Essays

Colorblind America: Where time becomes a loop. Where time becomes a loop.

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / Leave a comment

“http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QER_yqTcmjM

Worf: There is the theory of the Moebius. Where time becomes a loop.
LaForge: When we reach that point, whatever happened will happen again.

(Lines from Star Trek the Next Generation, spoken by the show’s two Black actors. )

We are stuck in a Moebius.  The eerie deja vu of Trayvon and The Help calling forth Rodney King and Hattie McDaniels.  In Ward 8 here in D.C., Marion Barry calls Asian owned businesses dirty and I feel the heat of the L.A. riots.  History is repeating itself and has been since post Civil Rights America began taking shape.

In “By the Color of Our Skin: The Illusion of Integration and the Reality of Race” by Leonard Steinhorn and Barbara Diggs-Brown, the authors analyze the post Civil Rights era to assess the effort to integrate America. The authors argue that, since the civil rights movement, Black and White integration is more common in public spaces such as workplaces, schools, and shops.  They agree that this has an overall positive impact on the status of Blacks in America.

However, in private spaces, segregation is the norm.  People tend to associate with members of their own race. In many cases this is because Whites fear Blacks and  Blacks mistrust Whites because Whites fear Blacks.  Meanwhile, in TV and movies Blacks and Whites associate with each other far more than they do in the real world, giving our couch-potato society the impression that integration has been achieved. Where time becomes a loop.  Steinhorn and Diggs-Brown go on. They argue that Whites forget that the long history of White Supremacy and the legacy of Black enslavement taint many interactions that Whites deem “harmless”.  Misunderstandings abound. Distance increases. I argue that this is true for all non-Black people. Black people are isolated by anti-Black racism in America.

Politicians from both parties, including Barack Obama, wax poetic about King’s dream of a colorblind society. They carefully ignore King’s belief that America would require a policy of reverse discrimination against White’s in order to correct for hundreds of years of slavery and oppression. Meanwhile, affirmative action opponents use King’s words to make sure this never happens. A colorblind society cannot, in the end, acknowledge the traumatic impact of slavery on Black people in America.  But the song goes on. Where time becomes a loop.

Anti-black racism in America is real, occurring now, and unique amongst oppressions experienced by people of color in America.  Tamara K. Nopper has a great piece on this in her blog :http://tamaranopper.com/2012/04/20/george-zimmerman%E2%80%99s-minority-defense-and-the-1992-los-angeles-riots/

As an Asian immigrant in America, I do not experience anti-black racism.  Nor do I know what it is like to be Black in America.  I do not share a history of slavery, and systematic degradation of my entire group. My people have not been called  animals or less than human. My people have not been marginalized from work.  My people have not been imprisoned en masse.  My people are not seen as lazy, or chronically poor.  I do not carry the weight of  these stereotypes  on my shoulders.  And when I behave in ways that counter these particular stereotypes I am not accused of acting White.

I have worked in coalition with Black women as part of women of color organizing. I have been enriched by these interactions and I hope I have been an ally to them.  But the truth is, our groups’ causes are not the same.  Unless I acknowledge this, I cannot be sure that I am being an ally to Black women.  Unless I truly get this,  the things I do in the name of racial justice for all may in fact be singing the same old colorblind song.  Where time becomes a loop.

How can America break free from this colorblind loop? How can America break free from this colorblind loop? How can America break free from this colorblind  loop. How can America break free from this colorblind loop?

By seeing the colors and knowing their stories. Steinhorn and Diggs-Brown offer a few ideas on how to do this as it applies to anti-Black racism in America:

1. Stop trying to achieve the integration gold star. Whites and Blacks don’t have to do everything together in order to peacefully coexist. In India we have 20 something states, each with its own language, culture, film industry, and food.   People still relate to each other enough that they can have a national government that functions.

2.  Do something to atone for slavery.  The playing field is in no way level after 400 years of systematic subjugation.  Acknowledge it. Make it a national priority.  Tell people who don’t like it to suck it up and move somewhere else.

3.  Put real race talk on TV everywhere. In shows. In public service announcements. We need some MadMen style campaigns to counter anti-Black bias in America.  End tokenism and increase the number of shows that reflect the real internal lives of different groups of people.

4.  This one is based on my own thinking and  is backed up by Tamara Nopper’s piece.  Stop lumping people of color together. And that means non-Black people of color need to get on board with acknowledging anti-Black racism as singular. We need to recognize that justice for Black people is at the core of achieveing justice for all people in America.  When Black  people talk about how something is racist like “The Help” (see another Tamara Nopper piece http://tamaranopper.com/2012/02/28/be-the-help-campaign-black-disappearance-among-the-multiracial-left/)  we need to listen and  ground our own actions on analyses generated by Black folks.

That doesn’t mean the struggles of non-Black people of color are not important. Native people in America also experienced a singular oppression based on colonization and genocide.  The experience of immigrant people of color is another experience entirely. Chicanos who were crossed by the border fight another battle altogether. Muslims in America today are demonized in ways I can only sense from being mistaken for Muslim. We must see these differences clearly in order to strategize and support each other.   We don’t have to stay on the merry go around trying to make our horse go up while others go down.   If we do, “when we reach that point, whatever happened will happen again.” Where time becomes a loop. Where time becomes a loop.

Steinhorn, L. & Diggs-Brown, B. (2000). By the color of our skin: The illusion of integration and the reality of race. Plume. NY.

  Primary Impressions: Age 6-8 or so (Vol 4)

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My bharatnatyam teacher’s name is Anuja Aunty.  Anuja Aunty is funny and pretty and she wears glasses. We have class in someone’s basement. It’s a nice basement with carpet and sofas. There is a  practice room with hard wood floors and mirrors too which is perfect for dancing.  I run into the practice room and pull out my ankle bells. They are heavy to lift and make ching-ching sounds when I move them.  I strap them to my ankles and buckle them by myself.  Anuja aunty presses play on the tape player.  “Everyone up!  Let’s start from the beginning. ”  The music plays “Sa. Reesa tha pa magga sari ma. Sari magga mapa reesa!” I sing along. My feet stomp. Ching-ching.  “Theya-theya dhi- dhit theya.” My hands flow around me. Closed flower. Open flower. My eyes look forward. “Good, Aarati, good!” Anuja Aunty’s hair swings back and forth in a long thick braid. My heart pounds. My feet stomp. My hands move. Ching-ching. I am me.

I don’t like Indian Sunday School.  I don’t know any of the kids and the teachers are mean.  Some of my school friends go to Sunday school so I thought it would be fun, but it’s not.  We have to drive a  long way to get here.  The teacher is an Indian man with glasses and he talks with a thick accent. He stands in front of the chalkboard.   He has a long stick that he uses to point at the letters on the board.  “Ah-aah. E-eeee. U-uuuu. Aha.”  The letters are squiggly and hard to write. I am sleepy. I am bored. I fold my arms on my desk and lay my head down. I want to go home.  “Aarati! Pay attention please,” he says.  I sit up, and think about what kind of ice cream I will ask for on the way home.

We are having a pageant today. Parents are coming. I am wearing my Indian dance clothes and waiting on stage for someone to come help me.  This aunty has made  a picture of ten arms on a big cardboard cut-out.  The arms are all holding different things.  She is taping it to my back. In my real hands I have a cardboard sword in one and a cardboard axe in the other. I climb up on a small stool.  In front of the stool there is a big lion picture made out of cardboard too.  The other kids get into position but I can’t see them because we are all in a row.  I hold my real arms up and out under the cardboard arms. The aunty says, “Aarati, you look beautiful. Your long hair is perfect for this.”  The curtain opens.  Lots of moms and dads are sitting in the seats.  I can’t see mine.  My teacher walks over to me with his microphone. “This is goddess Durga. She is a fierce warrior who has vanquished many demons. She is brave and strong. She rides a lion”  My face feels hot because I am so happy.

Primary Impressions: Age 6-8 or so (Vol 3)

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I like most of the kids at school, but some of them are mean.  Most of the kids in my class are White.  But me, Marvel Waits, and Asha Desai all have brown skin.  I think we are like a team.  Marvel is big and wears glasses. He looks kind of like Fat Albert from TV.  Asha is Indian like me. She is my first Indian school friend.  She is quiet. She never says anything and she doesn’t play with the other kids.  She is so pretty and small and her eyes are very big and sad.  One day, when I am a mommy I will have a baby and name her Asha.  Sometimes I play with Asha because I know she feels scared.  I want to take care of her. Marvel takes care of me.  He reaches things that are high up. He stands next to me when other kids are being mean.  We don’t play together but he is there with me. Me, and Marvel Waits, and Asha Desai are a team.  The Brown Team.

On the playground there is a concrete barrel turned on its side. Its a good place to hide during recess.  I am new at this school and I don’t have many friends.  I am in the barrel sitting and singing to myself. A girl peeps her head in. She has dark skin and kinky hair pulled tightly into two braids on either side of her head.  She looks at me with a smile on her face.  “Hi.” she says.  I say, “Hi.”  She says, “Are you pregnant? Cause my mom told me that Indian people have babies when they are really young.”  My face gets hot. “No.” I say.  I am just fat.

Jeni is my best friend.  I think she is the most beautiful girl in the world. She has white skin and long brown curly hair.  She has cute freckles and big eyes. She is short like me. I think she looks like a princess. We laugh a lot together. She is very funny and she thinks I am very funny too.  On the playground, Jeni comes running up to me. I am waiting for her on the hopscotch drawing on the black top. I am saving it for us today. She is crying and snot is running down her beautiful freckled nose.  “What’s wrong Jeni?,” I say.  She says, “Yesterday, at church, my pastor said that you are gonna go to Hell.”  She’s crying more now and hugs me tight. “I don’t want you to go to Hell!”  I hug her tight and rub her hair like mommy does when I am sad. Poor Jeni. I don’t want her to feel so bad, so I say, “No I am not. We don’t have Hell in my religion.” She  breathes heavy, and  calms down. “Really? Oh good!” she says.  I throw the stone I’ve been holding in my hand and hop on one foot all the way to the end.

Primary Impressions: Age 6-8 or so (Vol 2)

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My neighborhood has lots of different kids in it, but they are all a little older than me.  We live in a row house. Ours is the one sort of on the end with an alley in between us and the next house. It’s fun to go back and forth in the alley from the front yards, to the back driveways. Different worlds.  My world is in the alley.  Most of the time I play alone. But there are three kids I know.

John’s grandma takes care of me after school so we have to play together a lot.  They are White. They have those cookies that look like doilies and the house is covered in doilies and all the furniture is covered in plastic. We watch tv and have snacks.  He’s like 11 or something.  He likes to play with his Star Wars figures and he makes me play with him. They are fun. Except, when we have pretend battles he says, “Girls can’t win Star Wars battles.” Then he takes his figures away.  Sometimes he and his friend from a few blocks away throw rocks up at our kitchen window from the back alley. When I come to the window, they pull their pants down.  That makes my face get all hot. I try to tell my dad but they are already gone.

Sarita lives  four houses down the street. Her family is Black and they have lots of  framed cloth paintings with Black people on them. She has two older sisters.  Her sister Star is deaf and talks with her hands.  Her oldest sister is a teenager and she has a boyfriend. At their house, Sarita and I peek through the keyhole of her sister’s bedroom door.  I  hear noises coming from  the room. I move my eye around until I can see. The boy is lying on top. I can see his dark brown back, butt, and legs.  Sarita’s sister is naked too. They are rubbing and grunting.  My face is all hot again, but I don’t stop looking.

Valerie is White but I’ve never seen her house. She seems a lot older than me. She never really plays with me, but I see her on the street with the other kids. She’s very pretty with freckles and dark brown hair.  She has cool clothes too.  I want her to be my friend but she usually doesn’t talk to me. One day, she says, “Hi” to me and asks if she can see my house.  Now my face is hot because I am so excited. I take her in the house.  My mom is in the kitchen cooking.  We go upstairs. She wants to see my parent’s room.  We go in and I am sitting on the bed. She looks at all the stuff on my mom’s dresser. She picks up a necklace and puts it on.  Then she starts to walk out. “Hey, that’s my mom’s necklace. Give it back!” I say. She says, “No!”  I say, “I’m gonna tell my mom.”  She takes the necklace off and throws it on the bed next to me.  “Be quiet you little nigger. ” She walks down the stairs. I sit on the bed. My face is hot. I don’t know what nigger means. I don’t ask.

I don’t know what it means.

Primary Impressions: Age 6-8 or so (Vol 1)

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Swollen feet pinched by tight fancy Rajasthani shoes that point at the toes.  Been on the plane for 8 hours. This nice old man next to me in the turban keeps giving me candies. They are gross.  They taste like flowers or soap.  I am alone, chaperoned by airline hostesses.  Almost home. Excited to show off my outfit to mommy and daddy. Off the plane now. Waiting in long lines.  My feet hurt!

Up to the counter now.  Airline hostess left to go back to work because I am, “pretty much out now.”  Man asks for my passport and green card. I have my passport, but I don’t know anything about a green card.  My face feels hot. My feet hurt.  My stomach is buggy.  A lady comes over in a suit. “Come with me honey.”

Inside an office. Sitting at a seat.  Man behind the desk asks me question:

Him: “What’s the name of your school?”

Me:  “Jennie Smith.”

Him: “Where do you live?”

Me: “1955 Lakeview Drive.”

Him: “Where are your parents?”

Me: “Waiting for me out there!”

Tears form but I squeeze them back. I am a good girl.  The lady who brought me in says, “Are you sure you don’t have a little plastic card with your picture on it?:

“You mean this one in my pocket? But it’s not green. It’s pink.”

I don’t tell my parents what happened. I am too embarrassed.

“Meditations on long-distance loss” or “How I spent the weekend celebrating other people’s holy days”

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / 3 Comments

Identity

I was born into my grandfather’s house in India, the first grandchild.  I lived the first three months of my life cradled in arms, never once being placed down.  My grandparents, aunts, and uncle passed me around, giving me to my mother only when I needed feeding.  This was my second womb.

At three months, I boarded a plane with my mother bound for America.  Every few years I would return to that house in India. Bonds formed in spite of the distance.  Though I was a stranger to India in many ways, India never seemed strange to me.  There, I would always be the first grandchild, the first baby.  My grandparents were anchors mooring me to India even as I became more American.

My grandfather died last week. He was the last of my living grandparents.  With his passing, I felt the last of those anchors lift up into the atmosphere.  I felt rootless, unmoored.  My Thatha, the man who loved me so well, was no longer holding a space for me there.

Nationality

When I was 21, I relinquished my allegiance to all other states, princes and potentates.  I became a citizen of the United States of America.  My mother took this step long after me and with serious reservations.

The day after my Thatha died, my mother came to D.C. on a desperate mission to obtain a visa so that she would be able to travel to India for his funeral.  I drove her around from office to office and finally to the airport.  When it was done, we both felt a sense of relief. This time, she would be there to say goodbye.

It felt good to do something, to help my mother regain access to the place that she could never truly leave. It grounded me and gave me purpose. But the moment she left, I felt myself float out of my body, and follow her onto the plane.

Culture

In the days that followed, my disorientation was profound.  What should I do? Where should I be? Should I be there? What is happening there? Who can I talk to? Where am I? I began to read the Upanishads, a Hindu holy text. The night before my grandfather’s funeral,  I fell asleep with these words in my head:

“Let my life now merge in the all-pervading life. Ashes are my body’s end. Om… O mind, remember Brahman. O mind, remember they past deeds. Remember Brahman. Remember thy past deeds. O god Agni, lead us to felicity.”

That night, at 2 am, the phone rang.  I answered still in a half dream state and listened to my mother describe the funeral for me.  “We fed him rice.  His body was laid out on a palanquin. We carried him to the crematorium.  We poured water around him. He looked peaceful. He is on his way.”   I was there with her.  I could smell the smoke, the incense, the flowers, and the sweat.  I could hear the chanting, the tears, and the distant traffic.  I imagined temple idols, garlanded in flowers, watching with careful, loving eyes.

That morning I awoke from a dream.  I stood at the edge of a vast ocean, bathed in warm sunlight. Pink flower petals floated in the air above me, blown by the wind out to sea.  That day I called home, to India. I spoke with aunts, uncles, cousins, and my mother.  “I am there with you,” I said, even if it was not true at all.

Community

The funeral was over. The work week was done. And I was here, in America. And here, in America, the in-laws were due to arrive to celebrate both Easter and Passover. I was yanked from my hazy mourning reverie into a world of chocolate bunnies and Seder plates, Easter eggs and Matzo.

I took my daughter to a neighborhood Easter party sponsored by a local church. With beautiful weather, and smiling children, I felt welcomed by but distant from this earnest community celebration of resurrection and eternal life.  This was someone else’s holy day, someone else’s path to peace.

That evening, the Passover Seder was led by my father-in-law at my sister-in-law’s house. As is customary in my husband’s family, each family member took turns reading from the Haggadah. The Haggadah guides the celebration of Passover and commemorates the sufferings of the Jews in Egypt and their eventual liberation through God.  I missed out on most of the reading because I was busy dealing with my two toddlers, both over-tired and over-excited from the day’s activities.

When the kids fell asleep, I rejoined the Seder.  The meal was complete and only a few passages remained to be read.  I have been participating in Passover Seder’s for the last eight years and so I actually missed being a part of this ritual. I asked to read the next passage not knowing what it was.

I began to read, “Their idols are of silver and gold, the product of human hands: they have a mouth, but cannot speak; they have eyes, but cannot see; they have ears, but cannot hear; they have a nose, but cannot smell; their hands cannot feel; their feet cannot walk; they can make no sound with their throat.”

A fit of giggles seized me. “The idolater is reading the part about idolatry!”  I said.  Around me, my family by marriage joined in with chuckles of their own. My father-in-law winked playfully saying, “From now on, you always get to read that part.”

Faith

I do not know what any of this means. I do not know who I am, where I belong,what I believe or who my community is.  The things I do know:

1)      My grandfather loved me in the best way.

2)      Part of my heart lives in India.

3)      Another part of my heart lives in a 600 sq. ft. condo in D.C.

4)      Chocolate bunnies and Easter eggs are lovely reminders of rebirth and eternal life. And they are especially good for distracting a grieving heart.

5)      Children don’t care if you’re sad when they’ve had too much sugar.

6)      Like the show, the Seder must go on, and on, and on. 😉

7)      I am and forever shall be an idolater. Amen.

Sign of the times

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / 2 Comments

Image

“Zimmerman must die.”  I live in a predominantly black neighborhood in D.C., a few blocks north of Howard University.  My neighborhood is vibrant, home to a number of Afro-centric stores, vegan restaurants run by African Israelites, and sundry stores that serve Howard students. It is generally peaceful. Neighbors are friendly with one another. Old men give my children candy.There is a mix of people from different races and classes  People look out for each other.

My daughter attends preschool across the street from Howard and so I walk her to school every morning down the main drag.  Yesterday morning, I saw this sign, a sign I have noted for weeks because it has a White hand and a Brown hand each cradling a Samsung Galaxy Note and the sign tells you to “take note!”  But yesterday, what I noted were these words.

“Zimmerman must die”.  What else could the sign say?  “Justice for Trayvon!”  “Arrest Zimmerman NOW!”.  For weeks now, I have been sensing a shift in the vibes in my neighborhood.  I have always been a sensitive sort of person, highly attuned to the moods of people around me.  This is why I became a community psychologist, because I believe that communities have their own moods, ups and downs, and struggles.  “Zimmerman must die.”  Like a dream rising up from the subconscious mind of this neighborhood.  While public faces don hoodies of support and make plans for marches. “Zimmerman must die” seeps silently onto a  billboard –  itself a sign of gentrification – like words written in blood by a horror movie poltergeist.

I see it in the early afternoons at the playground with my kids. We used to be there alone.  Now, young Black and Latino men gather in clumps, drinking beer and smoking weed.  Clearly, they have not felt the economy improve.  But I am sure they see the march of the gentrifiers continuing around them: new restaurants opening in the neighborhood, new condo buildings being built. They are at the playground drinking beer because none of this means jobs for them. “Zimmerman must die.”

And where do I stand?  I live in one of those condo buildings. I patronize those new restaurants. I have no jobs to offer.  I ask the young men to move their drinking and swearing to another part of the park, away from the slides and the jungle gym. It’s not that I disapprove.  What else are they supposed to do?  But my children need to play, and I know that underneath their somber expressions, something is bubbling inside these young men.  I do not want my children to be hit by shrapnel when those bombs go off. “Zimmerman must die.”

The lumpy, messy stew that is America, is beginning to boil.  People are remembering the Trayvon’s in their own communities. Overt racism rears it’s ugly head after a few decades of sneaking and skulking in the dark. Folks are angry for good reason.  I fear the coming of a hot summer.  History tells us that this is when the race riots begin.

We must all pay attention right now.  We must all raise ourselves up to a higher level of consciousness.  We must deliberately uproot the ugliness of internalized racism that lies within each one of us.  This is not just a White and Black problem. Monica Novoa has a great article in Colorlines discussing the need for White people and people of color to face up to that fact http://colorlines.com/archives/2012/04/life_every_voice_for_trayvon_martin.html

Moments like this can make that happen.  Like nuclear energy, we can use it to power the world. “Zimmerman Must Die” can remain a nightmare from which we awaken and begin a new day.

Why American Incarnations?

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / 11 Comments

Because I am American. Because in America I can never be just American. Because I am not White, but I have been told by others, “I just think of you as White.”  Because when I am in India, I am American, but when I am in America, they ask me “Where are you from?” and they are not satisfied when I reply, “Delaware.”

Because I have never wanted to live anywhere else, but I have always thought it might be easier to live somewhere else. Because I am married to a  White, atheist, half Jew/ half Christian man. Because my children are part of us both and something else entirely.  Because I don’t know what neighbordhood any of us belong in.

Because I love America and need so very badly for America to change. Because I work hard to love Americans by helping Americans to change their communities, their organizations, their minds, and their hearts.

Because I know I am not alone in my aloneness. Because I am not unique, though there is only one of me.  Because blogging used to be cool, so I have to start doing it now that it’s not.

Welcome to American Incarnations.