I'm White . . . I'd Forgotten

I don't know about you, but for a long time, I'd forgotten that I'm white. Last December, I realized that I had forgotten that I'm a white person. Yes, I have acknowledged that I'm a white guy in the past, and I'd attended various conferences on race relations, diversity, etc., but a fuller recognition of my whiteness had slipped away some. What a luxury it is to just be Greg! What a luxury to let my whiteness come and go and never stay too long! At last year's People of Color Conference (POCC, under the auspices of the National Association of Independent Schools), I didn't rediscover my whiteness because of all the people of color around me. No, I became white again when the students of color from my school became more attuned to being students of color. And they were fired up and clearly in need of talking about it with whomever cared about them. My initial reaction was to defer to our Multicultural Dean, to let him have those conversations because he'd want those conversations, and then it suddenly struck me that all of us should be able to have these conversations with these kids. That the kids should be feel not just comfortable having those conversations with all of us, but also confident that we had something to offer them that recognized them not just as wonderful kids, but as kids of color. So if I was going to have the conversations, I had to acknowledge for myself what is surely apparent to those kids in their fired up state of revelation: Greg is a white guy. If you're white like me, I think we need to make time to consider our whiteness, our consciousness of whiteness, our willingness to address our whiteness with others. I think we need to forego the luxury of not thinking about it . . . if, in fact, you're like me and you haven't had to think about it. Now, I know that my situation - white, male, straight, and at least raised Protestant -- confers a lot more of that luxury than it does for women, Jews, gays. But that whiteness advantage we all share is a substantial luxury. And it may be that people of color would be pleased to know that we address it now and then instead of letting it slip away out of consciousness.

Republiconfederates and Slavery Month

For a long time now the Republicans have looked in vain for some governmental initiative they can actually say “Yes!” to with fervor. And so it comes as no surprise that slavery-nostalgia has once again risen with it’s gory frame in Virginia just in time for Republicans and their Tea Party cousins to say “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

You see, a Republican’s idea of “civil rights” would have us all return to the romantic past of nearly free, but wholly exploited, labor and godlike power over other human beings who would provide that free labor and all the economic benefits that can accrue thus allowing for the fetishization of such luxuries as chivalry and gentlemanliness, courtesies not extended to black women who were, instead, sexually exploited and at very young ages. What a wonderful world!!!

And so we have the recent decision by the Republican Master of Virginia to proclaim April as "Confederate History Month"?

Yes, yes, Republicans and a few hard core old-time leftists argue that the Civil War wasn’t about slavery. But try telling that to the enslaved folks of the day or their descendants. I can hear it now as a slaveowner speaks to one of his enslaved at the time: “Henry, you been with me a long time, as were your wife and children before I sold them to those Georgia planters, and I want you to know that I don’t intend to fight for the Confederacy so that I can continue to enslave you or even so that I can continue my nightly visits to your daughter! No! In fact, I’m opposed to slavery, but I’m enslaved by it as much as you are!”

Because, as Republiconfederates will tell you, the war was fought to defend “States’ Rights!” Like, for example, the States’ Rights to trample on Human Rights without interference from the pesky Bill of Rights. Or to put it another way, it’s the States’ Rights to enslave, exploit, sell, maim, rape, torture, and kill other human beings.

Now, the Virginia proclamation doesn’t mention any of that. Defenders of it speak of the South’s “War of Independence” without mentioning that the enslaved people who really needed independence would have seen little of it had the South won its war of independence.



The proclamation called for a remembrance of a time when Confederate soldiers "fought for their homes and communities and Commonwealth in a time very different than ours today."

Yes, a different time, and . . . a better time our Republiconfederates wistfully tell us.

That language – “a different time” –is meant to exculpate the Confederacy of its support of slavery. This is the kind of cultural relativism that conservatives generally reject.

True, after a while, the Virginia Governor apologized for omitting any mention of slavery in the Proclamation. However, I’d argue that he did not omit a mention of slavery in the Proclamation. “Confederacy” is synonymous with “slavery.” The two are at least inextricable. Praising the Confederacy, praising those who fought for the Confederacy, amounts to praising the right to enslave. The Rebel flag on your truck says, “I appreciate those enslavers!”

Now some Republiconfederate leaders around the country if asked to comment on the Virginia proclamation that seems to ignore an evil defended by the Confederacy at the time would probably say, “You know, slavery . . . that’s all behind us now. No point on dwelling on that.”

Well, the Confederacy, having lost, is surely behind us now, too, until, that is, Republiconfederates want to fire up the base. What’s next? Slavery reenactment gatherings?


The Huffington Post reports that Governor McDonnell amended the original Proclamation: "The original declaration called on Virginians to 'understand the sacrifices of the Confederate leaders, soldiers and citizens during the period of the Civil War.' McDonnell added language to the document that said slavery 'was an evil and inhumane practice that deprived people of their God-given inalienable rights and all Virginians are thankful for its permanent eradication from our borders.'"

How do we honor the "sacrifices" of those who would have perpetuated the deprivation of "God-given inalienable rights"?



Now, if we press the slavery point with Southerners, while they press the "honor of our Southern way of life and our homes" bilge, they will often regard us with contempt and say, "You just can't understand," as if we are some sort of uncivilized brutes. But I do understand this: If the South had won the war, slavery would have been perpetuated.

Maybe it can be reduced to this question: Is there one black person in Virginia or anywhere in the country who will honor the Confederacy . . . ever?


Lincoln was right to make an effort to heal the wounds after the Civil War. It was a magnanimous gesture and necessary given a war that pitted family members, not just citizens, against one another.

But the ongoing Confederacy fetish dragged out of some murky Southern swamp for the purpose of firing up the deranged right wing of the Republican base doesn’t deserve magnanimity. It deserves, as it always has deserved, derision and opposition.

Bad Words: Hearing "N________r" in a Hip SF Restaurant

A letter written recently to a San Francisco restaurant:

January 3, 2010

Dear _________ Owners:

I enjoyed a wonderful meal at [your restaurant] on the night of January 1st, but it was marred by what I thought was an irresponsible music choice. My friend and I were eating dinner and suddenly the hip hop that we weren’t paying that much attention to was littered with “n____r” throughout.

Now, I like some hip hop; I have about 20 artists on my iTunes. I know “n_______r” can be heard in a lot of hip hop. I know that some will argue that some African-Americans have appropriated the term for their own purposes. But there are other African-Americans who take issue with that strategy.

I also know that [the restaurant] was filled with white people that night. I certainly didn’t see any African-Americans. Certainly didn’t see any in the kitchen.

Hip-hop littered with “n________r” is problematic for me. So, yeah, I don’t play it and I don’t have to go where it’s played. And, no, I didn’t say anything to anyone at [the restaurant] in the middle of my meal. I knew I’d need time to explain myself and your hard-working staff has a lot going on.

But I’d argue that choosing this particular hip hop artist (I don’t know who it was) is problematic for me in that setting and it might be for you, too. You might argue that a place like [your sophisticated restaurant] doesn’t cater to racists, that your customers and staff can contextualize the “n__________r” they hear repeatedly in the music. I wouldn’t be so sure. By playing this music in your restaurant, you surely help to normalize the use of the word for those less sophisticated, those not very well versed in history. And those people are everywhere, even in the uber-hip Mission.

You might argue that white teenage boys are the biggest market for hip hop so the artist must know that this music will be played, quite often, in predominantly white settings. Yes, that is certainly true, but I think that artist decision is quite probably market driven, in any event irresponsible, and I think that for 4 minutes or so [your restaurant] was facilitating that irresponsible decision and thus making its own irresponsible decision.

The lamest argument I sometimes hear is, “That’s just how we talk to one another.” Language is powerful and it’s especially powerful when we think it’s not. The nursery rhyme is wrong: names do hurt.


After the Great Migration, African-American men in northern cities would greet each other by saying “man” as in, “How’s it going, man?” They chose “man” because they were suddenly surrounded by men like themselves who had escaped the American South where black men were called “boy” and “n_____r” – a word I can’t even bring myself to write much less have amplified in any space filled with strangers. To my ear, “man” celebrates the dignity of being human. “N_____r,” despite the effort to take it and thus declaw it, is a sad replacement.

Should I, a white guy, tell African-Americans how to communicate with one another? That’s not really the question. The real question is whether I want to be complicit in the dissemination, no matter what the intent, of a disgraceful term? And how much more pronounced is this issue if the intent of the artist is mostly market driven?

You’ll note that I have not expressed an objection to how often the terms “fuck” and “motherfucker” occurred in the hip hop selection that evening. This coarsens the setting, but I fear I’ve grown inured to these terms. “N_______r” is more profound, weighed down by historical baggage, and requires, at the very least, a conscious decision and I would encourage you to decide against its dissemination in your otherwise wonderful restaurant.

Thanks for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,



Greg Monfils


I received a call 2 days after sending the letter. The management and staff of the restaurant read the letter and agreed. I was invited to call the executive chef which I did. He apologized and I thanked him for his time.

memoir

I was quite young, playing outside in my small home town in Mississippi. I don't recall what was at stake, or the friends I was with, but I suppose a choice had to be made so I sang, "Eeenie, meenie, miinie, mo, catch a . . . . "

But in Mississippi, little kids using this rhyme did not catch a "tiger." We caught a "n______." And so that's what I commanded. And just about the time I said it, my mother came running out of the kitchen.

"Gregory! Get in here. Right now!"

Now, I'd never seen my mother that angry and I had no idea what she was angry about.

"What’d I do?" I asked. And then her legs brought her 4'11'' frame to me quite quickly, whereupon she grabbed my arm and brought me inside with all the vigor she could muster.

Once in the kitchen, she turned and faced me, still holding my arm and with an authority I’d never heard in her voice she commanded, "Don't you ever let me hear you use that word again! We do NOT use that word in this family and I don't care who else uses it or how much. WE . . . DO . . . NOT! Do you understand me?"

Well, you know, I didn't really understand, but I sensed that admitting to that would just get me into more trouble. At the same time, I also figured out that the only word that she could be talking about was the one that I really didn't know the full meaning of. At that young age, I wasn't really clear as to what "n_________" meant. I surely didn't picture a human being when I said ". . . catch a n________ by the toe” though I knew that there were human beings to whom that word referred, but that reference was always confusing to me, perhaps because my parents called those people “negroes.”

Anyway, I wanted to placate my mother, so when she announced that "WE . . . DO . . . NOT" say a particular word, I made as if I understood.

But she must've known better. I must've had some quizzical look on my face because she visibly relaxed a bit, stood there looking at me like she'd just figured out something, and asked, "You don't really know what I'm talking about do you?"

Never having seen my mother so angry, not being aware of any transgression on my part, and absolutely relieved that she had calmed down with a more solicitous approach, I broke into tears. "Nooooooooooo!!!!" I cried. "Wha’did I do????!!!!!!?????"

Then she told me what, perhaps, she should have told me long before, but hadn’t. She told me, as best she could in order to make it clear to a little boy, about the problems between white and black people, about the bad treatment, and the bad words. That people who use the bad words might be mistaken for bad people who do bad things. She told me about "n_______" in particular and explained what she could. I realized I’d never heard her use that word before; nor had I heard my father use it. But I’d heard a lot of other mothers and fathers use it and so I was suddenly proud of my parents.

"So I know you didn't mean anything by it because you didn't know any better," she acknowledged.

"Uh-huh, I didn't know. I didn't mean nothin' by it!"

"Well, now you know."

And she was about to let me go back outside to play, but then she grabbed me again with as much force, but without malice as if, this time, she was pulling me away from the brink of some bad fall. Her eyes were just as big as before, but softer, as she added: “Don’t you dare tell anyone other than your father what I just told you. Not friends. Not their parents. You’re gonna hear that word and you will hear it . . . .”

“I have heard it . . . a lot,” I assured her.

“Yes, I know you have, but you will never correct them or tell them what I said. Do you understand?”

“But . . . .”

“It will get you into more trouble than you can possibly imagine . . . and me, too,” she said, firmly looking at me, riveting her face to mine, her eyes to mine, so that I understood, wordlessly, that the safety of my mother sat in my hands and so I shook my head gravely, too preemptively afraid for my mother to say a word.

Went back outside to my friends and this I remember well: I felt superior to them, more mature, and protective of my mother. They laughed as they asked what had come over my mother and whether I’d gotten the “whippin’” it looked like I was going to suffer. Even now I burn a little cold imagining, as I did then, that these so-called friends of mine might harm my mother.

I don’t recall how I responded to their teasing -- just the sort of rising-above-it-all sensation that comes with revelation amidst those to whom the profound thing has not yet been, could not be, revealed.


I haven't said or written "n__________" since. And the issue never found a voice again in the family. My mother’s sister used it once when I was about 14, causing my mother to visibly wince, embarrassing my aunt, but we didn’t discuss it. Should’ve, but felt like we didn’t have to. My mother had scandalized the word and any scenario involving it.

Indeed, it took me a long, long time, long after the family left Mississippi, and I was in my late teens or early 20s, until I confronted the word upon hearing it, forgetting, I’m sure, that I was breaking my promise to my mother, a promise that needed to be broken, a promise I’m sure she’d have me break.