Who Is Black in America?

Image credit: CNN's Black in America.

On Sunday night, I watched a CNN special hosted by Soledad O'Brien called Who Is Black in America?, a look at racial identification in modern America among people who do not clearly fit into a predetermined category of either black or white. I wasn't planning on tuning in, but then I saw a preview video and it spoke precisely to what I have been going through recently that I felt I needed to at least check it out. After watching, it only seemed necessary that I share my thoughts about it.

I'm black and white mixed, but I have had no problem self-identifying as black as long as I've been cognizant of race, because to me it's what I always have been. It surprised me to see other people who looked just as black, if not more so, than me, to struggle with their diverse background and resist being put into an either/or category such as black or white. But it similarly opened up my eyes and made me realize that my personal struggle with racial identification is not as rare, and that I'm not as alone, as I first thought. Questions began popping up in my mind: How do we decide what black "looks" like anyway? Or what it feels like? Is there a common black experience? Furthermore, who decides this? Is it other black people, or white people, or just people in general?

I consider myself to have had a unique experience of growing up biracial in a very small, rural, 98% white town. I was the only black girl in my class from kindergarten until graduation. I can loosely quote a man from the show in saying, "White people will let you know what you are and what you aren't really quick." I was lucky as a kid to not feel too heavily "othered" by my classmates, and hardly ever in a negative way. But from people touching my curly hair unannounced to getting singled out in class on Martin Luther King, Jr., Day, I was regularly reminded of what I was and what I was not, even if I was technically both. Even when you are both, or somewhere in the middle, people are too eager to put you in a box rather than let you be whatever you want. Rarely will you find an obviously-mixed person identifying or being identified as white or anything other than black, because being black is somehow this all-consuming identifier that grabs onto you whether you want it to or not.

Who Is Black in America? spotlighted a project called (1)ne Drop, which draws its name from the historical One Drop Rule, a rule adopted by most of America that declared you as being black if you had but one drop of black blood in your ancestry. This rule declared that even the smallest bit of black in your bloodline tarnished the purity of an otherwise white person and made them black. Despite no longer being in place officially, the rule brings the question of who is and isn't black to the surface. We're not likely to classify anyone with a drop of black in their bloodline to be black nowadays -- in fact, many people who would be otherwise racially ambiguous can actually "pass" as white. So if not that, what is it that actually makes someone black or white or "other"?

My answer: skin color is only one fraction of the whole equation. Race is, although predominately decided by skin color, a combination of shared physical features, including facial structure and hair texture. For example, Soledad O'Brien, host of Black in America, is half-black but could "pass" as white or as another racial minority due to her light skin color, straight hair, and European facial features. She essentially lacks many of the racial markers that identify someone as black. There are many lighter-skinned people who look "blacker" than her due to their facial features and hairstyle. So to say race is determined only by skin color is dishonest and simplifies the complexity of racial identity in America.

CNN reporter Soledad O'Brien, who has a Black, White, and Latina background. Image credit: CNN.

Ultimately, who is and is not black can only externally be decided by society at large. Identification starts with the person whose identity is in question. Due to my light skin, absence of a tan, and chemically straightened hair, I may not look black to someone at first glance, but I am and always have been black. Myself and people like me are merely testimonies to the ever-diversifying image of America, stretching and changing and molding anew the image of what it looks like to be black.

Is Your Feminism Inclusive? (Probably Not)

I feel as though most feminists automatically shut down any critique of the feminist movement because they are so used to moving in circles where feminism is taboo, where they have to explain and defend feminism’s legitimacy over and over again, thus any criticism automatically feels dismissive and threatening. While many men and some women may be weary of the “point” of feminist activism, when I criticize feminism, I’m not discounting feminism’s core philosophy or discrediting the good that feminism has done in achieving some progress regarding gender equality, nor am I claiming that there’s no need for feminism anymore. My qualms with feminism lie much deeper than that, at the root of the movement, from how we are conversing about certain issues to who is primarily doing the talking. Mainstream feminism is worth criticism when you have popular feminists like Lena Dunham totally failing at racial inclusivity, the majority of feminists toting transphobic messages by making womanhood all about uteri and vaginas, or thinking that talking about women as a whole is the best and only way to tackle “women’s issues”. So let me give a long overdue Inclusivity 101 to all those feminists who Just Don’t Get It or think that asking them to be inclusive of other identities is inherently sexist, or something. 

Ø    Who am I supposed to be including?

So you know that you want to help women, yeah? But what about those women who have to deal with more than just the struggle of being a woman? Some feminists choose to ignore these intersections as though mentioning them detracts from feminism as a whole, but by doing so they theoretically erase the identities of so many women who are already near-invisible in society. There are about five major intersections that contribute to the oppression of some women: race, class, sexual orientation, gender expression, and physical/mental ability. So women of color have to deal with sexism and racism. Transgender women have to deal with sexism and transphobia. Gay women have to deal with sexism and homophobia, and so on. Not only do the separate factions of identity add to what these women face, but the intersections of those oppressions manifest in completely unique ways. For example, women of color do not solely face racism and sexism separately – they must deal with a hybrid of the two, called racialized misogyny, which suppresses their ability to live fully without being boxed into stereotypes based on their race and their gender. (Black women are expected to expound endless strength, Asian women are believed to be naturally submissive, and Hispanic women are hypersexualized, for one set of examples.) This applies to any and all intersections, and hey, it may sound ridiculous when you spell it out in plain, but there potentially are gay, disabled, working-class women of color out there who probably do not feel all too welcome, included, or represented in the feminist movement, and it’s not their responsibility to squeeze their way into a hostile and exclusive space, it’s your responsibility as a feminist to make room for them with the space you already have.

Ø    All right, I get what you’re saying, but how am I supposed to include these women?

Feminist writings typically don’t divulge into other factions of womanhood. They assume a general, default definition of “woman” that should more accurately be described as “white, straight, middle-to-upper-class, cisgender, able-bodied woman,” but since that is rather a mouthful, no one usually takes the time to make such a distinction. However, if you’re not going to make the distinction every time you discuss womanhood, you should divulge how that definition differs when other intersections come into play. Say you’re talking gender inequality in income in the US, so you illustrate pay inequality by stating that women make seventy-seven cents to every dollar a man earns. This isn’t an untrue claim, but it is misleading, as the pay rate across racial lines is even more disparate – this statistic only works for white men and women. Black women only make 70 cents to every white man’s dollar, and Latina women make even less at 61 cents. To ignore these further inequalities when discussing income inequality means further alienating the struggle of women who are already largely ignored by society.

In general, it’s a good idea to at least make regular note of how women who are not heterosexual, not white, not cisgender, not middle to upper class, and not able-bodied face more difficulty than women who are – it should be universal language within the feminist movement. It’s also important to keep in mind that men who do not fit the aforementioned categorical norm are sometimes less privileged than women who do; i.e., not all men are directly responsible for upholding oppressive systems, even if they do still benefit from patriarchal male privileges, because there are other social privileges that they lack (enter race, class, disability, etc.) But if you’re feeling particularly driven, you can actually investigate how patriarchy most adversely affects its lowest common denominators, men and women alike.

Ø    Okay, but why is being inclusive so important? Can’t we get more done by talking about the issues all women can relate to? – Doesn’t subverting issues take more away from the conversation than it adds?

Inclusivity in a movement that intends to support the betterment of all women is so necessary when the least privileged women are some of the most vulnerable in our society. Not only does it lift up women who need more help, it is beneficial for other women to learn more about each other’s struggles and hardships as well as how we all, as individuals, fit into this society that is so heavily built on the suffering of others. And naturally, it draws more women to the movement itself. There are women who are not sold on feminism because of how little it offers outside of its criticism of patriarchy, and how little it offers them as women who have more than just sexism to concern themselves with.

If you think that talking about these subsets of issues that women minorities face is detracting from the whole of feminism, you would be wrong. I always say that working from the bottom up ensures that you take care of the needs of everyone, not only the most vocal or most privileged women. While sexual assault, for instance, is an issue all women can empathize with, it is true that minority groups such as disabled women and women of color all face higher rates of sexual assault. The problem of sexual assault is still addressed, and women whom are most vulnerable to it are acknowledged. After all, these less-privileged groups of women are still women. Working class and poor women are still women. Women of color are still women. Trans women, disabled women, and queer women are still women. There is nothing relevant to being a woman that these women experience and their more privileged counterparts do not; ergo there is nothing about their existence irrelevant to feminism. Referring to the intersections of oppression that these women face as “distractions” is ingenuous at best and downright insulting at worst. It is not a distraction to extend care and support to those whom patriarchy most adversely affects, although it may seem like it to those who are not used to repositioning their feminist lens around someone other than themselves.

So, your feminism – is it inclusive or not? What do you think you can do to highlight issues other women face to make sure your feminism is intersectional? I’m personally trying to educate myself about transphobia and combat the rampant cissexism in mainstream feminist discourse. It seems many people are still struggling with the concept that gender and sex are not interchangeable, so we still have quite a way to go. As always, let me know your thoughts in the comments!

The N Word, in My Humble Point of View

This past semester, I was assigned a final position paper for my Exposition and Persuasion class, and I chose to write about the "N" word. It's something I've gained a weird passion for, and that I feel really strongly about. A few people have shown interest in reading it, so I decided to post it here for all to see! Feel free to let me know what you think.

Growing up, I knew little about this word other than that it was a relic of America’s intensely racist past, and at the time I was naïve enough to believe that it had been buried, dead and gone, long ago – just like racism. So one can imagine my surprise when, while standing with my friends on the playground during recess, one of them commented on the braided hairstyle of another girl who had just passed us by saying, “She looks like a nigger.”

I had never heard the word said aloud, and I never expected that I would hear it among a circle of so-called friends, and that those friends – who were all white, next to me, the sole black girl in the entire class – would say nothing in response to this. The few nanoseconds of awkward silence that followed the other girl’s laughter was enough to prompt me to turn on my heel and walk away in the opposite direction. I was lucky, I would later realize, that my first real-life encounter with the hateful world was not directed at me or hurled as an insult (although the sneer and laugh with which she spoke was clue enough that to look like a nigger was not a good thing). It’s very possible that other black students in a vastly white environment would not fare so well; some others at my school could testify to that.

It also did not take long until I discovered that, outside of my sheltered life in small-town Indiana, the word had not died with the Civil Rights Movement. It lives on not only in its original use and meaning, but also in the black community with its variant “nigga”. Usage in this context spans from blacks addressing one another as a term of endearment, to branding other blacks in the same negative light as its predecessor. Perfectly explained by TIME Ideas writer Touré, “Nigga is nigger with an ironic twist, but the venom is still in its fangs” (Touré, 2011). Today in 21^st century America, the word is used far too carelessly among blacks and whites alike, because so many are out-of-touch with the racial issues that face America today. Because the Civil Rights Movement is 40 years behind us, because an African-American president now leads our country, equality has been achieved – that’s how it might seem, anyway. But anyone with more than general understanding of America’s racial history knows that the enslavement and degradation of an entire race for centuries cannot be overturned with an act of legislation, or even in the years that follow it. Racism is far and well alive today, and because of that, the pain in which the N word was founded cannot be forgotten easily, if ever, and is only “just a word” to the people who lack an understanding of the deep and extensive history of racism, racial disparity, and white supremacy in America. My position is that only blacks have the authority to use the word for whatever purpose, and that the use of it by any other racial group should be discouraged as it is directly offensive to the centuries’ worth of blacks who suffered as second-class citizens in America.

The N word is thought to have originated as a deliberate slur of “Negro,” or the variations thereof (niger, neger, etc.) which early white American brandished blacks with to mark and remind them of their lower status (Kennedy, 2004). Randall Kennedy’s essay “A Note on the Word Nigger” (2004) quotes Hosea Easton who in 1837 wrote:

[Nigger] is an opprobrious term, employed to impose contempt upon [blacks] as an inferior race…The term itself would be perfectly harmless were it used only to distinguish one class from another; but it is not used with that intent…it flows from the fountain of purpose to injure (Kennedy, 2004).

To examine the word, there must be a thorough examination of race implications throughout American history, which is an admittedly overwhelming task. Jabari Asim’s book The N Word: Who Can Say It, Who Shouldn’t, and Why (2007) is an excellent, while somewhat depressing, journey through the reality of black oppression in America. It turns on its head the notion that slavery was a sore spot of American history that merely happened, that black oppression was an unfortunate aspect of our journey as a nation, that the Civil Rights Movement resulted in equality, and that we have now moved on. What history tends to gloss over, perhaps in embarrassment, when it comes to matters of protest or rebellion is the wrongful system and governance which made that protest necessary. The N Word instead spells out history for what it is: a deliberate oppression of all people of color, especially blacks, in the name of the so-called natural superiority of the white race (Asim, 2007).

The racism blacks experienced went far beyond just enslavement; free blacks, of course, faced mounting discrimination, ridicule, and oftentimes fatal violence. After emancipation, racism suffered no casualties; it only transfigured itself, taking on new shapes and forms. Ferris State University’s “Nigger and Caricatures” (2001) highlights the demeaning portrayals of blacks beyond the Civil War, associating them with negative stereotypes and Jim Crow-type caricatures such as “Coon” and “Mammy” – as well as how “nigger” was integrated into them all, a continually-present reminder of black inferiority (Middleton & Pilgrim, 2001).

But the N word has never just been a tool used solely by whites to demean blacks. As early as the 1830s, there were reports of the word employed among blacks to refer to each other, not unlike how “nigga” has taken off in recent decades as a term of endearment. But back then, the N word was just as often used by blacks in the same vein as by whites: as a declaration of black inferiority, used in reference to lower-class blacks, especially dark blacks, and newly-arrived southern immigrants (Asim, 2007). This correlates with the many implications of the N word and its variants that were in no way directed toward blacks, but were always used with negative meanings: “nigger” as a verb meant “to wear out, spoil or destroy”; “nigger luck” was exceptionally good luck that was particularly undeserved; “nigger work” was a demeaning, menial task. Essentially, “nigger” could be tacked onto any word or phrase to lower its meaning or associate it with blacks (Middleton & Pilgrim, 2001). “Nigger is the ultimate American insult…Jews are called white-niggers; Arabs, sandniggers; or Japanese, yellow-niggers” (Middleton & Pilgrim, 2001). These are prime examples of the deep and pervasive racism that birthed this ugly slur.

Of course, the N word has evolved since the dawn of its usage. Blacks in America have made grand strides toward equality, especially in the latter half of the 20^th century with the Civil Rights Movement. In fact, America today has a much stranger relationship with the word. In its “true” form (“nigger,” as opposed to “nigga”), the word rarely appears in a racist context like it used to, with the exception of it being preserved in some literary works – Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is a primary example. The N word appears throughout its pages a whopping 215 times (Asim, 2007). In recent years, controversy has arisen over copies of Huck Finn that replaced the racial epithet with “slave” to make them more suitable for classroom use. But what those who decide to censor books, like these, fail to see is that the word is used deliberately, and as in all literature and artwork, context is important. Removing such a word from a book set in a time where it was used regularly is, on a small scale, rewriting history. As stated in “Huck Finn and the N Word: Taking it out doesn’t educate,” from the Anniston Star, “Replace the N-word with ‘slave’ and you take the story out of its context, a time when casual conversation revealed how little the lives of black people were valued, beyond their labor.” (Anniston Star, 2011). Context is important regarding the N word – it essentially clarifies its meaning. In the 1800s and much of the 1900s, it would be no surprise to hear it scathingly directed at blacks, and it would not be out of the ordinary. This is what history and literature teaches us, and it defines how and why the N word is not acceptable today – it’s about us moving toward equality.

Today in America, not only is the N word least widespread in its racist usage, but it is most popular among blacks. As mentioned earlier, “nigga” is often employed within the black community casually as a term of endearment, favored over more neutral terms of past decades, like “brother.” It’s ironic among blacks, using a word that has caused them so much pain at the hands of whites and putting it in a positive context. This is the only use of the word that I can support – I feel it is the right of the black community to use or not use the word however they like. But that doesn’t erase the problematic implications that occur as the word has gained popularity, not just in the black community, but in mainstream society, through the vessel of hip-hop music.

The N word broke into the mainstream media when gangsta rap group N.W.A. (Niggas Wit Attitude) released “Straight Outta Compton.” Among lyrical appearances of violence and drugs, N.W.A. employed a generous application of the N word – it was counted on the record 46 times (Asim, 2007). N.W.A.’s “Niggaz for Life” begins “Why do I call myself a nigger, you ask me?” In The N Word, Asim writes about their answer to this question: “In their [N.W.A.’s] view, blacks will be called ‘nigger’ by the larger society no matter what they accomplish … so there’s little purpose in trying to shake off the word” (Asim, 2007). Even while not agreeing with this view, the sentiment is understandable. Fighting with the word, distancing oneself from it, seems impossible and unnecessary when considering one can instead grab hold of it, like N.W.A. and many modern hip-hop artists have, and shape it into something new. Reclaiming the N word – “nigga” – is precisely what some African Americans have done. And with the word appearing on the tracks of hip-hop artists more often than not, the spread of “nigga” has easily crossed over ethnic and color lines.

I have personally encountered many people who hold the opinion that it is unfair that “blacks can use the word, and whites can’t.” But this view, again, suffers from a lack of contextual understanding. The difference between whites and non-blacks saying “nigga” is that blacks use it in an ironic sense, since the word is something that has scarred them for centuries. Even the newest generations know of the disparity of blacks vs. whites; our place in society is instilled in us and is not easy to ignore, even without a full knowledge of the history of our struggle – because racism and discrimination is still very much something blacks experience in the present day. The irony immediately disappears when “nigga” is used by whites or non-blacks, regardless of its friendly context. The irony is in blacks using it positively. American society is not yet at a place where racial tension is so eased and racial inequality is irrelevant that use by whites is non-offensive or can be treated the same as when it is spoken by blacks, regardless of how “positively-intended” it is. This often results in the claim that, ‘If we want equality, we should treat everyone the same way.’ However noble this ideology, it undermines the extensive pursuit of equality by African-Americans for centuries. It also somewhat offensively disregards the differences between races and cultures, especially differences between African-American culture and the broader, “white” American culture. We are equal, but we are different. Employing the same code of conduct across the racial spectrum certainly undermines those differences – and blinding oneself to those differences does not eliminate them.

Finally, the only way to ensure a proper understanding of the N word among all people is to open intelligent discourse about it. That is precisely what Neal A. Lester of Arizona University did. He has taught two college courses on the N word in order to delve into the complexities of it, to examine and discuss how one word came to be the most painful in the American lexicon. In an interview, “Straight Talk about the N Word” for Tolerance Magazine (2011), Lester talks about how the ignorance of much of the history fosters the spread of the word, most especially among youth, and how important it is that discussion and teaching about the word occurs: “There’s no way to know all of its nuances because it’s such a complicated word, a word with a particular racialized American history,” Lester says. “But one way of getting at it is to have some critical and historical discussions about it and not pretend that it doesn’t exist” (Price, 2011).

To conclude, I think that one single, standard rule about the usage of the N word among all people – something I formerly believed in – is inefficient. I do, however, believe that the widespread use of it in modern society, most of which is triggered by the continually-rising popularity of hip-hop music, is far too gratuitous in nature. Even if the music is created to mirror reality, it is only the reality of black Americans that is portrayed, but black Americans are by far not the sole audience. The complexities of the word and its implications are ignored far and wide, and I have personally encountered many white teenagers calling each other “niggas,” which is disconcerting. Most of them were not racist, they were simply ignorant. Having likely heard the word more often in the music they listen to than in a racist context, they lack the depth of understanding of what this word really means. Because no matter how hard one may try, there is no word that equals the power of “nigger”, and it did not achieve that power overnight.

“Nigger” is the permanent stamp of the hatred, degradation, enslavement, pain, torture, suffering, and more that African Americans have faced from the moment they were first shipped to North America and sold into slavery. Even over two hundred years later, the remnants of the racial hierarchy upon which this country was founded have yet to fade; therefore, when a white person utters “nigger,” regardless of how they say it or what they intend by it, the damage is done. The word is an automatic reminder of the endless and continual pain experienced by the people who suffered at the very bottom of society and were forced to crawl their way up to reach the threshold of equality. There has been no greater insult to anyone than to call them a nigger, which exemplifies how deep racial disparity goes – reminding us that the worst thing you can be in this country is black.