If you're reading my blog, and you're really, really angry, I suspect you may be one of those "white liberals" about whom I write. If you're calling me nasty names because you think I'm talking about you or one of your best friends or your cousin, then you're probably one of them. If you're reading my blog and are only able to see yourself, you might just be guilty. There are a whole lotta white women reading this blog who don't share your anger. They encourage me to do what I must do.

My partner, who is white, is wringing her hands. She's "worried" and "nervous" as much for herself as for me. Maybe more. I get it. I really do. It would be tough to have me as a partner under this circumstance, particularly where we live and work. Our friends are white; we live in a rural white area. She believes that she, too, will suffer consequences for my blog. Does this mean that I should stop writing? It's cathartic. I need it. I have needed it for a very long time.

I've received incredible support from women of color who seem to understand. I've received messages from women all over the country--African-American, Native American, Latinas who get it. I've received incredible support from white women who are able to see beyond themselves. I also have some male readers who offer a remarkably different perspective.

I'm reminded of the late 1960s and early 1970s feminism. The chasm between middle-class white feminists and we women of color was, or so we thought we the time, one that would never close. We've made great strides toward closing the gap. My second mother attends a group, "Black and White Women Together," and we speak often about how difficult communication and understanding are to achieve. Were I in a more racially diverse area, we women of color would have alternatives. We would have social outlets; friendships with women from our own ethnic groups; we would have choices. In this place, our friends are our colleagues; there is no separation between the personal and the professional. That's why my partner is worried. When I lose here, I lose the personal and the professional--friends who are colleagues. There's no where else to go.

This blog has been a kind of freedom for me. I make no rules at work. Ordinarily, my voice and my feelings don't really matter. And again, in this case, my means our. The funny thing about "doing diversity" on a predominantly white campus is that we never get to do it. For example, I've participated in "diversity" organizations for the entire time I've been an academic. All the institutions with which I've been affiliated have claimed to want to "recruit and retain faculty of color." Early on, I was inclined to believe that, but after a few years, it occurred to me that there was one missing piece. Not one administration has ever met with us folks of color to ask some critical questions. The first would be: "Why do you come to this university"? Seems that the varied number of responses to that question would give some insight into recruitment of faculty of color. Other questions? "Why do you remain at this university"? Remember, for most of the years that I've been in this business, faculty of color have had choices. Fewer now, but it still seems important to determine why we stay, especially if an institution is really interested in diversity. We head diversity task forces, but we don't do more meaningful work. I suspect a group of faculty of color could develop a comprehensive plan and program for recruitment of faculty of color and likely a good one for retention as well. We have never been approached. Diversity is the first casualty when funds are "tight."

What I'm saying is that this blog has given me voice in a way that I have never been able to achieve it on any campus. I can talk about how I feel; it feels; it has felt for all these many years.
Despite my partner's nervousness and worry; despite my own fears, this is something I must do for me, for my silent sisters and brothers in this place and others. This life ain't no joke. The price for this success is high, and for everyone who tells us how "easy" this ought to be, I'd offer you the opportunity to be the lone (or one of three or four) white faculty member on a campus in an all black "village" in the rural South or on a reservation or in the barrio in any urban area. No escape. Work and live there. Make a life. Assimilate. Yeah, do that. Later.

FRIENDS AND FRIENDS......

One of my friends thinks I'm profoundly unhappy because I've had a varied and eventful life. She thinks I'm pessimistic. I'm not generally angry. No question but that I'm angry about racism, but I'm also angry about our human acceptance of injustice in general. I suspect many of us who think beyond ourselves and our particular situations are angry. Anger is often appropriate. Conflict is also appropriate. Neither suggests unhappiness. They rather suggest a deep desire to see things change; to see humans be our best selves. Rather than profound unhappiness and pessimism, anger and conflict suggest that I believe that change is possible. As to happiness, I know and experience joy and contentment in a way that, in an earlier life, I never dreamed possible. I've had the good fortune to achieve most of my goals. I have absolutely everything that I need. I have a cranky, loving and loyal partner who loves me fiercely and well. I have two great dogs and a very troublesome cat. I've been all over the world. I have more than two pairs of underwear, so I don't have to wash a pair every night. I have more than two pairs of shoes. I can go to the grocery store and buy any kind of steak I want (if I wanted to). I can go to the dentist regularly. I don't have to work two jobs. When I look out my window I see trees, a river, the steeple of the chapel at my university. I have good and loyal friends who put up with me, and mind you, my friends are all kinds of people from all kinds of places. I have no enemies. I've tried. Doesn't work. (This doesn't mean that some don't view me as their enemy). No matter how hard I try, I'm fundamentally incapable of holding a grudge. There have been times when I've tried really, really hard. I hate no one. I love easily. Trust too easily. I'm acutely aware of my faults and flaws. I'm conscious of the ways in which I need to change. Although I'm not "religious" in that condescending kinda way, I find the life and person of Jesus pretty remarkable. And no, I'm not talking about Jesus as a "divinity." There are others whom I admire and try to emulate: Gandhi. Sojourner Truth. Faulkner. Marcia Thomas, my undergrad roommate. Quakers in general for what I learned from them. Elaine White. Gayl Jones, Doris Stormoen, Andrea Smith, a former student; my sister, Colena Johnson-Kemp. All flawed but remarkably decent people who represent, in so many ways, the woman I'd like to be. I'm still becoming. Not done. I like that about myself.

I hate hurting people, but I also recognize that it happens sometimes. I can ask for forgiveness. Apologizing is neither difficult nor distasteful. I do not apologize for who I am or being me. I've been cured of that. It took me a very, very long time to like myself--lots of years and a good bit of "seat time" with a counselor. I've arrived. It's often difficult in this kind of setting. I have to withstand the criticisms: too harsh, too forthright, too hurtful, too too. I have to withstand the losses as well. Of course I'm pained by the losses, but I have to put them in perspective. As I review the responses to my anger of late, I can put them into a few categories: There are those who believe they are the "targets" of the anger, and they're right.....but not really. The system, institutional racism, is the real target. But institutional racism is moved along by collaborators and facilitators. Ironically, they see themselves as "our" biggest champions. Those women, for they have been the inspiration for my anger, are likely losses. They are seething in silence. I'm confident that they are, for the most part, losses. I can name them one by one. They have the most to lose since so much of their identity depends on being "progressive" and "liberal." If I (and I mean we) don't accept it, then that's complicated. There are two choices: Engage me or dismiss me. Most choose to dismiss. "Friendships" done. They are very, very angry.

Other friends, concerned about my use of the term "white liberal," owned the designation. I explained why most didn't fall into the category. Yes, they are both liberal and progressive. No, they are not "white liberals," a term for which I'm developing a publishable definition. They are good people who care enough to reach out, to ask, to wanna know. Nothing at stake. No relationship held in the balance. Just "hey, that's me?" Nope. Not you. Liberal? Yes, but not that. Friends? Yes, indeed.

The third category are those who know so well that they're not implicated that they read, chuckle, comment and encourage the blog. These women (and a man or three) just get it. They just get it. They're not threatened or defensive or angry. They are absolutely secure. They love me, understand in some inexplicably profound way, and support me in my efforts to expose racism and promote and advocate change. To do what I'm compelled to do. Friends with few conditions.

So I got mad love and mad joy and mad contentment. Just do!

ONE OF THOSE DAYS

It's been one of those days. You'd think after 12 years that I'd be accustomed to it. I'm not. Before I enter the all white room, I get queasy and nervous--embarrassed because I know what's coming. It's not a university event. Before I walk into the room, I breathe deeply and hope that there's at least one person I know at the event. I enter. I feel the stares. See the raised eyebrows. I'm mortified. I smile. I'm miserable. No one ever believes that I'm painfully shy in social situations; more so in this kind of situation. I frantically scan the room for one familiar face. And then someone "recognizes" me. "Hi, Shaun." I get a big hug. How do I tell her that I did not deliver that "powerful sermon" last Sunday? Do I embarrass her because I'm embarrassed? I let her think that I am Shaun. I smile. Another assures that he "has met me before." Indeed, I've been to a party at his home. It does me no good to tell him that I've never seen him before in my life or set foot in his home. He assures me that I have, and he's sure because "I" am the only black women he's seen. I was at a meeting at SUNY Potsdam last week. Nope. I work for dining services, don't I? Nope. "Are you the one who.......?" No, I'm not that one. "Where are you from?" Mars. "What do you do here?" Teach. "Where?" St. Lawrence. "Ohhhhhhh, how nice for you." Why? And no, I wasn't at IT this morning or the gym or in ODY. It was Gloria Naylor who spoke a graduation, not I. And no, doctor, for the third time, I have never been pregnant. No miscarriages. Wouldn't I have been pregnant first? No, no abortions. Yes, it's possible for a black woman to be 60 and never pregnant. I wasn't in your "check-out line" yesterday. You didn't serve me at your restaurant last night. No, I'm not one of "the ones" who lives in the apartment complex on Judson. Here, in this special place, my people are still referred to as "colored people." When my students who "have never had a black teacher before" or who "live in an all white town" find me intimidating, I need to be patient. After all........ when I talk about "race," I'm reflecting my "bias." When I'm being the only me I know how to be, I'm too "scary to approach." Curio, that's me. Later.

'IF I COULD WRITE THIS IN FIRE"

I constantly question why I am often, or so it seems, the lone person who holds a particular position on an issue. I use the criticisms as a way of judging myself. My initial instinct is to always look at myself through another's eyes and then take myself to task for the error. "Why am I always the solitary voice"? Does the fact that it is solitary necessarily make it wrong? I marvel at the simplicity with which others approach my comments, criticisms and judgments. They speak as though they know me; as though their world is mine. They speak in the platitudes and cliches that they have learned. They demand explanations that make sense to them, but the context from which I come and from which I speak made and makes no sense. They violate all the rules with which I grew. People half my age tell me how I should behave; who I should love and why. People explain the logic of their positions--not mine. Logic? Like Jim Crow kinda logic? Law? Like that kinda law? And then there's "love," and I use the term lightly. This is not the kind of love with which I grew. It is not the love I know. This love is a weapon. It whips me into shape. It says "you are my friend," but I bow under the weight of its conditions. It demands "civility, and it demands low tones and avoidance of conflict; it avoids challenge, and it will never, ever say "you're right." In twenty years I have never, been right on any issue that pertained to race. Let me say this again: in twenty years, no white colleague has ever deferred to me when race is the issue. I am astonished. My positions represent "essentialism," and that is another way of saying they don't mean anything to us. It is also another way of saying that I don't know one damn thing about being a black woman in this world. My vision is too narrow; my education is incomplete. The antidote to my ignorance is white women--liberal and learned white women who have studied me, and who "love" me in spite of myself. These are Facebook friendships. We move in and out of them with a click of a key. And so my friend, when did we last share bread or cry together or express the deepest desires of our hearts? When is the last time we took to the open road for a short jaunt or a shopping spree? What is this friendship? It is full of conditions and demands. I do not need this. Relationships in this world are held together by a slender thread. They are easily broken. I have a new approach, much to the chagrin of my beloved. When I see the thread straining, and the relationship hangs in the balance, I ask: What do I lose when I lose this person? What will I miss? How will I suffer from the loss? For the most part, I have a tough time answering those questions in this place of books and knowledge. So let me tell you this: I may not know what love is in this world, but I do know love. It is a love that allows me to be me; a love that encourages me to thrive and think and expand. It is a love that isn't always right, but it is also a love that sometimes says: "Kenny, you're right." The love I know endures through time and distance and conflict of every sort. It endures through hurt and pain. It bounces back with tears and hugs and apologies. It is resilient. That is the love that matters to me. Later.

THIS IS MY STORY

I've received more unsolicited advice in the past few days than I have in a long time. There are those who believe I'm angry with some human somewhere; others think my stories are about them. They respond to what they think I think. They know me so well that they interpret my words and feelings with precision, and they write--willing and able to point out all of my failings and my shortsightedness. If I only understood patriarchy, brilliance, friendship and even love. What you is ask that I assume your point of view, your position. But I am not you. I will never be you, and you can't tell me how to write my story. So lest you think this is about you or you or him or her, let me assure you that this is my story. The precipitating event was only that--a precipitating event. My post elicited an amazing number of varied responses. Mind you, my post wasn't simply a shot in the dark, I refer to a person I have known and sometimes loved for more years than any of the responders, and I'm not talking about an acquaintance or passing knowledge, I'm talking about a deep and long relationship unlike any I've had with the responders. But "liberal"white women apparently know everything, and their knowledge far exceeds mine. Never mind that she and I are both black, southern women. All that matters is what they know. Ask me no questions. Make your judgments. If you're not interested in my point of view, then don't read my blog.

I can talk about anything except race. Even among "liberals," race is a taboo topic. So here's the thing: When I initiate a conversation on race, white woman always stop me. They remind me that there is also "gender oppression." Umm, I look down at my D-cup breast, and, the words of Sojourner Truth come to mind: "Ain't I a woman?" Well, yeah. I am, so I don't need nobody to tell me about "gender oppression." At the moment, gender oppression ain't my topic. My topic is race. If I'm allowed to continue my conversation about race (and sometimes I'm not), some white lesbian in the room reminds me that gays, lesbians and transgender people are discriminated against. I pause, yet again, reminding all present that I am also a very "out" lesbian, but "I ain't talking about sexuality right now, I'm talking about race." As I continue, one of these socially conscious women will stop me yet again. This time it's social class--"class oppression." Let me tell y'all something: I know what it is to be hungry; I've lost more teeth than I care to admit because my parents couldn't afford dental care; I have worked since I was 15 years old. So don't bother to tell me about "class oppression." Let me talk about race 'cause race needs to be a constant topic of conversation in this country, especially at a time when so many people argue that "racism no longer exists" or, even worse, "we've made so much progress. Obama.... you know." What I know is that racism in the academy is alive, well and thriving. There are more GLBTQ, more women and more formerly "working-class" faculty on campuses than there are African-Americans. So I'm just gonna keep right on talking, ya hear? Later.

DO YOU KNOW HOW IT FEELS......

to have everything you are and everything you do belittled to "just because you're black"? Do you know how it feels to begin to wonder if every, single opportunity or invitation or overture is "just because you're black"? Do you know how it feels to be seen in a place you've never been or to be called a name that is not yours or to be congratulated for an action or event that you had no part in "just because you're black"? I would like to believe; I do believe that I have accomplished something. I would like to believe that all the honors and awards and kindnesses and good fortune that have come my way are not just because I'm black. What I do know is that it's really very sad that anytime anything positive happens to me. I don't have the freedom to enjoy whatever success I've achieved without questioning...just because I'm black. So now you know why I feel demoralized or degraded or angry when I witness that patronizing, "liberal," helpful attitude from whites, and that shameful, shaming "thank you, massa" attitudes from black folks who are perfectly happy to ride that gravy train. Hear me now, y'all, black or white: I have no respect for you. Later.

"HOW I GOT OVER"

So this is how it started: I got more interviews than any doctoral student in my graduate school cohort. No joke. I literally had so many interviews at that 1989 MLA meeting that I had to schedule one after the other. I got many offers for campus visits--so many that I actually had to turn some down. And then there were the schools who wanted to hire me without even a decent interview. Far too many to name. 1989, and even then I had emerged as an oddity. I was one of a very few African-American women graduating with a PhD in English. I was a good student--not exceptional, but good. So were many of my classmates. It didn't take long to figure out the why of my popularity. I (meaning we) was in short supply, and "diversity" was the word of the day. My white professors and mentors were thrilled by the success of their "most illustrious" graduate. Some of my classmates were pissed. My African American professor was furious: "You got a better job than I have." Although I was never interested in teaching at a research institution, my mentors and advisers demanded that I direct all applications to such institutions. Just as I was applying for jobs, I got an offer. It was my dream job. I got a call from the headmaster of the newly developed Mississippi School for the Arts, a public/private high school for gifted kids. The offer? Chair of the English Department. I was thrilled. No one else was. Profs told me that it would be a "waste" of my degree and their time and energy. How could I not represent my institution at a research university? I applied to 18 schools. My classmates applied to 50 or more. Of the 18, none was a small liberal arts college. When I left Vanderbilt off the list, my dissertation director demanded that I apply. Though I said "no," I applied.

Even then I had to wade through the circus that affirmative action had become. I had to find ways to figure out what schools were interested in ME, Margaret, the person. I created a litmus test. In addition to getting through the interviews, I had to determine which were demanding and rigorous, and which were simply pro forma. I was grateful to the search committees that rejected me, and I suspected all the committees that wanted to interview me further. The campus visits were even worse than the interviews. One dean offered me a remarkably reduced course load from other English faculty. When I asked him how he would explain such a move to my future colleagues, he said: "They know we have to use extraordinary measures to get professors of your caliber." I was neither fooled nor flattered, but with each campus visit, I was vigilant about looking for signs that suggested some perverse interpretation of affirmative action. After many trips, and a candid conversation with the dean at Vanderbilt, I believed that they chose me for more than my skin. I didn't want the job, but I took it. That was the beginning of the trial by fire, and let me tell you that my feet are still burned and scorched after all these years. In other words, the trial period is over, but the fire still burns.

Lest you think I'm opposed to affirmative action, let me correct you. I'm not. What I'm opposed to is the patronizing and condescending way in which it has been used by white folks to encourage the stereotype that black folks simply can't compete--that the standards must be lowered for us; that they must make deals to lure us. I still refer to that MLA meeting as a slave auction. That's how degraded I felt by the process; the questions they asked; the patronizing ways in which I was treated. But even more important is the way in which it made ME feel about ME. The abuses of affirmative action fall on the heads of black folks. We feel the stares. We hear the questions of those who believe we don't belong. White people know about the deals, the offers, the shortcuts. I have never wanted money enough or a job enough or a reduced course load enough to take the deal, and I have no respect for those black folks who do. None. It makes us complicit in the selling of our souls and bodies. Don't give me nothing cause I'm black and you feel obliged or liberal and guilty. I don't want your money or your pity. Don't cut me no break. Don't make me your cause. Your abuses of affirmative action diminish my accomplishments!