Dr. Anthony Peterson-What I am learning from my white grandchildren -- truths about race

Anthony Peterson-What I am learning from my white grandchildren -- truths about race: Anthony Peterson and I talk about race and empathy. A professional educator and consultant, academic clients include Harvard university and Northwestern …

Apologizing for "F*****g N*****s": A Case Study

 

On March 11, Matt Rowan was caught on a hot mic during the livestream of an Oklahoma high school basketball playoff game. He called high girls “f*****g n*****s for kneeling respectfully before the U.S. flag during the playing of the National Anthem. While they knelt, he ranted…throughout the anthem. Here is his “apology” with my annotations.

I, Matt Rowan, on Thursday, March 11, 2021, most regrettably made some statements that cannot be taken back. During the Norman High School girls basketball game against Midwest City, I made inappropriate and racist comments believing that the microphone was off; however, let me state immediately that is no excuse such comments should have never been uttered. (Yeah, the microphone was NOT the problem).

I am a family man. (Irrelevant) I am married, (Irrelevant) have two children (Irrelevant) and at one time was a youth pastor. (Irrelevant) I continue to be a member of a Baptist church. (Totally irrelevant. It seems like you are making this all about you and your reputation). I have not only embarrassed and disappointed myself I have embarrassed and disappointed my family and my friends. (Don’t worry, you were just speaking your mind)

I will state that I suffer Type 1 Diabetes and during the game my sugar was spiking. While not excusing my remarks it is not unusual when my sugar spikes that I become disoriented and often say things that are not appropriate as well as hurtful. (Disoriented, and yet you were very coherent during your rant, which extended throughout the playing of the national anthem, while high school girls knelt respectfully before the flag. And then I believe you called the game after openly expressing your hopes for who would win) I do not believe that I would have made such horrible statements absent my sugar spiking. (Because the spiking sugar formed your attitudes and thoughts and opened your mouth)

During this time I was with a colleague and friend Scott Sapulpa. Scott Sapulpa was not the one that made these comments, it was me and me alone. It is not my desire to shirk my responsibility in this matter and I certainly do not want Scott Sapulpa to share in the blame of this most unfortunate incident. (You’re such a standup guy. And so is Scott, who never challenged you)

 While the comments I made would certainly seem to indicate that I am racist, I am not, (What, to you, qualifies as “a racist”? Where is that line? Don’t worry about the label. Focus on your own thoughts, beliefs, words, and actions)

I have never considered myself to be racist, (That’s not how racism works)

and in short cannot explain why I made these comments. (We know, it’s the sugar)

I offer my most sincere apologies for the inappropriate comments made and hope that I can obtain forgiveness. (It’s not about what YOU can obtain. And really, Dude, it might be too soon)

I specifically apologize to the Norman High School girls basketball team, their families, their coaches and their entire school system. Additionally, I offer my apologies to OSSAA, and NFHS network. I further apologize to all involved in this situation and simply to the entire sports community. (These three statements could be the beginning of a legit apology)

 There are no other words to explain what occurred. (I can think of some)

This is something for which I must take responsibility; and I wholeheartedly accept responsibility for my words and actions. (More good words for your legit apology)

It is my sincere desire that I can obtain forgiveness for my actions and words. (I’m sure that’s your desire. And again, it’s a little early. How about you focus on you and let your victims decide about forgiveness)

Juneteenth: Celebrate the Moral Moment

I keep reading that most African American families have been celebrating Juneteenth all of their lives. I don’t know if that’s true. Dating back to 1866, Juneteenth is the oldest nationally celebrated commemoration of the ending of slavery in the United States. Although I don’t know if it’s true that most African Americans have always celebrated, I’m ready for ALL American families to celebrate it now.

I had never heard of Juneteenth as a child. Sometime in the 1990s, Dad wrote a letter to all of his offspring when we were adults to tell us that he had been reflecting on our childhood. He had decided that the primary “race” we had grown up with was “Army brat,” not “African American.” It was a thought worth considering. Carl, Marcia, Keith, and I had all been born into the Army, and we lived that life almost until adulthood; I was 17 when Dad retired from the Army. And the Army absolutely has its culture, customs, institutions, expectations, and relationships, which are probably not quite what you would imagine unless you lived them. We were shaped by Army life. And because we lived our late childhood and teen lives in Hawaii, we gained other powerful influences that affect us to this day.

But I think Dad overstated. Because despite the potter’s wheel of the Army and the influence of Hawaii, we were always Black. And especially as Army brat teens in Hawaii, we celebrated our Blackness. We were active at Trinity Missionary Baptist Church,  the only predominantly Black  church on the island at the time. We had our house parties and our Young, Gifted, and Black variety shows. We planned with the Soul Society at Leilehua High School.

But I had never heard of Juneteenth. In my teen years the holiday was over 100 years old and had not reached my African American family. Black history was not absent from my schooling. Nearly every biographical report I ever wrote for school was about a Black man. But I only knew a few. I was aware of Crispus Attucks, who, as the precursor to too many 20^th century movies and television shows, was the first American to die in the nation’s fight for independence. I was fascinated by the Civil War and its immediate aftermath, but I only knew a few names and dates. I was enamored with Booker T. Washington and George Washington Carver, because I was taught about them. They were the safe Blacks. I eventually learned who Sojourner Truth and Harriet Tubman and Frederick Douglass were. They were slightly more radical.

I learned erroneously that the Emancipation Proclamation freed the slaves. In truth it was more symbolic than effective. And although Abraham Lincoln remains a (flawed) hero for me, I didn’t know until college that his stated aim was not to free slaves, but to preserve the Union. And I knew about General Lee’s surrender to General Grant at Appomattox Court House. But I never learned of General Gordon Granger’s visit to Galveston, Texas, 2 ½ years after the Emancipation Proclamation. By then the war was over, and the general had the honor of announcing the news to the farthest reaches of the nation in Galveston.

A year later, June 19^th 1866, Juneteenth was celebrated, and it has been continually celebrated in the nation since then. This year I learned that Franklin, Tennessee, has an annual Juneteenth celebration. Franklin, Tennessee, y’all! The Franklin mayor has issued the proclamation, and the town has released relevant videos all week. Because of the quarantine, the videos replace the usual gatherings with stories, histories, games, food, music, and door prizes organized by the African American Heritage Society. I have written in the past about my own experiences as a Black man visiting Franklin, so these events and actions encourage me.

The end of slavery is not a solely African American event. It’s an ALL American event. As my friend wrote on this occasion a year ago, Dr. Timothy Padgett, a white Evangelical historian, 

“That [slavery,]  this repulsive institution, was overthrown when all the financial and philosophical pressures of the day, not to mention a literal army, pushed in the other direction is a testament to the efforts of all those, famous and unknown, who prayed and hoped and wrote and spoke and bled and died for that day. If this liberation of 3.5 million human beings from inhuman degradation isn’t worth celebrating in the Land of Liberty and the church of Christ, then I don’t know what is.”

Emancipation Day, Jubilee Day, Freedom Day, Liberation Day, Juneteenth is truly a celebration of African Americans’ freedom from slavery. But it is also freedom of white Americans from slavery. This day commemorates the pivotal moral moment in United States history. On that day we did not arrive as a moral nation. We still have not. But that day signified for all “who prayed and hoped and wrote and spoke and bled and died” a repentance, a turning point, which has been—and can continue to be—a seedbed for justice for an ethical society. Apathy continues. Active opposition continues. In newer and newer forms. But that day gives us hope. It’s time for us all to celebrate.

He “Did Not Comply with Simple Commands,” So…

Note: If you are interested in a simple action step, it's at the end.

Maybe you’ve seen the video or read the story. Travis Miller and his work partner, Kevin, didn’t die. They were the two black furniture delivery workers who were driving out of a gated community after making a delivery. They were in a delivery truck marked with the company name. They were wearing company uniforms. Did I mention that they were LEAVING the gated community? As they were about to exit through the gate, a car pulled up to prevent their exit. The white driver of the car later identified himself as David Stewart. He got out of his car and began asking questions, which Travis did not feel compelled to answer. “What are you doing here? Why are you in here? Where are you coming from?  All you have to do is just tell me where you’re going.”

In short time, another white man arrived to reinforce the interrogation. The second white man walked up to the truck and initiated this exchange:

Second White Man: Hey man, what’s going on?

Travis Miller: I’m trying to leave.

SM: Why?

TM: What do you mean?

SM: What were you in here for?

TM: None of your business

SM: Yeah it is. Of course it is. I live in here.

TM: Did I deliver to your house?

SM: You didn’t deliver anything… that I know of.

TM: Cause it’s none of your business, that’s why.

SM: I’m just asking why you’re in here.

TM: You’re asking questions. You don’t need to ask questions. All you need to do is have your buddy move his car so I can leave and go about my business.

SM: So did you make a wrong turn into the neighborhood?

TM: How do I make a wrong turn into a gated neighborhood? I have to have a gate code in order to get in, right? That’s common sense, right. So if I’m in here, I had a gate code, right?

SM: How did you get a gate code?

TM: That’s none of your business, yet again.

SM: It sure as hell is!

TM: It sure as hell isn’t.

SM: You’re in the wrong, dude.

TM: I’m not in the wrong. I don’t know who… What’s your name?

David Stewart: This is our street. This is a private street.

TM: Uh huh. Just so you know, more than you two guys live on this street. And you’re not the only ones with gate codes.

…

SM: You’re in the wrong, dude

TM: I’m in the wrong? Show me your badge, then.

And, of course these men in white skin believed they had already shown that badge. After about an hour, the man who received the delivery arrived. And wearing that same white skin badge, he had Travis and Kevin released.

Travis and Kevin were unnecessarily inconvenienced for an hour. They didn’t die, like Ahmaud Arbery. I am relieved that no one has invaded my social digital space with justification for the February killing of Arbery—the killing that most of us didn’t hear about until May. Regardless of political ideology, religious affiliation, race or ethnicity , those who have spoken within my hearing have spoken of disgust, sadness, and anger. And sympathy.

I have seen and heard the other responses out there. And I have given reaction. One white man prefaced his remarks with “Having served with Blacks, having Black friends, and living years rehabbing a house in an all-Black neighborhood,” before telling other commenters which Black YouTubers they should be watching to get a “balanced perspective” of the hunting and killing of a black man out jogging. But no-one in my actual circle has dared to say anything close to those sentiments.

Still my relief comes with not a small dose of surprise because this unanimity of perspective is far from what I’ve experienced in other incidents like this. Of note, this incident reminds me eerily of the killing of Trayvon Martin back in 2014. At that time all of my usual suspect friends felt a similar disgust, sadness, and anger when the story broke and again when the killer was acquitted. In addition, a number of usually quiet friends joined the usual suspects. But a disturbingly loud other contingent opted to give the benefit of doubt to the living adult killer rather than the dead teenaged victim. These were bright, kind people whom I respect.

While they might sympathize with Trayvon Martin’s family, they empathized with George Zimmerman. With the initial information we all had, they seemed to ask, “What would I do if I were George?” or “What must have been his circumstances that he would take a life?” At least with the killing of Ahmaud, we have seen some video. Eventually. And we can make out what happened in the blank spaces. We could do the same with the earlier case. But there is no video, and of the two people who know what happened, only the instigator is alive. Only the instigator ignored police instruction. All we know afterwards is a black boy who had committed no crime was killed by a man on a mission. And each of us can interpret that blank time as if we were looking at a Rorschach ink blot. We fill in with our assumptions.

But not this time. This time the killers reveal themselves as clichés. We can caricature the killers, Gregory and Travis McMichael, and call them Big Man and Bubba. With a shotgun and a pickup truck. Hunting down prey who allegedly “matched the description” and "did not comply with simple commands." No-one in my actual circle of friends, including virtual “friends” has tried to justify their actions or sympathize with their plight. In fact, many of my white friends are baffled that this could happen in the 21^st century.

I am not baffled. I am not surprised. And it’s not just Big Man and Bubba. It’s also not just rural Georgia and suburban Florida. And it’s not just some guy whose claim to authority is that he had been in proximity of Black folks. The assurance is so strong that in both of these fatal incidents the killers ignored the questioning or direct instructions of experienced dispatchers. The killers "knew" they had standing. It's in the air, and it’s in our systems. It is the hunch of white superiority, and you don’t have to openly profess it to somehow believe it. You don’t need a shotgun, a pickup truck, or a tiki torch to sense it.  I am trying out the term “unconscious whiteness.” I don’t think I stole that from anyone. But people more learned than me help explain it.

Dr. Jennifer Eberhard, author of Biased, and Dr. Jonathan Kahn, author of Race on the Brain, don’t seem to agree about which is more important, implicit bias or systemic racism. Dr. Eberhard insists that all of us are subject to biases that we aren’t even conscious of, although she admits the additional existence of systemic racism. Dr. Kahn thinks that too much attention to unconscious bias obscures the reality of systemic racism. Which of them is right? The killing of Ahmaud Arbery shouts the answer: It’s both! And add explicit bias to the contenders.

Big Man and Bubba saw a black man running and either believed he was up to no good or decided they could make a good case that he was up to no good. They and their erstwhile videographer, William “Roddie” Bryan, who has now also been arrested for felony murder, are so deluded in their thinking that the they believed releasing the video would exonerate them. That’s some entitled thinking. And it doesn’t exist in a vacuum. They were confident. They knew the system. They knew the people. And the system backed them for more than two months. And we all know that their confidence may still be rewarded down the road.

But there is a particular mindset revealed in Georgia and in Florida. And Travis and Kevin were subject to it in Oklahoma. It is the implicit or explicit belief that the neighborhoods where white people live are theirs to police. It doesn’t even matter if other people also live there. Trayvon Martin’s black daddy lived in the neighborhood where the boy was killed. To these white citizens, the right to defend does not end at their front porch or their property. In fact their rights don’t end with defense. They believe their whiteness deputizes them to follow a hunch and begin a hunt. And Georgia, Florida, and Oklahoma have encoded those extended rights with Stand Your Ground, Make My Day and “citizen’s arrest.” The laws might be written with limits; that doesn’t mean those limits will be enforced. The laws give license to any citizen to use lethal force in following a hunch. Did I say “any citizen”? We can pretend that these laws are meant to protect ANY citizen. But we know it’s not true. The incident that includes the murder of Breonna Taylor and the arrest of Kenneth Walker is just one example of the inequities. But that incident deserves its own discussion at another time.

My suspicion and my fear today  is that, although none of my white friends would go grab the shotgun to pursue Running Black Man or Walking Black Boy, many of them relate to the impulse.  Many of them understand the fear and the “right” and “obligation” to defend themselves and their families from a possible threat. Many would “understand” why two black men driving a marked delivery truck out of a gated community look threatening and should be questioned. I don’t know how many of my white friends feel deputized by their whiteness. But I am not surprised by the actions in these cases.

In neither of the fatal  cases was there a threat of violence until the killers instigated it. In fact, in neither of these incidents was there a witness to a crime—because in neither case was a crime committed by the victims. In both of these cases, the killers were the only ones armed. Neither victim was a threat in any way. They were simply perceived as such. Running. Walking. While Black.

So what can you do? I’ve walked around the answer to that question for years of talking about race. And I’ve hinted at one first step. For Dr. Taharee A. Jackson, it’s one step out of several. She’s right. But let’s start with at least this one. Jackson says,

One of the single greatest acts of racial justice that you, as a White person, could commit is to name your White identity and to claim your racialized experiences.

She explains:

One of the most pernicious aspects of racism and white identity is that they are meant to be invisible. As a White person, your White identity and the structures that maintain White racial dominance are not meant to be discussed, uncovered, identified, or questioned.

This is why you are not even named as White in books. You are so often the main characters that we just assume you are unless otherwise indicated.

I hint at this in my TEDx Talk, What I Am Learning from My White Grandchildren. The point is:  Whiteness has substance. And all of these perpetrators know it. And they use that substance as a badge of authority. But the substance of whiteness is not legitimately authoritative. It’s worth pondering why so many think it is.

The River...on Fire

Spotify prepared a playlist for me that marries acapella pop songs from Pentatonix with Christian rock from The 77s. In the mostly Christian music mix are indie songs from Tonio K, 90s Christian pop from Cindy Morgan and 80s Christian blue-eyed soul from Mylon Lefevre. And there’s Leslie Phillips and Nichole Nordeman, and then more Pentatonix. I don’t listen to as much commercial Christian music as I used to, and I’m not sure about Spotify’s algorithmic rationale, but I’m not mad. I only skipped a few songs.

I listened this morning as each of those artists sang. And then out of the blue, I hear this piano and strings intro, and the tear ducts well up. No words yet. No conscious association, just a feeling and automatic physical reaction. Something in my subconscious and in my body remembers. It’s “The River” by Rich Mullins. I am barely listening to the lyrics, but the reaction is uncontrollable. 

Maybe because I had already read in the morning that today, March 20, 2020, is the 20th anniversary of Gene Eugene’s death. Gene and his inimitable band, Adam Again, could have been in this unusual mix.

I know that associating “The River” with an entirely different musical entity seems like a non sequitur, but tell that to my body, which knows certain things. It knows that next month marks 20 years for my dad. So Gene’s passing is forever attached to Dad’s. And to Rich’s.

Favorite memories of my childhood include hours of sitting in the family room with Dad and my brothers listening to music. With music there was little generation gap in our household. We listened to entire album after entire album. Mostly soul and jazz, but occasionally rock or country or classical made the playlist. And gospel. Dad was a non-church-goer, who maintained a residual affection for gospel music from his childhood. He was completely unschooled in Contemporary Christian Music. On a drive from Denver to his home in Colorado Springs in the 1990s, I played "The River" and its album companions for Dad. I explained that I had actually sung on the collection, The World as Best as I Remember It, Vol. 1. Maybe my body is remembering that road trip with Dad.

Twenty years ago, when I learned of Gene’s passing, I immediately thought of Rich’s death three years earlier. It was a traffic accident on the open road. Another road trip. In my mind’s 2020 retrospective, the song “The River” foreshadowed Rich’s death. 

“Maybe she can come to Wichita. And maybe we can borrow Beaker’s bike. Let the road wind tie our hair in knots. Let the speed and the freedom untangle the lines. Maybe fear can vanish before love. O God, don’t let this love be denied.” 

Rich sang those words through Spotify this morning. And I wept, remembering that I haven’t listened to much Rich Mullins in years. 

Spotify could not have known that the first song in my brain this morning was “River on Fire,” from Gene Eugene from his band's release Dig. A Facebook friend had posted video for the song in honor of Gene’s anniversary. The words came straight to my mind:

“I could be happy, and you could be miserable. I’ll pull a metaphor out of the air: the Cuyahoga River on fire.” 

He refers to the infamous oil slick fire near Cleveland, Ohio in 1969. While Rich’s Wichita river longs for anticipated love, Gene’s Cleveland river laments a burned out love.

I am happy in love, but I am not above Rich’s longing or Gene’s lament, even if prompted by Spotify’s algorithms. Somehow my body still knows.

Of Lunar Modules and Papaya Trees

There are very few street addresses that I cannot remember from our childhood. The address on Goode Street is one them. We had just moved that summer from 3939-C Montague Street at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. Dad had gotten promoted to warrant officer, and they sent us to new quarters on the other side of the post.

I had just finished 5^th grade at Hale Kula Elementary, the school we traveled to each day in a cattle bus. And I had not yet started my epic 6^th  grade year with Mr. Waite at the newly built Solomon Elementary. My little brother, Keith, made the transition with me as he started second grade. This year marked the first year since I started first grade that my sister, Marcia, and I were not at the same school; she was off to Wheeler Junior High at Wheeler Air Force Base. And my big brother, Carl, was headed to Leilehua High School.

Mr. Waite taught us words like “propaganda” and read us Lord of the Flies. I don’t think I knew the word “liberal” or the expression “bleeding heart” in those days. In our experimental classroom, each week began with one-on-one contract sessions with Mr. Waite. We worked out what we would study and what we would accomplish for the week. Each week ended with the whole class going outside to shoot off model rockets and to measure the height they reached by using a protractor and trigonometry. Sometimes we would burn things with magnifying glasses.

That summer I had not yet met Ted (Theodore Scott Joseph Silva, Jr.), who would become my best friend for 6^th grade. I had not yet started the school newspaper with Ted and his brothers Rick and Chuck. I don’t remember their four year old brother’s name (Benjy, maybe), but he once asked me if ALL of me was brown. I think he used the word “wiener.” The Silvas were Catholic, which meant they went to Catholic chapel and to catechism. We attended Protestant chapel and Sunday School. Ted and I stayed after school many days to “rap” with Mr. Waite. We were nerdy sponges eager to soak up whatever indoctrinating propaganda he wanted to spill. After the sessions, we walked home together. I would stop at Ted’s house and hang a few minutes with him and his brothers before continuing on to our house on Goode Street. When that year ended, we moved to Fort Knox, Kentucky, and Ted enrolled at Punahou Academy, which would later become my alma mater.

But this was the summer before all of that, and we were settling into our new digs. I was mostly an inside kid, I think I had already stopped playing "Army" or "cowboys and Indians" with my brothers. I was content to work jigsaw puzzles or make plastic models using that model glue that was not yet an age-restricted controlled substance. I had built all manner of cars, planes, and ships. The aircraft carrier was my favorite. For a while. This was before I knew what a lunar module was. As much as I loved the inside, sometimes, probably because Mom made me, I would play outside. Usually by myself. I preferred it.

We had been hearing a lot about NASA’s plans to land on the moon. I was too much of a homebody to aspire to be an astronaut, but I was fascinated by them. I admired them. John Glenn was a hero when we lived in Ohio. And this summer we had already heard the names of Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins. I don’t really remember the launch, and I don’t remember if we knew specifically when the landing was supposed to be.

But it was an outside day. I had shimmied up the papaya tree that grew in the front yard of our number-not-remembered house on Goode Street. I believe Dad is the one who called me down from the tree. He knew I wouldn’t want to miss it. I climbed down and rushed in the house. It was July 20, 1969. It was my 11^th birthday. It was Apollo 11. The Eagle had landed!

Apollo 11 became a touchpoint in my life. I don’t think about astronauts much anymore; I have other heroes. But that was a hopeful time. Probably helped instill a hopeful attitude that I have needed to draw on at many periods in the ensuing 50 years. Times have changed. But it looks like they still make the plastic model of the lunar module. And I’m old enough to buy the glue.

New Story Festival Austin Reflections #1

-->

Registration

Laura wanted me to take a picture of my name tag as soon as I got through registration. After walking across campus and receiving directions upon request, I found the registration line. The festival opening was still 2 hours off at 7:00 pm. I was happy to be early. The registration line was two people wide and maybe ten people long. As we approached the front, we could see two ballpoint pen signs designating the two lines as “Will Call” and “Will Call or Cash.” It took about fifteen minutes for them to get through the first eight people in my “Will Call or Cash” line.

Hannah, the young woman in front of me, approached and announced that she was a volunteer. “Oh,” said the registrar, “I don’t do volunteers. You’ll have to get in the other line.” Hannah dutifully stepped out of line, and I approached. “I’m a presenter,” I said. “Same thing,” said the registrar, “I don’t do presenters.” I looked up and saw that Hannah had walked to the end of the now longer “Will Call” line.

“Wait a minute,” I said to the registrar, “Does she really have to go all the way back there after waiting in this line for fifteen minutes?” The registrar shrugged her shoulders and looked at her work partner. They both looked dumbfounded. I repeated my question. Yes, I was picking a fight at a festival that promoted “community, creativity and the common good.”

Finally the “Will Call” registrar asked Person #1 in her line if Hannah could step in front. Person #1 said “Sure.” Person #2 said “No problem.” So Hannah got to the front of the “Will Call” line. Someone—I don’t remember who—then spoke up for me: “So where should he be in line?” Hannah answered, “He was right behind me, so…” I looked at Persons #1 and 2, and they nodded their heads.

So I got in line behind Hannah. I re-iterated that I was a presenter; I was so eager to get a name tag with a special ribbon or something. It took a while for the worker to find my name and confirm that I was paid up. Once she did, she simply said, “Okay, go get a swag bag. You’re good.” No ribbon, no name tag. In fact, only the exhibitors and volunteers (not including presenters) received name tags. So no picture for Laura.