Brits By the Boatload

When that boatload of Brits showed up in Massachusetts, they quite literally considered themselves god’s gift to the continent. Subsequently, they decided which religions were acceptable; which ethnicities and countries of origin were acceptable; who could vote; who would be enslaved; who lived and who died.

This norm has functioned continuously since, letting some in and refusing entrance to others. This normative power is what Professor Ignatiev meant by “white” in her book How the Irish Became White.

A look at the election results this past Tuesday demonstrates that white skin and male gender are still the tickets to power in the United States, the power of whiteness.

That boatload of British Anglo Saxon Protestants declared themselves the baseline. The arbiters of all things worthy. And they vote.

US history shows that some groups were able to get into the club relatively easily. Descendants of German immigrants, for example, now outnumber descendants of British immigrants. George Washington was half German, though it took until 1890 for a full-blooded German to be elected to national office . . .

Germans became white in 1890.

Professor Ignatiev argues that the Irish became white by becoming more racist than the British and Germans. One piece of evidence: is it a coincidence that the great haters on Fox News are generally of Irish extraction?

Whiteness. It’s a club.

Tuesday’s election demonstrated that whiteness hasn’t given up. I suspect it will become more overt in the next several years.

Here’s a hero many haven’t heard of: A. Philip Randolph. Randolph was African American, born in 1889. He organized a union called the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. One of the first African American unions. He was also president of the Negro American Labor Council and vice-president of the AFL-CIO.

Whether it’s right or wrong, the Marxist analysis of race that Randolph believed is very simple: the ruling class (read: that boat load of Brits) uses racial prejudice to divide and conquer the poor. In other words, Marxists say that “whiteness”—and allowing some into the club of whiteness—is a manipulative tool for controlling the poor, the majority.

True or untrue, this analysis of race is why humanists, Unitarians, Universalists, and other progressives were once at the forefront of anti-racism work and nowadays are not. True or untrue, the Marxist story marked a path that could be usefully followed.

A. Philip Randolph was a Socialist. An atheist. And a humanist. He signed the second Humanist Manifesto in 1973. (As did Betty Friedan.) The second manifesto was a child of the more explicitly socialist first Humanist Manifesto, written when the New Deal was a heady dream.

Humanism has socialism in its DNA. After all, if you believe in the inherent worth and dignity of each person, it’s hard to argue that “white” America and its engine, Capitalism, offer a level playing field. Facts on the ground point the other direction. Far from being a statement of individualism, the inherent worth and dignity of every person implies communal action toward communal good.

After all, after you’ve asked how a nation can create a level playing field, you have gone down the road of redistributive justice. The most extreme of un-individualistic ideals.

There are two ways to redistribute wealth: revolution and taxes. Sane people tend to suggest that taxes are the way to go . . .

But back to A. Philip Randolph, who helped plan (along with nonviolence theorist, gay rights activist, and socialist Bayard Rustin) the 1963 March on Washington, where MLK gave his greatest speech. That march was the culmination of a way of thinking outside the norm.

And that was then. Isn’t it almost unthinkable in today’s US? Where would the Civil Rights Movement have been without labor halls to speak in and union money?

We are the stories we tell ourselves. “True” or not, some narratives bear richer fruit than others. The idea that race is a construct used by the oppressors to oppress was the fuel of the Civil Rights Movement. Nothing since has borne so much fruit.

I’m just sayin’ . . .

A Phillip Randolph put it this way:

Justice is never given; it is exacted and the struggle must be continuous for freedom is never a final fact, but a continuing evolving process to higher and higher levels of human, social, economic, political and religious relationship.

Tonight we stood together around candles that marked the spot where his body was found this morning.  Tonight we poured out our stories and our songs, our prayers and our tears. Tonight we reminded each other that we are loved and loving, that our lives have value and are valued by each other.   Tonight we said good-bye to a good friend and a committed organizer.

So tomorrow, when you read in the paper or hear in the news that another black teenage boy was found shot to death in the 9th Ward of New Orleans, stop. Please stop and send love to his family, to his friends, to the community that cared for him, cares for him still.

Please stop and let your heart be broken, broken open at least a little bit, with compassion for a child who was loved, will always be loved, and for those who love him. Mark the passing of a dear soul light who shined brightly in this world and made it a better place.

If you pray, pray for us, pray with us.
Grieve with us. Mourn with us.

And then – organize.

Organize with us to heal this world, to change it into a place where 15 year olds are not killed by guns — are not killed at all. Make George proud.

Yesterday after church, my family and I stopped at a favorite cafe in Hartford. It’s a funky kind of place with a diverse clientele and a good Sunday brunch. I walked in while my spouse got the baby out of the car. I asked a white woman who was standing by the door whether she was waiting to be seated. She directed me to the counter where I was greeted by the hostess:

“Hi there, will you be joining us for brunch today?”

Me: “We’d like to. What’s the wait like for two and a baby?”

Hostess: “We can seat you right away when your party is complete. Do you need a high chair?”

Me: “Great! They’ll be here in a minute. And, yes, a high chair would be great.”

Hostess: “Wonderful! Let me just get a high chair and get your table set up.”

Now, there was the other white woman waiting near me and there were three tables open: two two-tops and a four-top. While I was talking to the hostess, an African American man had come in the door and was standing behind me. The white hostess walked away (to get our high chair) without acknowledging him. Her white co-worker stepped up to the counter just as the man did, greeting him with a very different tone that can only be described as “icy,” saying:

“Are you all set?”

Customer: “Well, I wanted to have a seat.”

Hostess 2: “We are just serving brunch right now, is that what you wanted?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Hostess 2: “How many in your party?”

Customer: (Holding up one finger and his laptop) “Just one.”

Hostess 2: “We have nothing open right now, do you want to give me your name?”

Customer: (Looking at three open tables and a completely open counter.) “No. Forget it.”

And he left.

The original hostess came back seconds later just as my spouse and baby came in. We were seated right away at one of the open tables with a high chair. Soon after we sat, the other white woman’s friend who was African American joined her, and they were seated at the other two top.

The restaurant buzzed with conversation. People’s food came. Our waiter took our order. My daughter ate Cheerios with abandon; my spouse looked at the menu; and I sat there trying to process what had just happened.

I wasn’t sure what to think about it then, and I’m not sure what to say about it now, except that it hurt my heart. Oh, we could talk through the myriad reasons why the second hostess may have greeted the customer who came after me in such an unprofessional manner. And we could talk about the complexities of restaurant seating, who comes first, holding tables for waiting parties, not seating one person at a four-top. (Full Disclosure: I hated being a hostess.) And we could say that she might have had the exact same interaction with a white person, maybe that’s just her style. Or maybe the dude just decided he wasn’t in the mood for brunch anymore, but I don’t think so.

Instead, I think that I witnessed one of many “micro-aggressions” that people of color experience on a daily basis. (Read more on micro-aggressions here.) After what I saw yesterday, I understand even more clearly how such interactions take their tole, day after day, year after year. It is worth saying that women and LGBTQ people share this experience, albeit in different ways. (I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been told how surprisingly insightful my sermons are for a young woman.)

Yesterday, I did not know how to respond to what I saw. We debated leaving. We debated saying something. But I didn’t know what to say, and I am not sure yet what I would have or should have said. I regret, though, not saying something.

I wonder how many people have received a similar unwelcoming “welcome” on a Sunday morning at church. No matter how hospitable we may want to be, it is quite possible that we may greet visitors and long-time members alike with unintentional micro-aggressions. Sunday morning – be it at brunch or Sunday services – is a time to widen our welcome as we greet all who come through our doors with equal respect and genuine hospitality.

I, myself, am working to examine my own interactions with all sorts of people, on the look out for times when I may be, despite my best intentions, a “micro-aggressor.” The work of dismantling racism starts with adjusting how we see our world and shifting our (inter-)actions toward openness, welcome, and love.

Even
After
All this time
The sun never says to the earth,

“You owe
Me.”

Look
What happens
With a love like that,
It lights the
Whole
Sky.
~Hafiz, 14th century Sufi poet

“It may be that we have lost sight of our mission. Primarily, the church is not for social or political pronouncements, nor for the fashioning and dissemination of erudite philosophical doctrines. It is for the generation of love. The church is the only institution in society so purposed. We strike at the heart of our very purpose for existence when we neglect that major aim.” ~ Albert Ziegler wrote, 20th century Universalist minister

Beloveds, each morning we are asked to take a moral stand on the side of love. May we find the courage and compassion to love like the sun, to generate love in abundance for a world that sorely needs it.

Each time that I facilitate conversations on systemic oppression and solidarity, I am struck anew at how programed we are to defensiveness and denial. Each time, my challenge is to love, simply love. We are not machines, broken and in need of fixing. We are wounded warriors in the struggle of life and we need, each of us, compassionate love to call us to our whole and holy selves.

May we wake each day with the mission to generate love in this world as humbly and faithfully as the sun generates light. May we trust that we can lean on each other for comfort when the struggle is relentless. May we know in the bones of our bones that we are not alone. May this knowledge give us the courage to shine the light of compassion on everyone. No exceptions.

I have to admit that the recent events in Ferguson, Missouri have triggered mostly cynicism for me. In the US we have periodic paroxysms of piety triggered by events that happen every day but occasionally “go viral” in the media. Then, the outrage subsides . . . and nothing changes.

Allow me to relate an example that went viral for a few weeks.

I was born across the river from St. Louis, on the Illinois side, the industrial side of the river where African Americans and EuroAmericans have lived since the late Nineteenth Century. The fortunes of that swath of river bank have gone up and down over the years, depending upon armament manufacture, but for the most part the region has been poor and race relations tense.

The people—black and white—who moved to the area have been mostly from rural Southern backgrounds, and the culture has long reflected that reality.

If anyone is looking for a great place to film a documentary about US poverty, I would suggest East St. Louis. But then I know that every city in the country has the scenes available there. It’s just that East St. Louis is a small town.

On July 2, 1917 an event occurred extreme even by the standards of the southern third of Illinois. As the style was at the time, the event was called the East St. Louis Riot. It was, in truth, the East St. Louis Massacre. It was a pattern replicated all over the United States—an incident occurred; whites saw the incident as a perfect excuse to teach blacks a lesson; violence ensued; outrage about the violence ensued; calls went out for change; things went back to normal; nothing changed.

But that’s my cynicism speaking, isn’t it?

This appears to be what happened: after a triggering incident, whites gathered at the edge of an area called Black Valley, the neighborhood where African Americans lived. Whites turned off the water leading into the area so that fires could not be extingushed. Then, they set fire to houses and stores.

As blacks escaped from the fire, whites shot, beat, or lynched as many people as they could.

The Illinois governor ordered the National Guard to occupy the area. When they arrived the troops aided the rioters, joining in the setting of fires and using their superior firepower to kill more blacks. (I know this bit because a member of my family was there and told the story when I was a child, in the early 1960s—I heard many such stories.)

The massacre eventually stopped because the rioters got tired and went home.

No one knows how many people died, since Black Valley was left to bury its own dead. The death toll was probably around 200.

As in the case of Ferguson, marches of solidarity with the victims spread across the US. One political cartoon from the time says it best, perhaps. A black woman is pictured imploring President Wilson—famous for his insistence upon making the world safe for democracy—”Mr. President, why not make America safe for democracy?”

Good question. And a question that echoes down the years. Why is it that we don’t make America safe for democracy?

The methods of oppression used in the East St. Louis Massacre—which continued into the 1950s—do not play well on TV, so in the television era lynchings and mass murders stopped.

Notice that when similar pictures appeared from Ferguson, Washington got busy talking about at least perhaps maybe talking about the wisdom of selling military-grade hardware to local police. (This might even change, if a sufficient number of Americans remember the images long enough to continue talking about the problem.) Remember: my forebear used his government-issued rifle to kill the people he was sent to protect.

In the television era, oppression has been for the most part more isolated—a shooting here, a Rodney-King-style beating there. Sudden, overt, isolated, and constant.

And usually not displayable on TV.

The smartphone, however, may change that. The new technology brought about the Arab Spring, and it might—it could—begin to dismantle the current US system of black oppression.

Violence against this systematic oppression is not the answer. Neither is a brief paroxysm of national outrage. The violence will stop only when we the people catch the acts and put them on television and across the web.

Racists don’t like to see themselves in action on TV. (Or, rather—they don’t like to be seen by liberals on TV.)

I can’t speak for the people across the river in Missouri, but this white guy, a descendent of Confederates and white supremacists, would like to see an end to the violence and oppression.

Marcus Garvey, commenting on the East St. Louis Massacre, perhaps said it best:
“This is no time for fine words, but a time to lift one’s voice against the savagery of a people who claim to be the dispensers of democracy.”