Blacklight Magazine: The Comeback Edition

blacklight magazine

The Comeback Edition Fall 2014

1

Blacklight Magazine The Comeback Edition Fall 2014

2

black

Blacklight Magazine is a publication of The University of Chicago’s Organization of Black Students. As a publication, we provide a space to showcase and lift up the stories, voices, and art of minority and traditionally marginalized students on our campus, and across the country. The editors can be reached at blacklightuchicago@gmail.com.

light

Cover art by Olivia McLean

Back cover art by Arturo Hidalgo 3

Meet the Blacklight Team MeeSoh Bossard is a second-year who dreads the question “where are you from?” An African-American-Korean mixed-race child as well as a military brat, she’s been searching for the meaning of home like others have searched for the meaning of life. Her favorite author is Paulo Coelho, to whom she has referred to many times as the “lover of her soul.” She is excited to be Assistant Editor of Blacklight.

Stephanie Greene is an Editor-in-Chief of Blacklight Magazine. She is a second-year majoring in English, with a minor in Spanish. She is fascinated by the concept of the American Dream and its manifestation in American literature.

4

Christy Oso is proud to be Blacklight’s Assistant Web Editor. As a second year in the College and a pre-med student, she spends her time outside of lab as an executive board member of the African-Carribean Student Association.

You can usually find Christy jamming to late 90s and early 2000s, hip hop and R&B.

Leilani Douglas is a second-year in the College who plans on double majoring in Political Science and Comparative Race and Ethnic Studies. She is so excited to be joining Blacklight’s Editorial Board as the Publicity and Outreach Chair! On Campus, you may have also seen her dancing with UChicago Maya or enlightening prospies on the wonders of U of C life (aka giving campus tours).

Alice Mukora is Blacklight’s Web Editor. She is a third-year in the College majoring in Biological Sciences. While she is known amongst her friends as having great taste in music, Alice has never sucessfully learned to play an instrument.

Natalie Richardson is the Creative Director of Blacklight, and a second-year at the University. She is an accomplished poet and enjoys performing her work on stage. She plans to pursue a career in film.

Nina Katemauswa is a third-year Philosophy & Political Science double major, and an Editor-in-Chief. She spent the summer traveling through the southern portion of Africa, while researching and procrastinating finishing her upcoming novel inspired by elements of the region and her experiences migrating from Zimbabwe to the US at the age of four.

5

Poetry

The Portrait of A White Man in a Hallway at Penn from 1877

I can’t ask him to apologize.

This pallid and clean and white

his flakes, flattened their palms against him sweating into him their fingerprints

man with no slurs for my dark hand. He fossilizes in his frame.

leaving shallow scars. Another black woman cleans his frame with soap.

He will never grow, just thicken his bones, blue eyes. His frame

Is this the remake, the new portrait the white man planned? Am I in his series

is all that’s real, just rinds of history I wish hadn’t been hung

of black and white sketches? She turns and faces me, leans against the portrait.

on a wall. Could he judge my spine, my mind, not dismiss my oak peel?

Stutters herself back awake before she touches it. Moves away from

Does he remember my same peel on the floor of these halls? Did he step

a man who would never slap her hand anymore. Back to the edges, back outside

over them, look sideways at the browning on his edges? How many black woman

the frame. Never painted to start.

She twitched. I twitched. She leaped.

maids wore black and served him on pallid and clean plates, and shined

I leaped. We both inched away to the edges. Peeling along the way.

Camara Brown University of Pennsylvania, ‘17

6

“Far away place” by Moon Tae-jun

The word parting fills the air tonight I drink it in, slowly, with every breath A far away place is born Pushing me aside little by little, a far away place is born The first leaves of spring, those lips, those cheeks that blush scarlet, those smiling eyes—you said you would take it all You take your thin-ice heart and walk past me The trees are bare, bare, and the boulder casts its vast black-light over the shadow of the stones The bench, with nowhere to be and with no one to be sat on by, sits in place all day Hands shake, eyes wet, and my speech door shuts When all speak of parting A far away place is born An invisible place

MeeSoh Bossard University of Chicago, ‘17

7

Photography

8

Theresa T Pham, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, ‘17, @theresatpham

9

Poetry

Watermelon Ripe, the rind is the only thing tough enough to slice through.

The grind of serrated edges bites into the red, makes the noise like my mother and her hot comb.

The black pokes through.

I began to cut through the white-skin before the rind, falling on the counter with a hollow pound.

Juice and seeds are trapped in cubes, pink-belly eaten with a plop and scratch, on the top of my mouth, seeds stuck in my teeth.

I pry it out with my nail, dry in its tear-seeded shape.

I set aside a bowl for my mother, to sweet the nicotine and perm sizzling.

We sit together away from the heat, for once the air seeps with sugar, instead of seeds.

Joseph Jordan-Johnson Oak Park & River Forest High School, ‘15

10

Liquid Nitrogen Class we are learning about liquid nitrogen today.

We hold our breath against his handling of the barrel. He slides it on to the desk. We lean in as he takes a little glass beaker, his fingers curling with a tight purpose. I can see the beaker beginning to slip out of his palm. While he peels off the cover of the barrel of liquid nitrogen, we watch the beaker glint against the spotlight of our eyes. The teacher lips slits into a smile, the liquid nitrogen is bubbling in the barrel like hands grasping for a lifeline. He flips the beaker in smooth as shaking hands with the devil in the back corner of a church. Watch the bubbling hands swallow it whole. It only takes ten seconds he whispers. He pulleys the beaker out. It is all crystal and cold, I can hear the air squeals bust free of the frosted glass. My teacher stares us in the face with the straightest eyes and lets go of the beaker. We watch it shatter against the black of the desk.

No one shook at the beaker splitting. The icy splints start fizzing into the air as we sweep them up into nothing. He says, Lets go on with class.

We did nothing but witness.

LaTroy Robinson

11

Photography

12

Olivia McLean Savannah College of Art & Design, ‘17

13

Poetry

when i hear about your death i remember the Sunday mornings we listened from the bathroom stall as the teens marched in, black eyes smoothed to diamond corners, kitten heels less wobbly than ours. at 13 they are almost woman, pack a razor in their purse & shave their legs in the church sink, God on their tongues & lips as they practice their first kiss. in the mirror, you are your own kind of holy. we are awkward, 11, knees red from the pew-bench, dresses the color of shame & too-young. do you remember the day you found me under the sink, eyes salt-stricken & cloudy, how you placed your hand on my back & never said a word. at communion you take the wine & we sit next to our mothers. for years we are second, after you, the path you laid with glamour. in africa, the night is orange & the men around you watch much as we did: awestruck, sure you have stars in your skin, sure your laugh is enough to bring them to tears. & it was. & it did. i hope that they are quiet. i hope the radio hums with your favorite song & for whole moments you are free, you are flying, you are not thinking about what will come. you are in love, maybe, & for tonight, for you, this is enough.

Dorothy Moore Macalester College, ‘17

14

Close to Home Chicago summers drain Motivation Jaeger Blood.

From Evanston to Englewood, Her, uh, amies Waterboarded beauty with truth.

Live with it, it’s just Two hundred and twenty-nine murders so far this year.

Woman grows used to everything, the scoundrel.

They skewered her on her skeleton like Qiu Jin Bruised the careful makeup and released a doggish energy.

Respected for nothing, Embers burst to life in the mountains of her mind Grinding down bias into a bitter dust.

Gasping for delirious oxygen, she mutters and then grunts like a buffalo I will someday be a— Non, je serai toujours un chien

Brian “Chien” O’Bannon University College London, ‘16

15

Photography

16

Drew Lewis Cornish College, ‘16

17

Poetry

Love Letter to the Chi After Kevin Coval I’ve loved you since the first time your pendulum hips swung into my teeth and displaced all who came before you Since you plunged both hands into my throat and built a language of bricks You charred my mouth barbecue pit and I only taste a 10th annual family reunion The insides of my cheeks puckered lemon powder and mild sauce The only woman who can fold her entire skyline into my gut and fill me I’ve loved you since breath Since the morning my lungs wrapped themselves around your little finger, loved you still when I came back years later, smelling of another woman’s exhaust Suburb littered over my tongue and you spoke resurrection into the Michigan mud until West Side bobbed to the surface of my mouth I love you despite drowning Despite the winter you buried everything alive

Despite the sons smeared across your lips as you wept a quiet storm Afterwards, you gather all of us sodden romantics into the heat lamp of your chest This lung jazz we set picnics over Loving you is watching you lick funeral homes clean and still admiring each turbulent curve I love you despite the bulldozed teeth Despite New Chicago built over Cabrini’s unmarked burial plot, I love you despite the rotted storefronts tarring pieces of your smile despite the yellowed promo posters obituaries printed in children faces flaking from your skin, I’ve loved you since Elote horn drowned siren Since a unity of red marched you into new blood Since your stomach coiled into ulcers of fist Since skyscraper spurted from the urn of you Loving you is kissing the stitching of your divided skin It’s watching you tuck vigil bouquets behind your ear that 3 am summer I laid over the lake of your lap and you let me call you by your real name

Kush Thompson, @cursivebones kushthompson.com

18

Today I don’t feel free I can’t wrap my head around this feeling so maybe I’m just trippin and maybe it doesn’t matter but today I don’t feel free.

I’m making your coffee and I’m hyper aware that there is history in this transaction.

I know you won’t be surprised to see me on this end.

Another brown skinned girl serving you. Taking your orders.

My skin crawls when I linger too long on that thought.

I know I wasn’t made for this. I’m not here for this.

I did this to be cool. you know it’s all the rage to be a barista.

And if I didn’t think you were a racista hijo de puta.

Then that rage wouldn’t sit heavy within me.

Then again, I need the money. So enjoy your latte and have a great day. I smile.

You walk away.

Ask where the napkins are and shuffle on.

My mother taught me that everyone deserves to be acknowledged.

Those moments shared between people, that is where humanity begins.

A smile across my lips directed towards you is an act of love.

I thought, in this way I could reach you! but...

You gazed stone faced right through me. The silence I’ve tried to fight is strengthened.

It wins again.

Yet silence is a double edged sword. It is what saved my father’s life when he was dealing with that cop who slammed his body on top of the hood of the car, my mother not far. She watched.

Silent, as well.

But that silence will haunt you.

Cause you couldn’t do nothing and you couldn’t fight back. And people will tell you, you did the right thing because the only thing you could do is be compliant and submissive.

And that rage that ate at you, tearing you apart and left to rot within… that is the human condition… for some of us.

Christian Daniela Sanchez Univeristy of Chicago, ‘15

19

Essays

What Ferguson has Taught (Reminded) Us

On August 9th, 2014 Mike Brown was shot at least six times by a police officer. The police officer did not call in the shooting; the 18 year old’s body decayed in the broiling summer sun for hours. Unworthy of medical attention, an SUV hurriedly gathered the boy’s remains. An ambulance did not attend to the body, sanitation disposed of the boy’s flesh. At this moment we are transported into the past remembering the cops’ slogan “to clean the streets” and I can’t help but see how Black flesh carries some tinge to it that must always be sanitized and disposed of. As if it was yesterday, Trayvon’s memory comes to the forefront. Then, Sean Bell’s.

After a while, Emmett Till is remembered. The melancholic nostalgia Black people harbor rushes to our heads and with a red hot rage we realize that we are dropping like flies and that these deaths are all connected by one thing: Racism.

So the peaceful protests begin. A community stands together to pay homage and respect to Mike: an action the Police officer who murdered him never considered. Now, one of racism’s biggest threats surfaces: Black people are valuing themselves. Cue the attempts

20

to slander Mike’s image. He is quickly only named as a “Young Black Man,” which effectively sweeps him under the rug of lives we’ve convinced ourselves don’t matter, but the mass of bodies underneath are giving off a stench that is getting harder and harder to stomach. Next, he is depicted as a criminal. Not a shoplifter, not a young kid doing dumb shit, but a thug. And you know how America loves to treat its criminals.

In come the justifications for his murder. First, he attacked the officer. Then, he stole from a store. Even after evidence suggests otherwise, people are still not convinced the officer did anything wrong. Here is where the first line of this piece becomes crucial. Six times. Please let that sink in. Either we are legitimizing death for shoplifting or we are to believe that a police officer needed to shoot someone who was over 30 yards away repeatedly in order to “defend” himself. I don’t know about you, but where I’m from a thug is someone that shows no mercy or regard for other people. In this scenario, the only thug was the police officer who decided an unarmed Black teen did not deserve his life for daring to step to him.

We must now take a step back and do what America

fails to do for its citizens: we must factor in race and interrogate how it determines value. Would a white kid from the suburbs ever be shot six times by a “public servant” for petty theft and left in the middle of the street to rot? What makes white mass murderers worthy of safe capture and a background story that focuses on their humanity? Why are we looking for justifications for why Mike deserved to lose his life instead of figuring out why he was murdered? What everyone is reluctant to acknowledge and accept is that racism has taught us that Black lives are inferior, which makes people indifferent to the deaths of Black men, women, children and so many others. We do not see their deaths as worthy of attention because it’s a lot more convenient to focus on racist ideas, such as the illusion of “Black on Black Crime,” rather than understanding how systemic oppression from things like Slavery, documented wage and employment disparities’, and more has factored into the material condition of Black people. Black people are depicted as animals unable to help ourselves so that when we are slaughtered, it comes off as euthanasia rather than murder.

Dear America, we have been given a narrative about Black people that we must reject AT ALL COSTS. Nothing should make you forget that a Black life was taken without cause. No one should be able to unabashedly defend this officer, his actions, and the subsequent treatment of the citizens of Ferguson. Black lives matter and no justification should make us think otherwise.

However, this is exactly what has happened. People hear the word “criminal” or they are told that Mike may have confronted the officer first and just like that he no longer has a life worth defending. In that moment, we forget that he was another human being. Somehow we delude ourselves into believing that his actions were despicable enough to warrant his death. We should be embarrassed, yet somehow we are looking for every other explanation except for the one staring right at us from our not so distant history. Mike Brown was murdered, left in the street, and denied decency because he was Black. The saddest part about this all is thinking about how many other Black people haven’t been given a story…

Put simply, Ferguson taught (reminded) us that although Black life matters, institutions such as law enforcement continue to find ways of taking it away and playing it off as a “public service.” We are forced to once again face our ugly past/present/future relationship with racism. People of color are speaking out everywhere

pleading for people to realize that the police are not here to “Protect and Serve” us. We are reminded that too many people are comfortable with the Anti-Blackness that has seeped into most aspects of American life and trickled down into our interpersonal relations. We have forgotten how only 50 years ago, the Civil Rights Bill was being passed, which finally made it illegal to treat racial minorities as inferior, second class citizens. We forget the water hoses, the dog attacks, and the public lynching. When we refuse to accept the current state of affairs and come to grips with our past, we risk repeating the same mistakes. However, don’t let the word “mistakes” give the wrong impression: These situations are calculated. The militarized police response to a peaceful protest was intentional. The media’s attempts at distraction by slandering Mike Brown’s name and focusing on the “riots” in Ferguson were premeditated. Now, the citizens of Ferguson are doing everything possible to salvage Mike Brown’s story in light of the police state they are quarantine. We must do everything to let them tell his story and reject all of the narratives that racism wants us to believe.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had to dream because living in America as a Black man was a nightmare. These night terrors have followed us into Ferguson as people on the outside grope around in the dark due to a media blackout. We must ask then, what are they hiding?

What are they worried we will see? I am afraid that this may be the straw that breaks the camel’s back because so many people are still willing to fight for an avoidance of racial reality. I fear that the American Dream will keep us from seeing just how entrenched systemic racism is. I am terrified at the thought that we have not learned our lessons from the countless Black lives this nation must answer for because it means that a future where this is not the norm may be very, far away. I found hope in a protestor’s chant at the National Moment of Silent in Chicago August 14, 2014.

“Racism is alive, but so are we”.

So are we.

Words by Vincente “SubVersive” Perez University of Chicago, ‘16 @I_Am_SubVersive

Art by Olivia McLean

21

Essays

If you’re going to learn a language, learn Korean

By MeeSoh Bossard, University of Chicago, ‘17

I know a little bit about culture trauma. Which is different from culture shock, because you can forget one but not the other.

extremely literally into English. Which, for the most part, was completely fine.

Culture shock is seeing booty shorts for the first time. Culture trauma is seeing your male cross-country coach wearing them.

Except that my mother is a very energetic, creative person, and often uses phrases that reflect her artistic self.

I didn’t know this, but apparently my sister has experience with culture trauma too. And lo and behold, it all leads back to our family. More specifically, to our beloved mother.

…Which would also have been fine except my sister has great hearing. And an uncannily great memory.

So when my sister casually laughed at her 7-year-old friend and said something close to, “You make me want to go insane and jump into the air in a frenzied panic” and followed that with a half-joking, “You wanna die? i’m gonna kill you,” the elementary principal was not happy.

See, Americans are often described as being more forward, but they’re particularly forward in their actions.

“Hi,” or even “How are you?” is often followed by a hug or a bro punch.

In absolute contrast, Koreans are not forward in their actions. At all. And maybe this isn’t surprising at all, because the concept of Americans or just Westerners in general being more liberal in that way is, I feel, pretty common.

But what many people don’t know is just how forward Korean language can be.

Excluding the use of swear words—because, let’s face it, they’re a particular use of language and not the most creative—the way Americans use language is… generally pretty innocuous.

For example: Let’s say it’s a sweltering 98 degrees outside, with a humidity of 100%. An American might say, “Man, it’s so *** hot outside.” Reading that again, excluding the swear words, you can almost imagine two American friends reclining on a porch sipping, Mountain Dew and one commenting, lightly, “[Fellow] man, it’s so hot outside.”

Now if the humidity is anywhere near that, the average Korean will not stop at merely stating that the weather is hot. More likely, he or she will say, “This weather is roasting me to death.”

My mother is Korean. Both my sister and I learned Korean before we learned English. So when my sister first attended school, she translated Korean phrases

22

In my sister’s defense, she claimed she had no idea she was being unacceptably rude to her fellow classmates because all she did was “follow what mommy said.”

Yeaaahh…I think my mom tried to watch what she said around us after that, but by then the damage was already done.

I think there’s something to childhood traumas.

There’s a reason why they define us. Maybe this is crazy, but I almost think trauma—at least culture trauma—can be useful in a way. There’s a reason certain things have power over us and exploring how events have affected us is crucial to learning about self and identity.

Culture shock happens when you experience something from a foreign culture that is outside your comfort zone. Culture trauma happens when this experience creates a paradigm shift in your worldview.

My encounters with different people have taught me that the world is bigger than language differences and alien fashion trends. I’m convinced we need culture shocks and culture traumas. We need them to widen our perspectives so we’re pushed one step closer to seeing the world for what it is, a diverse ever-changing hub of fascinating eclecticism.

Nicole Loud, Florida International University, ‘17

23

Essays

My Expectations versus Ghana’s Reality

When I first learned that I had received the African Studies Research grant, I was ecstatic. It was in the wee hours of Saturday morning in the middle of spring quarter and I was bouncing around chanting “Oh my God” in disbelief. I could not believe I was going to Ghana. In fear of getting my hopes up only to have them crushed if I did not receive the grant, I had limited my research to only the facts that pertained to my research project. After calming down to a level of functional excitement, I started obsessing: I needed to know everything I could about Ghana. I reached out to professors, teaching assistants, cousins, and friends who I knew had visited the country and asked them to tell me anything thing they could. What I didn’t learn from them I learned from online travel guides such as Trip Advisor, Wiki Travel, Lonely Planet, and the US Department of State’s travel website. I was excited, slightly nervous, but excited for this new adventure.

I wanted to be prepared so I researched Ghanaian culture, people, food, transportation, religion, and laws.

I learned that in Ghana taxi fares aren’t set and had to be haggled beforehand, it isn’t taboo for men to hold hands, the country doesn’t participate in Daylights Savings time so darkness comes early, religious festivities are a near constant, consensual sex between two males is punishable with up to three years in prison, after English, Akan is the most-widely spoken language in Ghana, and that there are over a hundred Ethnic groups living in Ghana.

My friend, who was born in Ghana, warned me that gender dynamics were drastically different and that even though trotros – one of the country’s public bus systems – were death traps, they were the most affordable and most convenient means of transportation. My recommending professor warned that I would be charged double, sometimes even triple, for things because I was American. And my counselor, who is married to a man from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, informed me that bigger girls are appreciated more in African countries so I shouldn’t be surprise when I get hit on. I was aiming for preparedness but I would soon come to learn that I couldn’t be prepared for everything.

As I was reading the online travel guides, I quickly

24

realized that they all were written with the assumption that the reader, and thus the traveler, was white. Nearly every guide I read warned readers to not take offense when they are stared at because many rural Ghanaians have seen very few white people, or to not take offense when you were called ‘Oburoni’, which literally translates to ‘white man.’ While the white-until-proven-otherwise mentality of these guides irked me, I still found the advice within in them useful. I didn’t think it necessary to look up travel advice specific to African-Americans. I was going to a country filled with people the same skinned color as me, I thought, there was no need for Black specific traveling advice. That was a mistake I was not prepared for.

A friend I met during my first week in Ghana, another African-American student studying at the University of Ghana for the summer, invited me to a sports bar in Osu, a western district of Central Accra. Elizabeth explained that two of her male Ghanaian friends invited her and she’d feel safer if she had a female friend with her. I agreed. Like most bars in Osu this one was mostly outside with overhangs protecting the tables and chairs from rain and giant flat screens televisions set up for the customers’ viewing pleasure. When we arrived the soccer game had already begun, so no one was talking much. Us girls ordered sodas and sandwiches. Our male counterparts ordered beers. A few commercial breaks into the game there began a half-serious, half-joking conversation about the N-word. Elizabeth and I were trying to explain the difference between the N-word ending in –er and the N-word ending in –a. We attempted to explain how the N-word ending in –er is seen more as a slur and how the N-word ending in –a is seen more as slang if used by the right individuals (read: African-Americans). This explanation led to a mini-linguistic African-American history lesson. The Ghanaians said that they didn’t see how the different endings had anything to do with the meaning of the word and that African-American people were just being too sensitive. I was shocked. I understood that they might not comprehend the history, but to easily dismiss us as being too sensitive was what surprised me the most.

The rest of the night didn’t go much better and

ended with us leaving the bar around midnight.

The next day, Elizabeth and I went to a smoothie shop in Osu to decompress and try to recover from last night. This was Elizabeth’s second summer in Ghana and she informed me that a lot of the Ghanaian students she had met shared similar sentiments about African-Americans: that America wasn’t that racist anymore and that we were just being too sensitive when it comes to matters of race. Early on in my stay in Ghana I was under this naïve, and privileged, notion that because we shared the same skin color and had a connected history the Ghanaians would understand America’s structural racism, especially when it came to African-Americans. So at first I didn’t believe what Elizabeth told me. I chalked the previous night up to a couple of insensitive drunk boys. However, it kept happening. Cab drivers, once they discovered I was all American, telling me that I was lucky my ancestors were brought to America because I got to grow up there, the stall owners in markets claiming that America couldn’t be racist because we have Obama as president, and school children wishing they could do their schooling in America “the Land of the of the Free”. I was going through cultural whiplash. One moment being called ‘sister’ by students and stall owners and the next having to explain the school to prison pipeline. I jumped between feelings of solidarity with the African diaspora to feelings of frustration at people’s lack of knowledge on a daily basis. My tipping point came with my visit to the two major slave castles at Cape Coast and Elmina.

Touring the underground dungeons of Cape Coast Castle and walking through the Door of No Return was intensely emotional. We ended our tour in the Governor’s bedroom, a room meant for one that was half the size of the dungeons meant for hundreds, and our guide asked if anyone had any questions. A middle-aged Ghanaian man whom I had chatted with before the start of the tour asked, “If the Europeans wanted the Africans to come work for them, why did they treat them so badly”? Myself and the only other African-American in the tour group exchanged shocked looks. For us the answer was obvious. For us the answer is reinforced by the continuing murders of unarmed black men in America. For us the answer is found in America’s silence surrounding missing black children. For us the answer could be found in the overflowing American prison cells. For us the answered was alive and well. The shock quickly wore off and was replaced by the desire for this man to understand the plight of Black people in America.

As if we had rehearsed it, this stranger and I took turns

explaining to the man who was twice our age that Europeans did not see these African’s as humans. They did not see these Africans as a potential workforce to keep happy in order to increase productivity. No, the Europeans saw these Africans, our ancestors, as no more than cattle. Our ancestors were nothing more than goods to be traded.

I couldn’t understand how this man, a man from the same country as some of those that were held in the dungeons below, did not know this. It wasn’t until later that evening as my roommate and I were talking about the event s of the day that I realized the answer: it most likely wasn’t his history. While it is true that slavery had a huge impact on the Gold Coast nations, and on Africa as a whole, the experiences of the African’s that were not captured and the experiences of the Africans that were captured split as the slaves were led through the door of no return. I came to Ghana with the naïve and privileged expectations that my history was their history. I expected people, some who have never set foot on American soil, to understand my experiences with American racism. I expected Ghanaians to know the unique history of America’s structural oppression and how it is still relevant today.

Perhaps it was the idea that I was a member of the African diaspora returning home and I would somehow find validation. More likely, it was my privilege. As an American, I expected the world to know about American history (the good and the bad), but if Ghanaians aren’t taught about the history of American racism in school, although some Ghanaians are, and they don’t live the experiences I should not expect them to know. I should not be offended that some citizens of another country do not the history of mine. I realized that while my ancestors might have passed through or lived in these lands centuries ago, 250 plus years on different continents leads to drastically different experiences. I should not expect Ghanaians to understand experiences they have not lived nor learned about just as they don’t expect me to know everything about Ghanaian culture. What I have found, however, is that many people in Ghana are willing to sit and chat about the differences and similarities between our cultures, leading to a wonderful environment of mutual education and learning. It was these conversations and experiences that taught me things about Ghana that the travel guides never would.

By Alicia M. Wright University of Chicago, ‘15

25

Essays

How Big is American Racism, Really?

It is just past midnight. It’s my friend’s birthday, and after a few hours a group is relaxing. You know, having really really goofy, non-committal conversation. So it’s a wonder anyone feels comfortable enough to almost wonder, “why do people say black people can’t be racis-” I’ll stop you, and your pointedly controversial statement there. You most certainly can not wonder, and it’s because of this chilly August indiscretion that we are all here for a small “discussion” (lecture). I had to inform them in all my youthful vigor and infallibility. So. Where do the well-meaning (often white) diverge? After a few minutes of discussion/debate, it seemed as though racism, in effect, occupied different parts of speech for each side: one perceives it inflexibly as a noun, of sorts, and the other as an adjective - a subset of prejudice that implicitly has the same impact that a subset would be expected to have. I own up to holding the former position, and my demography may have something to do with it.

That’s a significant part of why I perceive racism to be so profoundly fixed. I live within it, wake up in it, and, in a sense, have it pointed at me every moment of my life.

But, sans-dramatics, racism is a scary thing. It has permeated American culture and nets no positive returns.

Racism built this country and (probably) wouldn’t exist as it does without this country; yet is so potent, it could exist without it in the present. That’s insane. But could my fear and immersion enlarge my perception of racism’s effects? Perhaps. But it’s difficult to accept the notion that the title of “racist” could be given to any other group besides whites in this vast nation.

No other population benefits most from racism as it exists in the US, in the US. The thing about people who believe in the adjective version of racism - positing a system is racist instead of giving dues to racism as its own system - is that they’re kind of right, but they’re not in touch. They were the students who complained about an answer they got wrong on an exam because the correct multiple choice definition wasn’t written exactly as it was in the textbook, so how were they to identify it? These people are, according to the scientific method, precise, but not accurate. They shot the deer between the eyes, but it didn’t fall before it could trample their wandering child. I guess what I’m trying to say is, try as they might, they don’t fully grasp it. I don’t think people with this perspective could have ever been right at any point prior to 2014 actually, because the system of racism

26

has never been dictionary-simple. They can’t understand (and you know they never will if they use a dictionary’s definition of a complex, storied system or belief to win an argument that requires nuance) that a social system has psychological and emotional effects that influence behavior we pick up on in order to optimize quality of life. Not just for the oppressed, but for the advantaged, and then on top of that, the effect are so deeply ingrained that the individual has difficulty realizing they should be questioned. Here’s how I know some people just don’t understand, via some choice moments from the opposition that night:

“Shouldn’t we just stop talking about it then, if we want it to go away?”

“Why do we keep talking about it?”

“We have to worry about classism more now, honestly.”

“Well my ancestors were busy in Russia, in the gulags-” Which, I have to laugh at. Because given half a century in these United States and European features, no one will remember what happened on the serfdom.

You will be white, assimilated, and enjoy the same privileges as your Aryan or Nordic counterparts.

In no way does ignoring the transgressions on another people lessen their resultant plights. But it does highlight another aspect of the cruelty of racism: it was chance. That’s the hardest thing to accept. There is nothing that predicted its potency, even though different forms of discrimination and oppression have occurred throughout history, but the fact that black racism stuck so firmly both emboldens and weakens arguments that it is merely a subsidiary of prejudice. Let me demonstrate: “It could’ve been any group of people. Why treat this specifically when it’s happened to everyone?” Oh, my. Touche. Well I’d say because, “It happened to blacks, it picked up, and generations of people have and will be deprived of opportunities, a sense of security, and acknowledgement because it happened to them.” Open and shut like the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair.

It’s so hard for people to accept the power racism has and exercises in quiet (particularly people who benefit from it), because no one gets lynched anymore and there are repercussions for being outwardly racist.

In 2014, after over 200 years, we are questioning what is perpetuated in private and how it affects interactions and creates very real borders. The debilitating biases that

render people less than human on sight. No one wants to accept that these huge, elaborate systems are the products of mere humans and mimic us, even the worst parts of us. We compartmentalize to maximize understanding, but we fear (then sometimes are conditioned to hate) what is different. Mob mentality is strong. And some of the things people come up with are infectious while others that could succeed, don’t. It’s human caprice, and in the singular case of racism, unprecedented levels of willful ignorance during a boon in knowledge.

It’s frankly innocuous in words, but in action...well....

I hate the perception that racism is “basically just prejudice.” Prejudice hurts feelings and can be absolved by turning to someone else instead, perhaps even showing an individual that stereotypes aren’t completely true over lunch or a day in another community.

Saying racism is a prejudice, while true, basically communicates to me that you 1) don’t have any idea how much your you are impacted by racism, 2) are privileged enough to ignore it, and 3) do so very gladly. Racism penetrates psychology and taints social differences; it complicates relations within minorities based on color and makes the safety of every color conditional. It may be because I’m black, but I would like to think that because I’m human (and other people’s safety is constantly compromised, and their character and dignity is undermined without consideration), changing the perception of minorities is something in which I’m particularly invested.

By Ariel Paige Jones University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, ‘17 radfemuniversity.wordpress.com

Art by Nicole Loud

27

Essays

28

More than a Game: Racism in Professional Sports­ Sports are meant to inspire hope.

Sports are meant to make children and adults alike believe that the impossible is possible.

Sports are meant instill values within us that we will carry into adulthood: the importance of teamwork, sacrifice, dedication, and a million other invaluable qualities.

of the Donald Sterling saga, but to sum it up, the owner declared he didn’t want black people going to the games, insulted Magic Johnson, one of the greatest players of all time, of whom essentially helped saved the league in the early 1980’s. After a long court case, a judge ruled that Sterling must sell the team for a record $2 Billion to former Microsoft CEO, Steve Balmer.

Once again, the situation feels like one of celebration. The evil racist is ousted, and the NBA is heralded as a shining example of acceptance. However, this is only what appears to the casual fan; someone of whom followed all the drama, heard of all the groups willing to buy the team perhaps saw the chance that slipped through the leagues fingers. There is only one African American owner in the NBA, Michael Jeffrey Jordan, of who is obviously a special case (the best player of all time, face of one of the most successful shoes companies of all time, etc.). There was a flurry of black perspective owners, including a group represented by Oprah Winfrey, a group represented by the aforementioned Magic Johnson, and Sean “Diddy” Combs, a man who’s estimated net worth alone is approximately $700 million.

All of these instances represent the failure of not representing black voices. No one was in the Atlanta Hawks front office saying “that’s not right.” There were no black owners saying, “How dare you restrict these players language”. And now the NBA has missed the opportunity to add one of these voices to an on-going racial dialogue, to prevent another failure of these all-too influential people. Sadly, these failures will continue until brave men and women decide enough is enough; until someone decides that diversity translates into success, as opposed to continuity translating into contentment.

I don’t want to risk taking my future children to their first NBA game, knowing that the owner sits courtside, loathing our existence.

I don’t want hear of another racist comment by another general manager, demeaning the existence of another human being.

I don’t want sports to represent the divide between individuals, but rather what unites us.

I want to believe that the impossible is possible; I want to have hope.

And yet, sports are failing us.

In an age as hypothetically progressive as 2014, it seems that the racial dialogue within sports is at an all time high. The Donald Sterling incident set the stage, and soon incidents with the Atlanta Hawks owner, Bruce Levenson, and general manager, Danny Ferry, followed suit. It was a concern of Levenson’s that not enough whites were attending the games, and Ferry not-so-lovingly described free-agent Loul Deng to “[have] a little African in him” to describe Deng as a less than upstanding person.

Even prior to these, news broke last February that the NFL considered implementing a ban on the n-word that would cost the offending team approximately 15 yards. At first glance, such a step could be considered noble; however, when you let the idea sit with you, one can see why such a rule would be problematic. The NFL is approximately 67% black, a firm majority. There are no African American owners in the NFL. Suddenly, it makes you wonder if it’s the most logical thing for a bunch of wealthy white men and women to tell a predominantly black league when and where to say the n word. It becomes particularly more problematic when one realizes that only the n word was singled out, no other slur or curse word.

A number of players spoke out about the potential ban and the morality of implementing such a rule.

The often out spoken Richard Sherman abhorred the idea, calling it “atrocious.” The league attempted to restrict the language of the players, and in turn limit a word entrenched not only in the culture of the field, but also within their culture as black Americans. A seemingly innocent rule was in truth a play to limit the black culture on the field. And that is where the problem lies: a lack of black culture at the highest level of the league resulted in an attempt to reflect those non-black concerns.

This leads us back to the predicament of the Los By Chase Woods, @YeezyJunior Angeles Clippers. I will not bore you with the gory details University of Chicago, ‘17

29

Photography

30

Mia Harris, Wake Forest University, ‘17

31

32