YES.

The Boyce Blog

by Dr. Boyce Watkins – Scholarship in Action

When I first thought about getting a PhD in Business, I found out about the PhD Project. This ground-breaking initiative had the simple goal of creating more black professors to sit in the front of the classroom. It was established by the KPMG Foundation, and from what I understand, might have been in response to a series of complaints about racism that the organization had received in the past.

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He doesn’t know

A few months ago, I came across a picture of a girl at a  Washington, DC protest.  She shared these important words: “My rapist doesn’t know that he’s a rapist.” I nodded, emphasized with her story, and hoped that no one I knew would ever have to share her experience.

Since then, I thought I had forgotten about the photo. But then a friend shared an intimate story with me, she had been violated by a man that thought it was mutual. Calmly I listened, and thought about my own experience with the person. Too many details were the same. It was scary. He was the embodiment of “that guy.” The one that aims to sleep with as many women as possible, convince himself that everybody wants him, and then he gets some sort of STD or STI or something…that’s what they teach us right before we get to college. Be careful when you go out, count your drinks to make sure you don’t black out and end up raped, matter fact, you probably shouldn’t go out altogether because you could end up with a spiked drink and get raped…and the list of warnings go on.

Then rape, usually intentional sexual violence against someone, is akin to any type of homicidal violence to another being. These are not the same, and they should not be treated as such. A homicide is not the same as rape. Rape can end in homicide but when you die, your death is no longer personal, the pain is left with the people who remember and love you. With rape, the pain internalizes often itself within the victim and creates monstrous burden of pain. Its important to note these differences because by disregarding them, we actively diminish the voices that often go unheard or often painted in a blanket of heterosexual and patriarchal narrative  (how often do we discuss or hear about queer rape–both WSM and MSM, men raped by women, transgendered rape, or incestuous rape?). Though victim blaming in recent cases have been used rape as a reference point, I find them to be violence of entirely different measures, means, and ends. In the discourse of victim blaming, the victim essentially is held responsible for the abuse that they have endured. Let me make one thing clear, it is never the victim’s fault for being raped. I find it troublesome to reference rape in the case of Trayvon Martin, because again, we perpetuate the  traditional structures of gendered weakness through the use of our rhetoric.

My friend’s story disclosed the silent pain victims of rape and sexual assault deal with daily, especially if when seeing their attacker frequently. In reflecting on my friend’s experience, I decided I would write a poem. Though this poem is written in a heterosexual narrative, I would like to repeat that sexual violence is not limited to a male as the perpetrator and the female as the victim. I don’t know what it is with me and dark poetry lately, but it appears to be my style. For me, I read and hear people’s personal stories, I can almost touch their pain, I am moved, so I write:

He doesn’t know

He doesn’t know
that when he enters the room
my heart skips 10 beats
cowers under my breast
and begins pumping with anxiety

Beating fear and hate into the streams of life
hammering shame into the warmth of my insides
bleeding guilt from the pierce of his manipulation

He doesn’t know
that everyday I try to scrub his tattooed touch from my skin
that when I lay in my coffin of sheets
I can only cringe
with squeeze of memories from that night.

He doesn’t know
that when he comes near me,
his stench fills my nostrils
repulsion crawls up my esophagus
tip-toes on my taste buds
and dances with detest on my lips

He doesn’t know
that every time his name crosses my roads
my lungs react with courage
closing off all paths to tears of remembrance.

He doesn’t know.

Maybe he does.

I don’t know.

He doesn’t.
He smiles.
My stomach churns.

He doesn’t.
He stares.
He does.
My knees buckle
He laughs.
He doesn’t.
My fingers tremble.

He stares.

He can’t know,
if he knows…
Thoughts?

(A breakdown of my thoughts on the Trayvon, Shaima, and McDade cases coming soon as well as a reflection on heteronormativity.)

“I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.”

–Audre Lorde

 

 

I don’t mind being the Crazy Woman

Lately, I’ve been on my own beat–more so than usual. In reflecting about why…I ran across a poem by the late Gwendolyn Brooks that grasped my feelings.

Brooks discusses this traverse rhythm of living, steps back and decides, no….I’m going to do this. This, in the poem, is singing a song of gray, in the cold, and sing terribly. For readers, “this” expands to any decision that challenges the norm. For me, I try to make that every decision.

In high school, above every doorway in the school were quotes, and one of the quotes that stayed with me was by George S. Patton:

“If everyone is thinking alike, then somebody isn’t thinking.”

Now, while I am not sure what context this was said, I don’t think that is very important. George S. Patton was a United States army officer, where soldiers are taught to dress alike, walk alike, act alike, and be perceived as one. Yet, Patton challenges this notion of uniformity (no pun intended). If everyone is thinking alike then who is actually thinking? Brooks understands this quite well, and addresses the minions of mundane world, who like Patton implies, “aren’t thinking.” Brooks uses this element of time through symbolism of the Gregorian calendar. Why May and not June or April for a gay song? Why not December or October to sing a song of gray? May represents the entrance into summer, Mother’s Day, Cinco de Mayo, flowers blooming, a time when everyone is “supposed” to be happy. But Brooks…Brooks decides otherwise. She’ll sing when she wants to sing and what she wants to sing…and that autonomy is when that I have to respect.

So when people see me doing my own thing…and get a little caught up in asking why…well, I guess I’ll be the “Crazy Woman/Who would not sing in May.”

THE CRAZY WOMAN

I shall not sing a May song.
A May song should be gay.
I’ll wait until November
And sing a song of gray.

I’ll wait until November
That is the time for me.
I’ll go out in the frosty dark
And sing most terribly.

And all the little people
Will stare at me and say,
“That is the Crazy Woman
Who would not sing in May.”

I wrote the following poem in reflecting on history, thinking about how different factors dictated by social forces of race and gender have produced today. I hope you enjoy it!

      War Raped Dreams

      Greed teamed up with War at that one conference
      War whispered…
      Playing telephone
      starting with Truth
      blurred with Lies
      ending at Good intentions

      Greed took he, his brothers Good Intentions, and cousins Lies
      and walked over to the land of darkness
      and chalked out a playground

      After you, said the Englishman
      No, no, après vous, said the Frenchman
      Oh! Para mi? Gracias!, said the Spaniard
      Leading their family and friends to a game of chess

      Each took turns,
      waltzing through a board outlined by Greed
      leaving deep imprints of their loud presence
      kneading themselves into the dough of the people
      subtracting the crust of language
      adding the liquidating effects of whiteness
      a drop of pity
      a few pinches of religion
      blending them together
      and serving the 21st century on a platter

      In the meantime,
      War raped Dreams and conceived
      A carved mold of a foreseeable child:
      Conflict

      Conflict tossed between two worlds:
      one of what could have been
      the other of what should be
      faced with what is

      Conflict guided Pawns
      from country to country
      through desert
      seeking refuge
      but finding
      Death
      or better, a camp
      or worse, a camp

      Conflict quietly followed and watched as
      They embraced the hands of Aid
      who introduced them to his wife AIDS
      who introduced them to TB, Cholera, Diarrhea
      and other desperate housewives

      Versatile War served as a reverend
      over the union between the now desperate Pawned Refugee
      and E,
      short for Embassy
      And traumatized Dreams served as an usher

      War slipped away every night and fucked Good Intentions,
      screaming, “I’m doing this for you!”

      And Dreams fled with Pawn
      taking Conflict with her,
      starting a new game of chess
      with the same set of Pawns
      Kings and Queens

      While Lies assassinated Truth
      in Burkina Faso,
      Birmingham,
      Russia,
      Cuba,
      London,
      Colombia,
      and more…

      But no one told Lies
      that Truth
      reincarnated herself in
      autobiographies,
      folk tales,
      short stories.
      poems,
      and novels

      Inscribing her soul into the hearts of the Pawn-ian People

    I welcome any and all feedback on this poem!
    *If you pass this poem on, please cite this blog as the author*

Racism: Not over

About two weeks ago, a photo of a white woman dressed in flight attendant attire addressing passengers on a plane went viral on Facebook.

It didn’t exactly go viral because of the photo, but instead because of the story that was spelled out beneath. Below is a copy of the story.

“A 50-something year old white woman arrived at her seat and saw that the passenger next to her was a black man.
Visibly furious, she called the air hostess.
“What’s the problem, ma’am?” the hostess asked her
“Can’t you see?” the lady said – “I was given a seat next to a black man. I can’t seat here next to him. You have to change my seat”
“Please, calm down, ma’am” – said the hostess,  “Unfortunately, all the seats are occupied, but I’m still going to check if we have any.”
The hostess left and returned some minutes later.
“Madam, as I told you, there isn’t any empty seat in this class- economy class. But I spoke to the captain and he confirmed that there isn’t any empty seats in the economy class. We only have seats in the first class.”
And before the woman said anything, the hostess continued
“Look, it is unusual for our company to allow a passenger from the economy class change to the first class. However, given the circumstances, the commandant thinks that it would be a scandal to make a passenger travel sat next to an unpleasant person.”
And turning to the black man, the hostess said:
“Which means, Sir, if you would be so nice to pack your handbag, we have reserved you a seat in the first class…”
And all the passengers nearby, who were shocked to see the scene started applauding, some standing on their feet.”

Ok. After reading it, I became upset because my mind was spinning with all the problems poised in the scenario.

For one. We are applauding?
I get it. Racism is bad. As a poor, black woman, a woman, poor, and black, or black woman and poor,  marginalized in an all white, upper-class social setting, I constantly have to prove that I worked hard to get here. So empathy, I am there.

Now. If I get on a plane and an old white woman says she does not want to sit next to me and then the rest of the plane applauds when she does not get what she wants, all we have done is shamed her into thinking what she requested was wrong. And indeed it was.

HOWEVER. This scenario also speaks about how eager how society is to dismiss the prevalence of racism.

Racism is real.

Racism is embedded in our social systems, indoctrinated in how we interact with people from different backgrounds, and impossible to give a clear end date to its power. It has become modernized through time to the point in which those who are oppressed by its overwhelming power cannot identify it as clearly as the “white” fountain and the “black” fountain.

Albert Memmi states that “There is a strange kind of enigma associated with the problem of racism. No one, or almost no one, wishes to see themselves as racist; still, racism persists, real and tenacious.” Memmi asserts in his book, Racism, that racism is not personal, it is general. It is social, not “natural” and it’s tragically effective.

Anyone that argues against this assertion, please look up the number of frisks of young black men, per day, in New York City, and then look up the same statistic for young white men. Too lazy? Here:

Young, Black, and Frisked by the NYPD:
Why is the NYPD After Me?

Click to access CCR_Stop_and_Frisk_Fact_Sheet.pdf

These statistics, of course, don’t include the number of times those with authority did not report a frisk.  

http://www.thirdworldtraveler.com/Prison_System/Masked_Racism_ADavis.html

If the numbers in the link above are not a reaffirmation of the systematic racist structures that frame our livelihoods of inequality or for some, privilege, you are welcome to stop reading. 

Toure, cultural critic, argues that  “Modern racism is a much more subtle, nuanced, slippery beast than its father or grandfather were. It has ways of making itself seem to not exist, which can drive you crazy trying to prove its existence sometimes. You’re in Target. Is the security guard following you? You’re not sure. You think he is but you can’t be certain. Maybe the guard is Black, so if you tried to explain it to a white friend they might not understand it as racist, but the guard’s boss isn’t Black. Or maybe he is. Maybe what you’re feeling are his ashamed vibes as if he’s sending you a silent signal of apology for following you. Or maybe…now you’re looking for the Tylenol for migraines when you all you needed was toothpaste.”

But a competent person knows when they are being dehumanized, all the “greats” of the black community have experienced their “nigger wake-up call,” (Comedian Paul Mooney) and no one is an exception to it, no matter how intelligent or how rich (not wealthy) you are. (See comedian Chris Rock on his contrast between rich and wealthy).

The worst part about racism is that when you try to explain your dehumanizing experience to someone who has one, never experienced by treated like a nigger or two, refuses to believe racism is still alive–in which case, you are treated as if you are crazy or paranoid, just as Touré explained. Then you are faced with a decision, to sing a May song or wait until November.

So why did I open with the story that has been going viral on Facebook? Because I wanted to explicate my belief that racism is always in the hands of those in power. In that story,  we do not hear the perspective of the black man who’s entire being was spat upon by a bigoted white woman. Instead, we hear the story of the white flight attendant that came to his rescue and really says, cheer up young chap, I’m here to save you from this racist white woman. From that, I would argue:

There are two things wrong with the presented scenario. 

1. The harm’s already been done. The black man has already been reminded that he is a nigger. That it doesn’t matter whether if he had 1,000, 000,000 dollars in his suitcase to negotiate the biggest deal in history with a PhD from Harvard. He’s black and doesn’t belong. OH, but now, he’s riding in first class.

2. You fail to realize that this means that racism has and always will be in the hands of the white oppressor. This includes the probable white captain, white flight attendant, and white bigot. Notice that the white flight attendant did not speak to the black passenger, ask him what he would like to do, how he was feeling, or how he would like them to respond. Yes, I am well aware that she followed protocol by going straight to her white pilot, but perhaps he wanted stay right where he was. He was still ultimately told what to do and how to do it and the white bigot still won, she did not have to sit next to that unpleasant black man.

Let me be clear, once more, that the action that the flight attendant did was appropriate, but if it was me, I would do one of two things.

I would make her sit with the black man and make her realize that he is just as human she is, they both have to use the restroom, they both speak, they both have DNA, and they both have hearts.

Or. I would kick the woman off of the plane, not let her stay in coach. Any person who has the ability to completely demoralize and degrade someone’s very being should not be in the presence of another civil being. Period.

But that what racism is, its makes you remind the “other” that he or she is an “other.” They can never be equal to you, or anything close to it, that must you must always treat the “other” like they are different. (“You” referring to the white norm of the United States of America.)

Eduardo Bonilla-Silva, the author of Racism without Racists: Color-Blind Racism & Racial Inequality in Contemporary America,  Bonilla-Silva challenges color-blind thinking through documenting how under the rhetorical maze of contemporary racial discourse lies a full-blown arsenal of arguments, phrases, and stories that whites use to account for–and ultimately justify–racial inequities.

Now, this description was paraphrased from the back of Bonilla-Silva’s book and is layered with complicated language that confuse readers. Color-blind racism simply engages the uses of subtle racism but still very much as damaging as the racism before it was played out to be racist. (In a later blog, I will discuss this topic.)

Racism’s purpose is to do one thing, to remind one group of the other’s superiority, whether intentional or in a tranquil fashion, people of color face this reminder everyday. Some just got their alarm clocks set earlier than others.

Opening Address

Hello.

Don’t worry about who I am. The name used on this site is a fake. If you actually care enough to find out who I am, you have entirely way too much time on your hands.

Instead. Read what I have to say. Agree. Disagree. I really don’t care, the whole point of this blog is to create a space to tell the world what I want to actually say out loud.

Rules.

I am going to try my best not to swear, and I hope you’ll extend me the same courtesy.

I’m a pretty flexible gal, so I really don’t have any other rules besides expecting respect. Period.

Things to know.

I hate pigeons.

I am terrified of squirrels.

I love injera. (If you do not know what this means, please, go and find the nearest Eritrean or Ethiopian family or restaurant and try some. It will change your taste buds forever).

I have an on-and-off again relationship with liking people.

I’m indifferent to colors.

I despise indifference.

Yes, those last two sentences contradicted each other. I’m complex.

If you’re asking why my blog is named “prudishlyfrank,” its rather simple, really. I’m a prude and I pride myself on being completely frank (well, most of the time).

In my next blog, I plan to write about my analysis on the politics of the recent photo of the racist scenario that took place on a plane. It should be out sometime next week.

Until then, please, continue to look out into the world for other forms of electronical distraction…and no, I don’t mean porn. I’m a prude, remember?

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