember my facial expression at the time, yet I envision it was somewhere between shocked and pleasantly surprised. She went on to say that she tries to wear pastels as well because they look good for our skin tones, which she said were similar.
“Uh...” I thought, “That’s right.” It’s true.
Despite years building bridges between “similarly situated” groups suffering from some form of injustice or another, I sometimes hold on to my own discomfort in new spaces. Living in Virginia, even in the Northern Virginia cosmopolitan, my racial experience was largely black-white. I have never worked with another East Asian, South/east Asian, Arab, or even Muslim person even though I have had close Chinese, Indian, and Muslim friends. It was my first time so that Aadika’s matter-of-fact comment was a light-bulb moment for me. We both have yellowish-brown hues. A lovely color, I think.
My geography is poor; I am monolingual; and I know little immigration, yet I was brought on in the spirit of solidarity. I care about what happens to all communities of color who experience systemic injustice and really, Jumana sensed that I deeply care about any and all people who are suffering because our liberation is bound together. My lesson reinforced that RWG is “good people” as I like to say. I am willing to learn and it appears that they are willing to teach.
Journal Entry - Week 1 & 2 Richael Faithful - Grp. B
I had never known the organization’s name for which my (Buddhist) sangha-friend, Pabitra, worked as a national organizer before I was hired there. Admittedly, I should have remembered from our social outing over a year ago when we met as community organizers. We discussed our queer activism histories and present political lives which at some point invited a conversation about the potential collaboration between my organization, the Virginia Organizing Project (VOP), and her organization, the Rights Working Group (RWG).
Then, I grew suspicious about our get together. National groups always poured over local, multi-issue groups like VOP to “collaborate.” VOP’s founder and personal mentor, Joe Szakos, plainly described these national groups that suggested such collaborations as none other than “vultures.” Worse, Pabitra had asked about our membership—a red flag with neon bulbs and florescent fireworks. We had little “capacity” as organizers call it in my region; in fact, my purpose for the year was to deepen relationships with old supporterse and to bring in new ones. This was a tricky proposition especially because VOP, as an opportunistic, multi-issue group, did not claim members; rather, we assembled a database. There was a big difference. We were not able to hand over a member-list because we reached out to supporters based on the issue and timeliness for “the ask.” Therefore, national groups, by default, were parasites because they wanted database access. Didn’t they know that there are only so many open-minded, politically engaged-Virginians?
So after we left dinner that particular evening I never followed up with Pabitra, although we continued to see each other at sangha. After all, I was VOP’s Northern Virginia organizer for a short year which made me deeply discriminatory about with whom I spent my organizing time and extremely limited resources. Today, I smile to think about my rigidness a year ago, though, I understood why I never followed up. Non-profits are no different from any other private or governmental organization that meticulously guards its resources. VOP was building in the most powerful part of the state for the first time in its ten-year history. It was the first time, in part, to avoid national inside-the-beltway vultures. Besides, as an apprentice, my discretion to forge those friendships was limited. VOP’s culture was in many ways anti-establishment in that the staff teased me mercilessly about leaving organizing for law school. I assured them that I would not “turn corporate” and remain active with them. My post-1L assessment: so far, so good.
Since my departure last August I have learned that organizers-turned-lawyers exist and they do so without compromising their core values or personal purpose. There is indeed a wide universe of radical people within the legal world. My only task now embark on the long process to identify my place within it. Determining my summer work was emotionally complicated. I did not mind starving a little if I was doing “good” work. I had found a part-time research position at my law school on its prison rape project, which was a good fit considering that I did undergraduate research with a woman who later became a mentor and friend. Yet my summer schedule looked incomplete. I did not want to work for the sake of working because, after all, I reasoned, I could always write law articles, but ideally I would spend my time “making (more direct) change.” Literally moments after I made my decision to seek out a second job, Pabitra sent me a Facebook message:
“Do you know of any law students looking for summer internships? We had two prospects but one we didn't think worked and the other took another position. Would love to bring on someone real cool, like you!” I took the hint from both Pabitra and the Universe. I had a second job.
I’m entering my third week of my RWG externship. All indications show that I am on the right track. I am surrounded by passionate, grounded, and intelligent people who are connected to their communities for which they work. Jumana, my supervisor and RWG’s Policy Director, is an attorney from a prestigious DC law school, who is rather neat, despite her program’s pedigree. She has a quick-wit and like myself, plays down her humor with a nonchalant demeanor. She is also extremely knowledgeable about immigration policy (it is much better to have a smart supervisor, I hear). I told myself on the second day when we were having a late-morning tea break at a nearby vegan cafe to discuss my internship, “Yes, me and Jumana are going to get along just fine.” I acknowledged that our personalities were complimentary: she was a fast-talking, sometimes scattered extravert; and I was, well, not. I was especially pleased that offered me a break from the policy report pile to which I was assigned for “getting informed.” She did not even lift an eyebrow when I had to dispose of the molasses-lump-in-a-cup, which she paid for. “We will be just fine.”
I had one other observation about the office—a profound one: I was one of two Blacks at the Asian American Justice Center (AJC). In other words, I was amongst Asian people. This was a day 1 discovery, one which I cannot say that I entirely learned on my own. Lisa, the administrative support staffer, like myself, has dreadlocks so I was only mildly surprised when I was mistaken for her by another staff member from behind. I gave this person the benefit of the doubt even though Lisa and I are thirty years apart and look nothing alike. I laughed out loud when later that afternoon it was relayed to me about a different staff member that I was related to Lisa. Of course. The funny thing is that I had never been misidentified by non-whites. Perhaps it was not a White curse to see all non-whites as the same. Truth is, though, it is much more hurtful when Whites confuse non-whites because most Whites lack the empathy attached to experiencing the mistake from the other side. Nonetheless, the good news is that all five RWG staff people can distinguish me from Lisa, which was especially comforting when Lisa informed me that she had a son older than me. They say when you reach 24 aging takes on a whole new meaning but I thought that was extreme.
I was self-conscious about my racial exotic-ness at the office until last Tuesday. RWG was hosting a “convening” to plan with member and allied organizations our new racial profiling campaign. Overall, it was a successful meeting and pleasant day. Larry Yates, my bearded VOP buddy, attended, and later reported to me that he thought the meeting very useful. I was wearing a rich cyan polo with brown khakis and brown shoes. I was not certain whether my shirt really matched the khakis but none of this does not really matter when I am so uncomfortable in “professional” clothes anyway, and when eliminating racial profiling (fortunately) did not depend on my outfit that day. The idea was that I was feeling self-conscious about sticking out a little, which is hardly a new feeling but one I had not felt in a long time as an intentionally anonymous law student.
Near the end of the meeting, Aadika, RWG’s policy associate, approached me. She complimented my shirt saying that she liked the color. I cannot remember my facial expression at the time, yet I envision it was somewhere between shocked and pleasantly surprised. She went on to say that she tries to wear pastels as well because they look good for our skin tones, which she said were similar.
“Uh...” I thought, “That’s right.” It’s true.
Despite years building bridges between “similarly situated” groups suffering from some form of injustice or another, I sometimes hold on to my own discomfort in new spaces. Living in Virginia, even in the Northern Virginia cosmopolitan, my racial experience was largely black-white. I have never worked with another East Asian, South/east Asian, Arab, or even Muslim person even though I have had close Chinese, Indian, and Muslim friends. It was my first time so that Aadika’s matter-of-fact comment was a light-bulb moment for me. We both have yellowish-brown hues. A lovely color, I think.
My geography is poor; I am monolingual; and I know little immigration, yet I was brought on in the spirit of solidarity. I care about what happens to all communities of color who experience systemic injustice and really, Jumana sensed that I deeply care about any and all people who are suffering because our liberation is bound together. My lesson reinforced that RWG is “good people” as I like to say. I am willing to learn and it appears that they are willing to teach.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
The Birds, The Bees, and The Hummingbirds
Yesterday my high school buddy and avid blog fan, Ethan, and I moved him into his new apartment in Northern Virginia. Our two strong young bodies lunged a 70s sofa set, five bookshelves, a dresser, mattress and box-spring, and three book and clothes-filled tubs (among other things) up and into his third-floor place. Mission accomplished. If anyone of us were to trace back our many trials and adventures, we could count this move among the easiest, and probably, most enjoyable sweat-and-exhaustion inducing encounters.
Earlier in the day we were preparing for the move in his family's suburban home. We had nearly finished packing the one-bedroom U-Haul in the early morning sun. In the doorway Ethan commented about explaining gender to a young person (a population with whom he works). I sat across from him at the bottom of the stairs, interupting, while spreading my hands across my knees, "You see, there are the birds, the bees....and the wasps." We both chuckled. Once our laughter subsided, Ethan offered a better analogy: "There are the birds, the bees, and the hummingbirds."
Hummingbirds I thought. Yes, hummingbirds. Adults often neglect to reveal to young people that hummingbirds exist, much less suggesting that you--their little babies--could be one, while at the same time secretly waging that if they do not tell you about hummingbirds that you will never leave the nest or hive. The saddest part is that young people--in fact all people--experience hummingbirdness even if not becoming them. Then, when we do, we feel even deeper shame and confusion for not having beaks or wanting honey. But the truth is that hummingbirds possess their own beauty and sweetness.
On Thursday afternoon I was jetting on-foot from my office to the National Press Building. Along the way I saw one of those haunting encounters that humbles, frightens, and angers simultaneously. An older black man was crossing a side-street with a gold can in one hand and paperbag in another. A middle-aged white uniformed man spotted the gentleman like prey. He yelled in his direction, "Hey! Hey!" He summoned him by extending and curling his finger as if commanding a dog to stay. The other man was nervous, slightly agitated, and reluctant, pretending not to fully understand why he was being approached. The uniformed man explained to the effect that he was not able to drink alcohol in public and directed him to throw his can into the nearby trashcan. The other man did as he was told, slipped the beer into the trashcan, and returned to walking, only to have his fear come true. The uniformed man summoned his back.
Within a moment, witnessed in slow motion, I saw him make a decision. He ran.
Before getting less than 50 feet, the uniformed man caught his shoulder, dragged him onto the ground, shrattled and handcuffed him. Not more than a minute later a police car arrived. Finally, a biking (black) police officer--rendered helpless--stood by as the now angry handcuffed man explained that he did nothing wrong.
He was right--he did nothing wrong. I'm certain that several people passed the officer who were embezzling money, cheating on their spouses, undermining co-workers, or cheating on their taxes. This man was keeping to himself not harming a soul.
There I stood unable to do anything for him but to watch the inevitable. A clean-cut white man sat a cafe table outside near the incident. He put his newspaper down to enlighten a concerned bystander by announcing, "all he had to do was to throw it away." A more compassionate person asked me what happened. After explaining she simply said, "Poor guy, he's probably from the park. He shouldn't have run." Neither of them understood, and I only did so after finally walking away from the incident. As the police car shrank smaller and smaller in the distance I realized that this man never made a decision to answer the officer or to run. No, because once he was seen, he was not a free man.
Friday evening I was at the Vienna Metro station waiting to be picked up by my father who was eager to see me for the short while I was in town. I obliged especially because I had not seen him in several weeks. While professional people crowded one bus shelter, I escaped to the next one over to read my book. A middle-aged, tan man with long black hair stood next to me. He apologetically said, "I'm American Indian, and I apologize for being in your Land."
I was speechless as I set my book down. In a clunky string of sentences I explained that no apology was needed because this was not Our land.
Our conversation gradually unfolded, and although we spoke for over ten minutes, I learned very little about him even as I mostly listened. He was "a Sioux"; he did not wish to be in our land; he was fighting for his people but he could not be the only one; he did not have very much money; and he was looking for the 12C bus.
I felt a vibration in my pocket which meant my father was calling because he had arrived. I asked for his name and extended my hand for a handshake before I departed. He put his hand to his temple and pulled his arm down in a proper military salute followed by a firm handshake. I never learned his given name, nonetheless, I knew who he was, which was my three-day lesson about hummingbirds. They do exist.
Sometimes, we just want someone in this world to know what we have seen or hear what we have to say. Somedays, we just need witnesses to validate us in this world of ours.
To our hummingbirdness.
Addendum (Ethan's Comment):
::sigh:: So, I feel that this is definitely an "Ethan" moment as I admit the following: when you were explaining the birds and the bees to Thomas... and you paused, and suggested 'and wasps', I thought. Well, Richael's a bird... she probably wouldn't be going after a bee... so I imagined a hummingbird as more conducive to your avion sexuality. And as a wasp more my thing. :D
Granted, I could have suggested the birds and the pteradactyls... but I think said you liked girls with flowers on their dresses. So hummingbird was more suiting.All in all, I had no idea what you were considering when I said this until I read you blog. And I see hummingbirds a little differently. Like your situations, hummingbirds are beautiful in the moment because they are true and honest, but the moment is usually gone before any of us can realize what we would miss. Casual observers often miss hummingbirds, mistaking them from big bees, just like they assume another homeless black man is instigating the police instead of simply being a victim of his circumstances. Or that the second gentleman was 'just another drunk Indian' instead of the product of generations of genocide, rape, alcoholism, and all the other 'civilization' Europeans brought the native Americans...
Earlier in the day we were preparing for the move in his family's suburban home. We had nearly finished packing the one-bedroom U-Haul in the early morning sun. In the doorway Ethan commented about explaining gender to a young person (a population with whom he works). I sat across from him at the bottom of the stairs, interupting, while spreading my hands across my knees, "You see, there are the birds, the bees....and the wasps." We both chuckled. Once our laughter subsided, Ethan offered a better analogy: "There are the birds, the bees, and the hummingbirds."
Hummingbirds I thought. Yes, hummingbirds. Adults often neglect to reveal to young people that hummingbirds exist, much less suggesting that you--their little babies--could be one, while at the same time secretly waging that if they do not tell you about hummingbirds that you will never leave the nest or hive. The saddest part is that young people--in fact all people--experience hummingbirdness even if not becoming them. Then, when we do, we feel even deeper shame and confusion for not having beaks or wanting honey. But the truth is that hummingbirds possess their own beauty and sweetness.
On Thursday afternoon I was jetting on-foot from my office to the National Press Building. Along the way I saw one of those haunting encounters that humbles, frightens, and angers simultaneously. An older black man was crossing a side-street with a gold can in one hand and paperbag in another. A middle-aged white uniformed man spotted the gentleman like prey. He yelled in his direction, "Hey! Hey!" He summoned him by extending and curling his finger as if commanding a dog to stay. The other man was nervous, slightly agitated, and reluctant, pretending not to fully understand why he was being approached. The uniformed man explained to the effect that he was not able to drink alcohol in public and directed him to throw his can into the nearby trashcan. The other man did as he was told, slipped the beer into the trashcan, and returned to walking, only to have his fear come true. The uniformed man summoned his back.
Within a moment, witnessed in slow motion, I saw him make a decision. He ran.
Before getting less than 50 feet, the uniformed man caught his shoulder, dragged him onto the ground, shrattled and handcuffed him. Not more than a minute later a police car arrived. Finally, a biking (black) police officer--rendered helpless--stood by as the now angry handcuffed man explained that he did nothing wrong.
He was right--he did nothing wrong. I'm certain that several people passed the officer who were embezzling money, cheating on their spouses, undermining co-workers, or cheating on their taxes. This man was keeping to himself not harming a soul.
There I stood unable to do anything for him but to watch the inevitable. A clean-cut white man sat a cafe table outside near the incident. He put his newspaper down to enlighten a concerned bystander by announcing, "all he had to do was to throw it away." A more compassionate person asked me what happened. After explaining she simply said, "Poor guy, he's probably from the park. He shouldn't have run." Neither of them understood, and I only did so after finally walking away from the incident. As the police car shrank smaller and smaller in the distance I realized that this man never made a decision to answer the officer or to run. No, because once he was seen, he was not a free man.
Friday evening I was at the Vienna Metro station waiting to be picked up by my father who was eager to see me for the short while I was in town. I obliged especially because I had not seen him in several weeks. While professional people crowded one bus shelter, I escaped to the next one over to read my book. A middle-aged, tan man with long black hair stood next to me. He apologetically said, "I'm American Indian, and I apologize for being in your Land."
I was speechless as I set my book down. In a clunky string of sentences I explained that no apology was needed because this was not Our land.
Our conversation gradually unfolded, and although we spoke for over ten minutes, I learned very little about him even as I mostly listened. He was "a Sioux"; he did not wish to be in our land; he was fighting for his people but he could not be the only one; he did not have very much money; and he was looking for the 12C bus.
I felt a vibration in my pocket which meant my father was calling because he had arrived. I asked for his name and extended my hand for a handshake before I departed. He put his hand to his temple and pulled his arm down in a proper military salute followed by a firm handshake. I never learned his given name, nonetheless, I knew who he was, which was my three-day lesson about hummingbirds. They do exist.
Sometimes, we just want someone in this world to know what we have seen or hear what we have to say. Somedays, we just need witnesses to validate us in this world of ours.
To our hummingbirdness.
Addendum (Ethan's Comment):
::sigh:: So, I feel that this is definitely an "Ethan" moment as I admit the following: when you were explaining the birds and the bees to Thomas... and you paused, and suggested 'and wasps', I thought. Well, Richael's a bird... she probably wouldn't be going after a bee... so I imagined a hummingbird as more conducive to your avion sexuality. And as a wasp more my thing. :D
Granted, I could have suggested the birds and the pteradactyls... but I think said you liked girls with flowers on their dresses. So hummingbird was more suiting.All in all, I had no idea what you were considering when I said this until I read you blog. And I see hummingbirds a little differently. Like your situations, hummingbirds are beautiful in the moment because they are true and honest, but the moment is usually gone before any of us can realize what we would miss. Casual observers often miss hummingbirds, mistaking them from big bees, just like they assume another homeless black man is instigating the police instead of simply being a victim of his circumstances. Or that the second gentleman was 'just another drunk Indian' instead of the product of generations of genocide, rape, alcoholism, and all the other 'civilization' Europeans brought the native Americans...
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