Rachel L. Swarns and Darcy Eveleigh, Feb. 4, 2017, The New York Times
The copper-jacketed bullet tore through a civil rights worker’s shoulder, stopping within an inch of his spine. The shotgun blast shattered the car windows of four voting rights activists and gouged the wall of a nearby home.
And a fire destroyed voter registration equipment and materials outside the city’s Voter Registration Headquarters, leaving the street strewn with rubble.
It was 1963 in Greenwood, Miss., a major battleground in the fight for civil rights, and white officials were playing down and ignoring a series of attacks intended to discourage thousands of African-Americans from registering to vote.
Claude Sitton, the renowned New York Times correspondent, shot photos and took meticulous notes, exposing the racial violence with his pen and with his lens.
A data mapping project by Bill Rankin and Matt Daniels, The Pudding
Of all the stats about US prisons, Louisiana’s incarceration rate is among the most shocking. For every 100,000 residents, 868 are in state prison. That’s 0.86% of Louisiana’s population, or nearly 1 in 100 (the worst among all states).
This is what people must mean by mass incarceration.
Instead of debating drug reform or systemic police discrimination, we want to understand prison rates historically. Inspired by Ava DuVernay’s documentary 13th, we began with the idea that the South’s approach to incarceration has its roots in slavery. Or more specifically, in the Jim Crow laws that targeted former slaves after the Civil War. These laws were eventually abolished, but we know that their legacy continues to the present day. Louisiana’s tragic incarceration rate is just one example among many.
CHURCH CREEK, MD. — She preferred moving in the darkness of long winter nights. She didn’t wait for late passengers: The “train” for Zion always left on time. And she carried a pistol, in case of trouble or flagging hearts.
Her branch of the line began here, on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, near places like Tobacco Stick, Kentuck Swamp, and Skeleton Creek, off the Choptank River, to the north.
She was small and the color of a chestnut, as her owner described her when she first ran away. But she was hardened by whippings and work on the timber gangs, and she knew the wilderness as well as a hunter.
On March 11, the National Park Service and the Maryland State Park Service plan to unveil a new visitor center here dedicated to the life and mission of abolitionist and legendary Underground Railroad conductor Harriet Tubman.
By Jennifer Schuessler, March 5, 2017, The New York TimesCAMBRIDGE, Mass. — In 1976, archivists at Harvard’s natural history museum opened a drawer and discovered a haunting portrait of a shirtless enslaved man named Renty, gazing sorrowfully but steadily at the camera. Taken on a South Carolina plantation in 1850, it had been used by the Harvard biologist Louis Agassiz to formulate his now-discredited ideas about racial difference.
On Friday, Harvard’s president, Drew Gilpin Faust, stood at a lectern under a projection of Renty’s face and began a rather different enterprise: a major public conference exploring the long-neglected connections between universities and slavery.
Harvard had been “directly complicit” in slavery, Ms. Faust acknowledged, before moving to a more present-minded statement of purpose.
“Only by coming to terms with history,” she said, “can we free ourselves to create a more just world.”
The gathering, which featured a keynote address by the writer Ta-Nehisi Coates, (above) drew an overflow crowd of about 500, including researchers from more than 30 campuses. Between sessions, there was plenty of chatter about grants and administration politics, as well as some wry amazement, as one scholar was overheard saying that “something we’ve been talking about for 200 years has suddenly become urgent.”
More than half a century after Rosa Parks refused to move to the back of the bus in Montgomery, Alabama, prompting an 11-month boycott that led to integration of that city’s bus system, African Americans and Latinos are still struggling with an unequal transit system.
But in January 2010, U.S. Transportation Secretary Ray LaHood announced that the Obama administration would shift the policy one hundred and eighty degrees. “There’s no question that this administration is going to take a careful look at civil rights compliance on the part of transit agencies,” Federal Transit Administrator Peter Rogoff says. “I think it’s fair to say there wasn’t a lot of attention paid to it in recent years.”
I don’t remember the first time someone told me I was White. But I definitely remember the last.
It was the summer of my junior year in college and I was a new student orientation leader. My university was diverse but mostly segregated, and this staff was about half White and half Black – plus me. Tensions became apparent early on: miscommunications, presumptions, an offensive skit impersonation. I remember feeling unsettled about how I was situated in all of this. After one of the meetings where things got heated, Sheri, one my Black colleagues, rolled her eyes at me and said, C’mon, Amy, you’re basically White.
I was pretty butt-hurt. With that one assertion, it felt like Sheri tried to erase all the times I was called Chink on the playground or was fetishized by horny White dudes. I wasn’t White. The world definitely doesn’t see me as White. But I wasn’t Black either. The violent history of anti-Blackness in the US was not something I felt like I could fully relate to.
Sheri said that to me ten years ago but it resonates with me more than ever. Police brutality and the devaluation of Black and Brown bodies is nothing new, but it grows increasingly clear that we are at a critical point right now, a new civil rights movement. And yet, anti-Blackness is a concept still largely unexplored by transracial Asian adoptees. From reading coded indignation about not wanting to play the race card like thatgroup on adoptee forums, to hearing n*gger during a Korean culture camp skit this summer, I have generally witnessed silence from our adopted community in both live and online spaces as our Black brothers and sisters continue to fight for their lives to matter.
The short answer to this post’s title is: because it’s simply the right fucking thing to do.
But I will indulge those of you who would like a bit more elaboration.
Because we, as transracial adoptees, know that race matters
We know firsthand how we are treated differently from our White families. We experience the microaggressions; we roll our eyes when asked Where are you from? because the answer is Tuscon or Milwaukee or Sarasota. We are victims of stereotyping: the passive Geisha, the asexual nerd, the delivery person. These associations can make us feel small, less-than, and ineffective in our relationships, classrooms, and workplaces. So we know race matters, but it is important we examine how some racial stereotypes can be advantages while others are deadly. After being helped by a stranger to break into a friend’s home (to retrieve a requested package), Liz Lin reflects,
Would this person have ever let me into the apartment if I were a black man? I’m not a betting person, but even I would put serious money on the answer being no. I probably would’ve been asked to leave the premises, too. Yes, I experience a host of disadvantages as an Asian American woman, but I can’t deny that I also have a number of privileges — one of which is that no one ever suspects me of wrongdoing.
This is not to say that it is simple for us to navigate and situate ourselves within a shifting space of a racial hierarchy. Nor is this the Oppression Olympics where we clamor for who has it best or worst. Lin’s point about not being suspected of wrongdoing is well taken, but we must also remember that there have been a number of cases of police brutality and other forms of systematic violence and oppression involving Asian Americans.
Because the Model Minority Myth is being used as a tool to perpetuate Anti-Blackness
As Asian adoptees, many of us joke about how so many of the stereotypes were actually positive: good at math, hard working, can play the violin – but few of us really know the origin of the Model Minority Myth and how it was used to perpetuate anti-Blackness. In his piece about this phenomenon, Professor David Shih writes,
The model minority stereotype has always been less about praising Asian people than it has been about shaming black people.
The doctored portrayal, which dates to 1966, was intended to shame African-American activists whose demands for equal civil rights threatened a centuries-old white society. (The original story in the New York Times thrust forward an image of Japanese-Americans quietly rising to economic successes despite the racial prejudice responsible for their unjust internment during World War II.)
Many Asian adoptees, including myself, have benefited from this myth. It is time for us to learn the full history and context around this idea and see how it continues to perpetuate other forms of racism and classism within and beyond Asian American communities.
Because we must continue to explore the intersection of economic class and race
This is not true for every transracial adoptee, but many of us grew up with a certain level of economic privilege as financial stability is a requirement when couples are screened for adoption. This was definitely the case for me. It wasn’t until I was in a serious relationship with someone from a working class background that I really began to explore my economic privilege. I realized how the financial stability I’ve had my entire life shaped my view of the world and my inherent biases about hard work, saving, and earning money. Once I began to explore this for myself, I started to see how larger structures and institutions oppress and destabilize people of color through poverty. This is not dissimilar with single mothers in places like Korea, who were often forced to relinquish their children for adoption because they did not have enough financial support to raise the child on their own. Often, we as transnational adoptees are the result of the financial disparity between a mother in a developing country and a White, Western couple with financial privilege who want kids. Our lives have been impacted greatly by this and we should see how similar wealth inequality leads to the oppression of Black communities as well.
Because there are Black transracial adoptees. And Black-Asian transracial adoptees. And Black children of Asian adoptees.
We know what it is like to grow up in a family that does not fully understand the experiences of a person of color. There have a been a number of pieces written by White adoptive parents of Black adoptees admitting to being unable to fully prepare their adopted sons and daughters to engage safely with their blackness in the world. This has had real and violent consequences. Many of the first wave of Korean adoptees being sent abroad were both Black and Korean, as a result of US soldiers sleeping with Korean women. I spoke to one of the counselors for the Korean culture camp I taught at this summer. He told me about his struggle between his Blackness and Koreanness, feeling rejected by both these communities respectively, struggling to find a sense of self despite this. Working in solidarity with the #BlackLivesMatter movement supports people within and connected to our expansive, shifting, and complex adoptee communities, communities that have always included and will continue to include Blackness.
Because we have unique access and privilege within White spaces
When Sheri said I was basically White, she was calling me out on my assimilation. In order to get what I wanted in my education, my work, and in many of my personal relationships, I became as American and as White as possible. I was the first to crack self-deprecating Asian jokes in school or indulged others when they made them about me. I made it absolutely clear that English was my first and only language and that I was not some foreigner or immigrant like those people. I only dated and befriended White people.
I played White. And I’ve been rewarded for that. I have been given access to White spaces in ways other people of color have not. As transracial adoptees, in these spaces and relationships: our families, friends, churches, schools, we have an opportunity and a responsibility to discuss and engage about #BlackLivesMatter. We should never underestimate the power of acting in solidarity with those who are also or further oppressed than us. Let’s use this access to speak about empathy, collective experience and healing, and undoing injustice.
Because White supremacy hurts all of us
In his poignant piece about how the story of his father connects with that of Trayvon Martin’s, Arthur Chu explores the domestic truth for both Black Americans and Asian immigrants alike:
This Is Not Your Country. You can live here. You can make friends. You can try to live by the law and be a decent citizen and even maybe make a lot of money. But you will never, ever belong. You will never, ever be one of them.
I will never fully understand my former colleague Sheri’s experience in the world as a Black woman and she will never fully know mine as a transracial Korean adoptee. But even though it manifests in different ways for us, White hegemony has impacted and hurt us both. In his brilliant post, “Ferguson to Asian Americans: Deconstructing Silence,” Nate J. Lee writes,
Given that the U.S. economy and political system are rooted in anti-blackness, claiming our place in America means that we must take a position when faced with the separate but unequal worlds of whiteness and blackness. We are either left or right of the color line. There is no sitting that out.
The decision we, as Asian adoptees, need to make is whether or not we want to change injustice or if we want to perpetuate it. We must continue to explore our own biases and anti-Blackness as products of White families, education, and media. It is time for us to acknowledge the privileges we’ve been afforded through our White upbringing, economic advantages, and our assimilation. It is time to see the ways our stories with our Black brothers and sisters intersect and the painful and tragic ways they diverge and to stand in solidarity with them.
It is time for us to start giving a shit.
Your turn: In what ways do you as an adoptee recognize areas where you are privileged? Where you have assimilated into dominant culture? What are steps you can take to engage with others about #BlackLivesMatter?
[As an actor trainer, I somewhat paradoxically encourage White students, in addition to students with more pluralistic backgrounds to explore their heritage as there are some interesting ways immigrantness can manifest in our identity, even many generations removed. Although I don’t like it when people lean on their immigrantness to avoid discussions of privilege, I do honor the influence our backgrounds can potentially have on us.]
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