White Fragility: Why It's So Hard for White People to Talk about Racism

Back when I was a college professor of English, we were undertaking curriculum review, seeking to revise our course offerings in order to affirm more “multicultural” and “ethnic” literature.  Some of us revised our syllabi to include more non-white writers and voices.  I think our efforts were noteworthy, but there is little doubt the Western, European, white literary tradition remained fully intact and fully dominant in our curriculum. Perhaps, this cannot entirely be avoided in an “English” department, which focuses on reading/writing the English language and literature written in English, not to mention the dearth of non-white writers and voices in English given their history of oppression in a white-dominant culture.

At best the changes we made led to more conversations among faculty and students regarding race relations, colonization, white supremacy, and systemic, historically-based racism reflected in our English language and literature.  At worst these changes merely cosmeticized and therefore reinforced what remained an essentially white supremacist curriculum.

I remember an occasion when I was discussing our Ethnic Literature course with an indigenous faculty member. He pointed out to me that the effect of relegating non-white literature to a separate, “ethnic” category implied that white literature did not have ethnicity, that white literature was the norm, whereas non-white literature was some kind of aberration. That was a moment of revelation I have never forgotten. 

Of course, I had routinely checked the box for white or Caucasian when asked for my race on an informational form, but somehow it had not quite sunk in that my whiteness is just as much a race or ethnicity as all the other categories.  Furthermore, multiculturalism includes whiteness as a separate culture distinct from non-white cultures.  I was more likely to think of white culture regionally—Southern, Southwestern, Irish, German, etc.

Such is the power of white supremacy.  As whites we are socially conditioned to think of ourselves as the norm, and the entitled norm at that, and to think of non-whites as deviations from that norm.  In other words, whites are more color-blind when it comes to themselves than when it comes to non-whites.

This book by Robin DiAngelo (2018) not only analyzes white supremacy as a system of both conscious and unconscious patterns of racism, it also documents and demonstrates in example after example how white people resist acknowledging their participation in this system, much less accepting it and taking responsibility for changing both themselves and the larger system.

Until white people, including, and perhaps especially, white liberals, move beyond this resistance and open themselves to learning how to be authentic allies of those fighting for their liberation from oppression, we will continue to be part of the problem, benefiting from and reinforcing the system of oppression, instead of part of the solution.  Good intentions won’t cut it.  Genuine humility, consciousness-raising, and transformation are called for.

This book can be the beginning of a long journey during which white people learn how they can contribute to the work of dismantling white supremacy and achieving racial equity.

Samson Occom (Mohegan)

Thinking about that Arizona curriculum law (see Jan. 27 post), I wonder if I would have been able to teach the works of Samson Occom, a Mohegan American Indian (not Mohican or Mahican), in Arizona public school American literature classes.  Occom’s “A Short Narrative of My Life” might be construed as promoting “resentment” toward both white people and native people, while his sermon at the execution of Moses Paul most certainly can be read as reinforcing the inferiority of his own ethnic group.  “Oh what a tangled web we weave/When first we practice to” control!

Just as Shakespeare’s The Tempest is full of political ambiguity (see previous posts), so also may be the works of history’s victims.  So-called “oppression” studies may be more complicated than simple-minded legislators think.

The personal narrative convention was well-established in 1768, when Occom wrote his.  The spiritual autobiography, or conversion narrative, was a staple of the New England Puritans, and the captivity narrative became a popular form during the Indian Wars of the 17^th century (see Feb. 12, 2010, post).

Given the familiarity of the captivity narrative, in which Indians were represented as savages, the penning of a personal narrative by a native person could be viewed as an inherent rebuttal of the “barbaric” Indian stereotype, especially since it begins as a spiritual autobiography, recounting his upbringing as a “heathen,” his conversion to Christianity, and his licensing as a missionary to his own people.  As Occom relates his advancement as a teacher and preacher to native folk, his narrative begins to anticipate the success story, made famous by Benjamin Franklin (see Mar. 12, 2010, post).  However, Occom turns the conventionally affirmative personal narrative into a form of protest literature, noting how much less he is paid compared to his white counterparts.

“So I am ready to Say, they have used me thus, because I Can’t Influence the Indians so well as other missionaries; but I can assure them I have endeavored to teach them as well as I know how;--but I must Say, ‘I believe it is because I am a poor Indian.” I Can’t help that God has made me So; I did not make my self so.__” (original caps & spelling)

Note how his indictment of his white employers is accompanied by an apology for his ethnicity.  Thus, while his narrative might be construed as promoting “resentment” against white people and as a refutation of the “savage” image of Indians, its apologetic tone could be read as reinforcement of native peoples’ inferiority and of white supremacy.  Does the ambiguity make it acceptable to teach under Arizona law or does it expose the inadequacy and ignorance of that law?

 Occom’s execution sermon was so well received by his white audience that he was urged to publish it, which he did in 1772.  Both whites and native people flocked to hear a famous Indian preacher deliver the sermon at the hanging of his fellow tribesman Moses Paul on Sept. 2, 1771.  Angry at being thrown out of a tavern for drunkenness, Paul had laid in wait and murdered the next person to leave, who turned out to be a prominent white citizen.

Occom’s sermon conforms to the standard pattern of text-propositions-application.  What is unusual is that when he gets to the application, he speaks separately to his different audiences—to “My poor unhappy Brother Moses”; to his white superiors, “reverend gentlemen and fathers of Israel”; and to his native listeners, “My poor Kindred.”  His sermon thus becomes a rhetorical case study as he adjusts his message and his style to each audience, acting as a minister to Moses, calling on him to repent and save his soul; as humble servant to the white clergy, calling on them to bring the full force of their authority and power to fight sin and evil; and as temperance reformer to his native “brethren,” calling on them to give up the sin of drunkenness that they may be saved. 

His deference to his white superiors is noticeable in comparison to his authoritative tone toward native people.  He thereby reinforces white supremacy, and, no doubt, by perpetuating the stereotype of the “drunken Indian,” promotes “resentment” toward that race.

One of the effects of oppression is the internalization of inferiority on the part of the oppressed.  Thus their writings may reinforce their own oppression, even sometimes in the same text in which they protest it.

Arizona’s short-sighted curriculum law does not even begin to appreciate the complexities and ambiguities of what they seek to prohibit.

The Tempest in Tucson

On January 1 a new law went into effect in Arizona prohibiting K-12 classes that “promote the overthrow of the U.S. government, promote resentment toward a race or class of people, are designed primarily for pupils of one ethnic group, or advocate ethnic solidarity.”  The purpose of the law is to eliminate the ethnic studies curriculum in Tucson public schools.  (Read more: http://www.azcentral.com/arizonarepublic/local/articles/2011/01/01/20110101arizona-ethnic-studies-ban.html#ixzz1kVeUY0j5.) 

 Among the works that is taught in this curriculum is Shakespeare’s The Tempest.  Though the Tucson administration denies the book has been banned, high school teacher Curtis Acosta was told not to teach the play using the “nexus of race, class and oppression” or “issues of critical race theory.” 

 “What is very clear is that ’The Tempest’ is problematic for our administrators due to the content of the play and the pedagogical choices I have made,” Acosta said in an interview. “In other words, Shakespeare wrote a play that is clearly about colonization of the new world and there are strong themes of race, colonization, oppression, class and power that permeate the play, along with themes of love and redemption.”

(http://www.salon.com/2012/01/18/tucson_says_banished_books_may_return_to_classrooms/singleton/#comments)

 This stunning violation of academic freedom and crude imposition of ideological control over public school curriculum spurred me to reread Shakespeare’s mysterious final play and review some of the history of its critical reception and interpretation.

 Since its first production in 1611 (just four years after Jamestown was founded) The Tempest has been read theologically, mythically, aesthetically, biographically, psychologically, as well as politically.  One of the earliest political interpretations of the play is found in Leslie Fiedler’s 1973 essay “Caliban as the American Indian.”  However, the connections of the play to its historical context would have been recognized by its contemporaries.

 Its allusions to contemporary travel narratives of a Virginia Company expedition to Jamestown in 1608 are well established in scholarship.  The flagship of this fleet was separated from the rest and, having failed to arrive in Jamestown, was presumed to be lost.  Nearly a year later the admiral and sailors of the flagship arrived in two small boats, having run aground on the island of Bermuda, where they found food, shelter, and wood to build their boats, despite the site’s reputation as an “Isle of Devils.”  This adventure became sensational news in England, and in Act I, scene ii, of The Tempest, Ariel makes explicit reference to “the still-vexed Bermoothes” (always-stormy Bermudas).

 It would have also been widely recognized among educated contemporaries that “Caliban” is an anagram of “cannibal” (not necessarily meaning eater of human flesh in this context), and that this sub-human character constitutes a refutation of Montaigne’s well-known essay “Of Cannibals,” translated into English in 1603.  This essay is now widely understood as a source of the “noble savage” image of American Indians and the utopian view of the “New World,” in which American Indian society is represented as a kind of ideal state.  Gonzalo’s description of his ideal commonwealth in Act II, scene I, of The Tempest echoes the very same language of Montaigne’s description.

 In addition, at a time when the transatlantic slave trade is at its height, Shakespeare presents both Ariel and Caliban as slaves to Prospero.   It is difficult to deny the connection between Shakespeare’s play and the larger historical context.  In order to avoid “the nexus of race, class, and oppression” must teachers in Tucson avoid teaching The Tempest, ignore history entirely while teaching it, or distort history by treating the “New World” metaphor strictly in positive terms and Prospero as a benevolent slave owner so as to avoid creating resentment against white Europeans? Presumably, the malevolent, revengeful characteristics of Caliban, an indigenous creature enslaved by Prospero, would have to be ignored in order to avoid creating resentment against racial groups that have been historically enslaved.  In other words some of the most obvious features of the text would have to be distorted.

 Like most European literature of Shakespeare’s time, The Tempest is Eurocentric, aristocratic and patriarchal in its world view.  Under the Arizona law, that world view could presumably not be critiqued for fear of creating resentment toward Europeans, European-Americans, aristocrats, and men.  On the other hand, that world view could not be approved for fear of creating resentment toward non-Europeans, non-European-Americans, commoners, and women.  Pity the poor teacher trying to navigate those shoals!  Better to avoid the text entirely than create one’s own pedagogical shipwreck in the classroom.

 Not surprisingly, The Tempest is a far more complex and ambiguous text than any crude political ideology, and it offers a study in power that Arizona legislators, Tucson administrators, and teachers could learn from.

 First, it accurately reflects two competing European visions of the “New World.” On the one hand, it is a Utopia, as Montaigne described—a new Eden, a Promised Land, a “land flowing with milk and honey.”  On the other, it is a “hideous and desolate wilderness, full of wild beasts and wild men,” as William Bradford described Plymouth upon the Pilgrims’ first landing—“a wild and savage” place, primitive, barbaric.  If the magic island where Prospero and Miranda are exiled represents the new world, then the sub-human creature Caliban represents the savage view, while the airy spirit Ariel represents the idyllic view.  Ariel had been left imprisoned by Caliban’s witch-mother until Prospero arrived after her death, freed him, and then enslaved both Ariel and Caliban.  If Prospero represents the Europeans, then, allegorically, does this mean that Europeans have power over both the worst and best of the New World? When Prospero frees Ariel at the end of the play, having used him to achieve a redemptive resolution to the injustice done him by his enemies, does that mean that Europeans will bring out the best in the New World? By keeping Caliban enslaved at the end, does that mean that Europeans will keep the worst of the New World under control?  If so, then the play reinforces the contemporary European idea that western conquest had the providential purpose of improving the conquered lands.

 Perhaps, but Caliban’s grievances against Prospero are sympathetic, given Prospero’s harsh treatment of him. 

             This island’s mine by Sycorax my mother,

            Which thou takst from me.  When thou cam’st first,

             Thou strok’st me, and made much of me; would’st give me

             Water with berries in’t; and teach me how

             To name the bigger light, and how the less,

             That burn by day and night. And then I loved thee

             And showed thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle,

             The fresh springs, brine pits, barren place and fertile.

            Cursed be I that did so! All the charms

            Of Sycorax—toads, beetles, bats, light on you!

            For I am all the subjects that you have,

             Which first was mine own king; and here you sty me

            In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me

The rest o’ th’ island.  (Act I, scene ii)

And later Caliban expresses his Ariel-like, spiritual side:

                Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,

               Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.

               Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments

                 Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices

                 That, if I then had waked after long sleep,

                 Will make me sleep again; and then, in dreaming,

               The clouds methought would open and show riches

                 Ready to drop upon me, that, when I waked,

                 I cried to dream again. (Act III, scene iii)

 Thus, if Caliban represents the indigenous people of the new world, then the play does not entirely represent them in an unsympathetic light.

 Still, Ariel earns his freedom at the end of the play by obeying Prospero’s orders, while Caliban must do penance for his plot against Prospero, and, perhaps if he reforms himself, can earn his freedom as well.  Liberty, it seems, is not a natural right but a privilege to be conferred by one of greater power.

 Prospero, himself, had lost his freedom, when his brother, Antonio, usurped his throne as King of Milan and cast him, with his daughter, Miranda, away on the sea to die. Even royalty cannot rest secure in either their liberty or their power.  Prospero and Miranda survive, however, having been shipwrecked on the magic island, where Prospero continues with his studies of the magical arts, educating Miranda, and using Caliban and Ariel as slave labor.  When Prospero uses his powers to cause the shipwreck of his brother and his co-conspirator, the Duke of Naples, and bring them under the control of his magic on the island, he does not seek revenge.  On the contrary, he arranges for the Duke’s son, Ferdinand, and Miranda to fall in love, and then, after allowing the others to believe Ferdinand has drowned, arranges for a reunion and for the redemption of his enemies through the power of his forgiveness.  In the end the impending marriage of Ferdinand and Miranda symbolizes the restoration of both family and political harmony, as Prospero resumes his “proper” place on the throne.  Of course, Shakespeare’s version of family and political harmony is based on what in his day was considered the natural order of gender and class, a patriarchal and aristocratic “great chain of being,” with men ruling women, and aristocracy, with its own ranking order, ruling commoners.

 The treatment of power in the play relies on this hierarchical world view.  Order in the world depends upon each level in the great chain of being keeping its place.  When a lower level seeks to dominate a higher level, disorder and destruction break out.  Thus when Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo allow themselves to be ruled by their physical craving for wine, they become foolish, greedy, vengeful, and violent.  It was   selfish ambition that led Antonio and Alonso to overthrow Prospero from his rightful throne and establish an alliance that maintained their political rule.  On the other hand, it was Prospero’s neglect of his political responsibilities that contributed to his downfall.  Prospero’s restoration to his rightful place partly depends upon his recognition of having neglected “worldly ends, all dedicated/To closeness [seclusion] and the bettering of (his) mind….” (Act I, scene ii)  Each place in the great chain of being has a responsibility appropriate to that place and failure to execute that responsibility likewise results in disorder.  Prospero’s pursuit of knowledge, however, leads to the development of his intellectual and magical powers, which in turn enable him to regain his political power.  In addition to physical, social, and intellectual power, the play demonstrates the power of romantic love as Miranda and Ferdinand fall under each other’s spell, the power of filial devotion as Alonso refuses to give up Ferdinand for dead and insists that his compatriots help search for him, the supernatural power represented by Ariel and the island’s barely heard music that even Caliban responds to, and finally the power of compassion, forgiveness, and redemption, as Prospero, once he has his enemies in his power, pardons them rather than taking revenge.

 Today, democratic notions of equality and freedom have replaced the Shakespearean aristocratic world view, but we do expect individuals to earn their place in the world, as Ariel had to earn his freedom and Propero had to earn back his throne, and we distinguish between the kind of freedom that causes harm to others and the responsible exercise of freedom that contributes to the well-being of all.  Similarly, though we still live in a social hierarchy, we value power-sharing and the appropriate use of social control such that it benefits the general welfare, not the individual wielder of power.

 Do teachers of The Tempest appropriately use their power in the classroom to convey the full complexity and ambiguity of the play or do they use the play to advance a narrow ideological agenda?  Do Tucson administrators respect the work that teachers have done to earn their positions and their academic freedom? Do they have the right to dictate a teacher’s pedagogy and curricular choices in order to advance their own narrow ideological agenda? Do Arizona lawmakers have the right to deny an ethnic group the opportunity to learn its history and cultural traditions, again, to advance the interests of another ethnic group that happens to have more social power?  If their goal is social cohesion among ethnic groups, do they promote that cohesion by the raw exercise of social control?

 There are lessons in The Tempest for all parties involved and for all who would read, learn, and act with wisdom and compassion rather than with ignorant authoritarianism.