White People Need to Stop Snickering at Black Names

baby-and-parents

As a public school teacher, few things give me as much anxiety as getting my student rosters for the first time.

I look over the list of names for my incoming children and cringe.

How do I pronounce that?

Every year it never fails – there’s always at least four or five names I’ve never seen before – or at least never spelled quite like THAT!

As a white teacher in a district with a majority of black students but very few black teachers, there’s not really many people to turn to for guidance.

And if I don’t figure it out soon, I’ll be making a pretty terrible first impression. No one likes to have their name butchered, especially children, especially if an adult is doing it, especially if that adult is white.

The only solution I’ve found is to soldier on with the first day’s attendance and just try my best:

Me: Shah-NEE-Qwa?

Child: Shah-NAY-Qwa.

Me: JAY-Marcus?

Child: JAH-Marcus.

It’s uncomfortable, but I get through it and eventually learn.

However, one thing I’ve stopped doing is going to other white people for help. That’s a recipe for disaster.

It almost always turns into an exercise in subtle racism and white supremacy. No matter who the person is, no matter how kind, caring or empathetic, the reaction to unique black names is most often derision.

White people snicker and use the situation as the impetus for telling stories about other black names that they thought were even more outrageous.

It’s not that we’re trying to be hateful. I don’t think we even recognize it as racist, but it is.

We use the situation as an opportunity for bonding. THOSE people who are not like you and me – THEY name their children things like THIS! Not like you and me who name our children more respectably.

Make no mistake. This is racist behavior. We are emphasizing the otherness of an entire group of people to put ourselves over and above them.

It’s bigoted, discriminatory, prejudicial and just plain dumb.

What’s wrong with black names anyway? What about them is so unacceptable?

We act as if only European and Anglicized names are reasonable. But I don’t have to go far down my rosters to find white kids with names like Braelyn, Declyn, Jaydon, Jaxon, Gunner or Hunter. I’ve never heard white folks yucking it up over those names.

I can’t imagine why white people even expect people of color to have the same sorts of names as we do. When you pick the label by which your child will be known, you often resort to a shared cultural history. My great-great-grandfather was David, so I’ll honor his memory by calling my firstborn son the same. Jennifer is a name that’s been in my family for generations so I’ll reconnect with that history by calling my daughter by the same name.

Few black people in America share this same culture with white people. If a black man’s great-great-grandfather’s name was David, that might not be the name he was born with – it may have been chosen for him – forced upon him – by his slave master. It should be obvious why African Americans may be uncomfortable reconnecting with that history.

Many modern black names are, in fact, an attempt to reconnect with the history that was stolen from them. Names like Ashanti, Imani and Kenya have African origins. Others are religious. Names like Aaliyah, Tanisha and Aisha are traditionally Muslim. Some come from other languages such as Monique, Chantal, and Andre come from French. I can’t understand why any of that is seen as worthy of ridicule.

Still other names don’t attempt to reconnect with a lost past – they try to forge ahead and create a new future. The creativity and invention of black names is seldom recognized by White America. We pretend that creating names anew shows a lack of imagination when in reality, it shows just the opposite!

Creating something new can be as simple as taking an Anglicized name and spelling it in inventive ways. Punctuation marks also can be utilized in unusual positions to add even more distinctiveness such as in the names Mo’nique and D’Andre.

At other times, they follow a cultural pattern to signify as uniquely African American using prefixes such as La/Le, Da/De, Ra/Re, or Ja/Je and suffixes such as -ique/iqua, -isha, and -aun/-awn.

And for the ultimate in creativity, try mixing and matching various influences and techniques. For instance, LaKeisha has elements from both French and African roots. Other names like LaTanisha, DeShawn, JaMarcus, DeAndre, and Shaniqua were created in the same way.

This is something all cultures do. They evolve to meet the needs of people in a given time and place. Yet when it comes to people of color, we, white folks, whoop and guffaw at it. Heck! When we can’t find black names far enough out of our mainstream, we even make them up!

Don’t believe me? Have you heard of La-a? The story goes that a black girl was given that name and a white person asked how it was pronounced. The black woman said her name was La-DASH-ah. This is often followed by a punchline of black vernacular.

Har! Har! Har!

But it’s not even true! According to Snopes, this is a made up story. It’s the American version of a Polish joke and demonstrates how far white people will go to laugh at black culture.

The great comedy duo Key and Peele tried to call attention to this in their outstanding substitute teacher sketches. In a series of short routines, an almost exclusively white classroom gets a black substitute teacher from the inner city schools. Mr. Garvey is expecting black names, so he pronounces the students’ middle class white names as if they were African American.

Almost everyone loves this sketch. It gets universal laughs, but wait until it’s over. Too many white folks try to continue the giggles by then talking about crazy black names they’ve encountered. But that’s not at all the point Key and Peel were trying to make! They were trying to show how cultural context shapes our expectations of proper names. Mr. Garvey is worthy of our laughter because his expectations are out-of-sync with his surroundings. When we expect all African Americans to have European or Anglicized names, we’re just as out of touch as Mr. Garvey. But like Dave Chapelle’s comedy, sometimes the person laughing the loudest is getting something the comedian didn’t intend at all.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if black names just generated snickers. However, white culture actually selects against people with black sounding names.

Countless studies have shown how much more difficult it is for someone with a black sounding name to get a job, a loan or an apartment than it is for someone with a white sounding name. It’s one of the most obvious features of white supremacy. You may not like black names, personally, but do these people deserve to suffer for embracing their own culture?

Moreover, having a European or Anglicized name is no guarantee of fair treatment. It certainly didn’t help Michael Brown or Freddie Gray.

If we’re really going to treat people equitably, an easy place to begin is with black names. White people, stop the laughter and giggles. I used to do it, myself, until I thought about it. Yes, I’m guilty of the same thing. But I stopped. You can, too.

It’s not the biggest thing in the world. It’s not even the most pressing thing. It’s not a matter of guilt. It’s a matter of fairness.

Because when the final role is taken of all America’s racists and bigots, do you really want your name to be on it?


NOTE: This article also was published on Everyday Feminism and the Badass Teachers Association blog.

A Lesson in Resistance – The Baltimore Uprising Comes to my Classroom

Black_Lives_Matter

 

There was anger in the air.

You could almost taste it.

The children filing into the classroom were mumbling to each other, gesticulating violently, pointing fingers.

And out of all that jumbled noise – like a TV showing a scrambled channel – only one word came through clearly.

Baltimore.

The bell rang its muffled cry – just another dissonant note lost in the chatter.

I held up my hands and began to quiet them.

But then stopped.

Exercises about vocabulary, analogies, sentence construction and figurative language waited patiently on the board. They’d have to wait until tomorrow.

There was something going on here more than just teenage drama. My middle school kids were shaken and upset. As a white teacher who presides over classes of mostly minority students, I shouldn’t have been surprised that the events in Baltimore would weigh heavily on their minds. They were on mine, too.

So I quieted my 8th graders with a question: “Are you talking about Baltimore?”

A collective shout of various disconnected assents.

“Who can tell me what’s happening there?” I asked.

They quieted and raised their hands.

We were back in school again.

They told me what they knew, which was surprisingly little. They knew people of color were rioting in Baltimore. They thought a black man had been shot.

I said, “He wasn’t shot. Does anyone know his name?”

No one did.

“Has anyone heard of Freddie Gray?” I asked.

None of them had. So I told them.

I told them that Gray was a 26-year-old black man in Baltimore who died under mysterious circumstances while in police custody. I told them he was arrested because he met an officer’s eye, got scared and ran. The police arrested him and found a knife on him.

I told them there was a cell phone video of Gray being arrested. He was being dragged to the police car screaming in pain. After about 30-45 minutes he was taken to the hospital. His spine was 80% severed from his neck. He had a bruised larynx and broken vertebrae. He eventually died from his injuries.

They wanted to see the video. At first I refused because I clung to some optimistic hope we might get back to my lesson plans. But one look at their eager faces and I gave in.

I have never heard them so silent. Never. They watched the video and an accompanying news report as if they were the about life and death. I guess they were.

Then we went around the room discussing what we’d seen and what it meant.

More than anything, I just let my kids talk.

You’d be amazed at what they had to say. Some highlights:

  • It’s really hard to be a black person in America. Black people – especially boys – are being murdered by the police. They assume if you’re sagging your pants, you have a gun on you.

 

  • White people can put their hair in cornrows and dress “ghetto” but when they change their hair back and put on different clothes, they’re still white. I can’t change my face. The police still look at me like I’m an animal and a criminal.

 

  • Lot of boys I know sell drugs so they can support their mommas. It’s not for them. They want their mommas to have it easier. They do it out of respect for all their mommas have sacrificed to bring them up and feed them.

 

  • There’s no such thing as race. It’s just a color. We’re all the same.

 

When it came to the riots, the class was sharply divided – and not on racial lines.

Some kids said that people rioting in Baltimore are being “trashy” and “ghetto.” They’re making black people look bad. “How does stealing the new Jordan’s help Freddie Gray?”

Others thought the violence was completely justified.

In fact, some of my girls were so angry they wanted to go to Baltimore and join the tumult. They were so mad, they wanted to ditch school and riot right here in Pennsylvania.

“This didn’t start with riots,” I told them. “It started with protests. Can someone tell me the difference?”

They calmed again and tried to answer the question.

We started to define both terms. We decide that a riot was chaos, unorganized and had no purpose. A protest was just the opposite – organized and purposeful.

The anger resurfaced.

“I don’t care, Mr. Singer!” a big girl in the back shouted. “They always be out to get us, and when it goes to court no one does nothing!”

I pointed in her direction and nodded. We talked about it. Many felt the same way. If you can’t trust the police and the courts, who can you trust?

I moved forward into the middle of the room.

Dr. Martin Luther King said, ‘The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.’ Does anyone know what that means?”

We decoded it. We decided it meant that it might take a long time, but justice usually wins in the end.

I nodded. 

I asked them if Dr. King ever rioted. They said no. I asked them if Dr. King ever protested. They smiled and said yes.

We talked about the Civil Rights movement. We talked about how organized, peaceful protests won us many of the rights we have today. We talked about Mahatma Gandhi and how passive resistance won the country of India.

And then the talk changed.

No more talk of riots.

We talked about protests – what they looked like today and how they worked.

“I’m going to go down Main Street and protest this Sunday,” another girl said with tears in her eyes. “I have the right to think my thoughts and no one can stop me thinking them.”

Others mumbled agreement and said they’d go with her.

I asked her what she’d do – just march back and forth. She didn’t know. I told her about die-ins – how people would just drop to the ground and stay there to represent the people being murdered.

The class took it from there. They planned to do a die-in. They’d do it at the exact time Freddie Gray died. They’d bring signs that said “Black Lives Matter.”

I asked the girl who originated the idea if she went to church. She said she did. I told her she might want to tell them what she was planning. She should tell her parents. Maybe they’d join her.

She beamed. Her grandfather is a retired police officer and she thought he’d come along. She said she’d talk with her pastor Saturday.

All this in the space of 45 minutes. 

By the time the bell rang again, they were literally marching and singing “Protest!” as they walked off to lunch.

We never got to the planned lesson, but I’m not sure that matters.

Did I overstep my bounds as teacher?

I don’t think so. Something had to be done. These kids were hot. They wanted to tear something apart. But after our discussion they had an outlet, a plan.

Will they go through with it? I don’t know.

Frankly, that wasn’t the point. In the classroom, I’m not an organizer. I’m a teacher.

I’ve lost too many kids to the streets. Drugs, violence, neglect, juvenile detention.

“Promise me something,” I said in the middle of our discussion.

“Mr. Singer, it looks like your going to start crying,” one of them said awed and frightened.

“Please. Whatever you do, be safe,” I said.

“If a cop asks you to do something, you do it. Don’t run. Don’t yell and scream.”

“But, Mr. Singer!”

“Honey,” I interrupted, “I’m not saying to give up fighting for your rights. But you have to live long enough to tell your story. Freddie Gray isn’t around to have his day in court. Neither is Trayvon, Michael or Eric. You know what I mean?”

They nodded.

Teachers can’t make anyone to do anything.

The only thing they can do is get you to think.

I did that. I just hope it’s enough.


NOTE: This article also was published on Commondreams.org, ConversationED, the Badass Teachers Association blog and I talked about it at length during an interview on the Rick Smith Show.

 

 


 

If One More White Person Asks Me to Condemn the Baltimore Riots…

many-children-among-crowd-at-Freddie-Gray-protest

It started as soon as I got to work.

“Bet you’re glad the history club isn’t going to Baltimore this year!”

A comment between two social studies teachers. Nudge. Nudge.

I moved on to my morning duty and a science teacher asked me, “How about all that looting and rioting in Baltimore?”

Smirk. Chuckle. Conspiratorial tone.

Then at lunch, they were talking about a “hilarious” video where a black mother was yelling and hitting her son for being part of the riots.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Am I the only white person who doesn’t need reassured?

Because that’s what they’re doing. They’re asking for confirmation, comfort, soothing.

It’s not white people’s fault. It’s those uppity… uh… black people.

Freddie Gray, a 25-year-old black man, died under mysterious circumstances two weeks ago in Baltimore police custody.

His spine was allegedly “80% severed” at his neck. He had three fractured vertebrae, and his larynx was injured.

Police say he was arrested without any violence. Bystanders say he was beaten with batons. A cell phone video shows him being dragged into custody while in visible agony.

And what did he do to attract police attention? He met an officer’s eyes and then ran. After tackling him to the ground, the police found a knife on him.

And now he’s dead.

It doesn’t take much to see why people are upset – especially people of color.

Yet another police encounter that leaves an African American dead with no provocation.

Peaceful protests took place on Saturday and no one paid much attention. Some protestors turned violent by Sunday and the story suddenly became those crazy black folks are destroying their own communities again.

And every white face I see wants me to join in the condemnation.

It’s the black people’s fault. They keep acting out.

What does this solve? What does it prove?

PLEASE! Do not assume that a lack of melanin in my cheeks means a lack of common sense.

Freddie Gray’s death is not an “excuse” to riot. No one sits around all day checking the headlines for a reason to go wild and set cars on fire. That kind of violence doesn’t just turn on at the flip of a switch.

It’s a slow burn in the pit of your belly, quietly consuming your insides until there’s no recourse left that makes sense. All you can do is scream and go crazy for a while.

Everyone’s done it. After a particularly bad day, the garbage disposal won’t open, so you kick it. You get some terrible news and scream at the neighbor’s dog.

You get it out. You take it out – usually on someone or something that doesn’t deserve it. Often hilariously so. The garbage disposal had nothing to do with my bad day. The neighbor’s dog didn’t cause my bad news.

It’s called being human. Looting and rioting are a more extreme version of the same thing. They don’t solve anything. But how dare you say you don’t understand!

Black people – especially men – are being murdered, and our justice system seems unable or unwilling to do anything about it.

Maybe there’s some strange extenuating circumstance that exonerates police in Gray’s death. But I doubt it. Even if they had nothing to do with his injuries, they certainly should have gotten him medical attention immediately after the arrest.

They are culpable. They were wrong.

Why can’t white people admit it?

We’re so afraid if we acknowledge white folks have done any wrong to black folks, it will start some kind of moral accountancy. Once we start, we’ll have to go through the racial debt point-by-point.

Freddie Gray will lead to Eric Garner, Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown. That will lead to unfair incarceration rates and sentencing. That will lead to Jim Crow laws. And before you know it, we’ll be talking about S-L-A-V-E-R-Y.

Can’t have that! It might make white people feel bad.

Some of us already feel bad. We feel bad that our black brothers and sisters have to keep putting up with defensive, frightened white people.

I am not afraid of black people. They are my friends, my neighbors, my students.

I am not afraid of exposing grievances. The truth deserves to be told.

I love black people. I love justice. And I want it for all of us.


NOTE: This article also was published in the LA Progressive and the Badass Teachers Association blog.