Thursday, September 24, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
A hurried meditation on the n-word.
Today in my sociology class we were talking about words and how they can be used to put minorities or groups with a lesser social status down (ie homosexuals and females). Then we got onto the n-word. I don't understand the n-word. I mean, I get that it has a significant, painful history behind it and I can understand never wanting to hear that word again. What I don't understand it the implied reality that African Americans can use the word and white people cannot.
There is this comedian, I can't remember his name, he's a white guy and he tells this story: He was stopped after a show and someone asked him why white people couldn't use the n-word and black people could. He says "Well I guess we haven't used it that well in the past." This is true. But why is it that a word with so much painful history would then be used excessively in pop culture, even if it is by those who it was initially created to put down? Would it not be easier to simply let it slip into the annexes of history as one more piece of human history that should and will remain in the past?
I think what gets me most about this is the explicit racism that the n-word represents. When it was in its first heyday it was a word that was racist against African Americans. Now it is racist against European Americans. How? In that it denies them something based on their skin color. A black person can call a white person an n-word, but a white person can't even say the word in an academic environment without fearing repercussions of some kind. The use of classic literature in certain schools is disputed by frightened parents because the n-word is used occasionally but a black rapper can use the n-word more than any other word in a rap song without worrying about how it will be received. When there is a clear division of what is acceptable and what is not drawn between two races, one can not possibly label it as anything but racist, but because it is the white person who is at the disadvantage, no one is willing to even suggest that it is racist to keep the n-word out of the mouths of white people.
Personally, I would rather just get rid of the n-word altogether than integrate it into everyone's vocabulary. What I don't understand is that there is no other group that has discriminatory words used against them that has not mainstreamed those words, supposedly to their advantage. Bitch and the faggot, for example, are almost to the level where they are acceptable terms and in a few more generations I wouldn't be surprised to find them no worse than "fool" or "jerk." I am convinced that this is because females and homosexuals took those two words and abused them amongst themselves and with others until they were the ones who controlled the words, not others, and they invited people from other groups to use those words in a light way as well. The words are obviously still be used offensively, but if the power is taken out of a word it will gradually become less and less offensive. I see no such future for the n-word. The power of the n-word is being perpetuated rather than challenged and overturned.
What bothers me more than anything is that when I try to understand the double standards set by the n-word and those who perpetuate it I leave feeling like a racist and with no more answers that I had in the beginning. Questions are answered intelligently at first, but when the discussion reaches a certain point the answers become redundant and meaningless. It is normally something that can be boiled down to "You didn't grow up around it so you don't understand." Everything is explainable and sometimes it is the very act of explaining something that helps us understand how little (or how much) foundation there is to what we believe or think.
The problem is that there doesn't seem to be any explicit reason for the unevenness in n-word usage, which leads me to think that there is no reason, and if there is no reason something should be done to change it. But I can't initiate this change because I'm white and I don't even have a right to have opinions about the n-word.
Someone please tell me how we are making any progress towards equality when we have things as simple as a word dividing us.
There is this comedian, I can't remember his name, he's a white guy and he tells this story: He was stopped after a show and someone asked him why white people couldn't use the n-word and black people could. He says "Well I guess we haven't used it that well in the past." This is true. But why is it that a word with so much painful history would then be used excessively in pop culture, even if it is by those who it was initially created to put down? Would it not be easier to simply let it slip into the annexes of history as one more piece of human history that should and will remain in the past?
I think what gets me most about this is the explicit racism that the n-word represents. When it was in its first heyday it was a word that was racist against African Americans. Now it is racist against European Americans. How? In that it denies them something based on their skin color. A black person can call a white person an n-word, but a white person can't even say the word in an academic environment without fearing repercussions of some kind. The use of classic literature in certain schools is disputed by frightened parents because the n-word is used occasionally but a black rapper can use the n-word more than any other word in a rap song without worrying about how it will be received. When there is a clear division of what is acceptable and what is not drawn between two races, one can not possibly label it as anything but racist, but because it is the white person who is at the disadvantage, no one is willing to even suggest that it is racist to keep the n-word out of the mouths of white people.
Personally, I would rather just get rid of the n-word altogether than integrate it into everyone's vocabulary. What I don't understand is that there is no other group that has discriminatory words used against them that has not mainstreamed those words, supposedly to their advantage. Bitch and the faggot, for example, are almost to the level where they are acceptable terms and in a few more generations I wouldn't be surprised to find them no worse than "fool" or "jerk." I am convinced that this is because females and homosexuals took those two words and abused them amongst themselves and with others until they were the ones who controlled the words, not others, and they invited people from other groups to use those words in a light way as well. The words are obviously still be used offensively, but if the power is taken out of a word it will gradually become less and less offensive. I see no such future for the n-word. The power of the n-word is being perpetuated rather than challenged and overturned.
What bothers me more than anything is that when I try to understand the double standards set by the n-word and those who perpetuate it I leave feeling like a racist and with no more answers that I had in the beginning. Questions are answered intelligently at first, but when the discussion reaches a certain point the answers become redundant and meaningless. It is normally something that can be boiled down to "You didn't grow up around it so you don't understand." Everything is explainable and sometimes it is the very act of explaining something that helps us understand how little (or how much) foundation there is to what we believe or think.
The problem is that there doesn't seem to be any explicit reason for the unevenness in n-word usage, which leads me to think that there is no reason, and if there is no reason something should be done to change it. But I can't initiate this change because I'm white and I don't even have a right to have opinions about the n-word.
Someone please tell me how we are making any progress towards equality when we have things as simple as a word dividing us.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Glacier
This is a personal narrative essay that I just wrote for my English class. True story from this summer that I don't think I ever got around to telling you guys. Sooo...now you know! (Also you should know that I'm giving you pictures and my professor only gets text, so feel special.)
It was nearing five o'clock, which is on the late – meaning dusky – side of things in the great outdoors, but my sister and I had been sitting in our cramped blue Saturn for at least seven hours that day and we needed to stretch our legs in a slightly more athletic fashion than is possible lying in a sleeping bag, so after we pitched the tent we took out our free Glacier National Park map and searched desperately for the nearest hiking trail.
We found a short one, about two and a half miles long, that was a walkable distance from our campsite. This was an incredible blessing, as my cynical side cannot fathom anything more ludicrous than driving somewhere so you can walk when you get there and my sister, Evie, doesn’t appreciate cynical insights. I was all for doubletiming our usual pace and doing the whole trail that night, which would have left us finishing just as the stars started to peek through the navy glass of a darkening sky. Evie, however, eying the abundant "Warning: Bears!" signs did not agree. Before we had hiked half a mile she was using every approach but her words to suggest we turn around immediately.
I also had a healthy fear of bears, so I talked incessantly, incessancy not being something I am fond of, much less known for. I noted that we were on a hairpin trail and defined the term explicitly, immediately moving on to extrapolate on the beauty of the trail, trees and river with every combination of “awesome”, “cool” and “gorgeous” I could. Almost every word or idea that passed through my mind also passed through my lips, loudly. I kept waiting for the conversation to become two-sided, but Evie's bear-repulsion method was sulking in the hopes of turning around.
As we came to another turn and I veered left to stay on the path my words suddenly dissolved on my tongue and I immediately began backpedaling, completely forgetting to finish explaining my theory on whether or not a civilization exterior to our own would be capable of accurately understanding the purpose of our highway systems or billboards. A sizable brown mass in the center of the trail sat unmoving approximately twenty feet from us, making my life, before a given, suddenly infinitely more important than alien anthropology.
A sudden guffaw tore out of my throat. It was a dead tree. Nonetheless, heart still racing and face still flushed, I decided to finally acknowledge my sister's persistent nonverbals and another quarter mile up the trail we turned around so we would get back to camp while the sun was still up.
The next morning we repacked and drove through the park, stopping occasionally to enjoy summer snow or a glacial stream, the colors of which were such a stunning turquoise that the only accurate comparison would be to the ocean waters unique to beach resorts known for their fine white sand and tendency to fence themselves off from impoverished locals. One of our first stops was a short, touristy trail to a waterfall.
Evie, being a morning person, tried to keep up a steady stream of words or song, and whenever we lapsed into a silence she would shout "Ay yi yi!" to fend off any nearby bears. I led briskly, excited to see the waterfall and to be on a hike for which there was mutual excitement. Evie had just let out a rather weak "Ay yi yi!" when we rounded a corner and I felt my body turn rigid through no control of my own. My eyes widened, disbelieving, trying unsuccessfully to turn the massive grizzly bear ten feet up the path into a dead tree. Its head turned slightly and two small points of sunlight reflected off its eyes from where they were nestled deep in its thick, ragged fur.
Oblivious, Evie caught up to me and tried to continue walking forward as I began taking unconscious, self-preservationist steps backwards. As we collided I tripped over a rock in the middle of the path and fell to the dirt. I could sense Evie looking up the path as she helped me to my feet and the adrenaline suddenly burst into my veins screaming that this was the time for flight; none of that pansy, ranger-mandated quiet backing away nonsense, either. I had fallen to the ground and proved myself prey to the bear. Now my only choice was to run like the prey it thought I was and win the race for my limbs and unscarred skin.
Luckily, by the time Evie got me to my feet she had me in such a vice grip that I couldn't have run if I tried. She pushed me down the trail in the direction from which we had come and, looking over her shoulder, whispered, “It’s moving up the trail.”
My body seized impulsively, like a runner’s in the moment the starting gun fires, the body ordering the mind to let it run. Evie’s grip tightened and I noted the hill to our right, figuring that if the bear started running, not just walking up the trail, I could throw myself down and roll through the rocks, bushes and small trees, land in that freezing glacial river and doggypaddle my way to safety. Bruises, cuts and hypothermia wouldn’t matter so long as no mauling occurred.
Eventually we got far enough away from the bear that I was able to slowly turn and see the empty trail behind us. The three or four seconds in which I saw the bear and fell to the ground replayed in my mind constantly that day, until, like a movie on an old VHS, the memory almost became fuzzy in its detail, blurred by my constant attention. We were told that grizzlies are marvelous swimmers, so my river plan had been a bad one, and a ranger said we were lucky to have seen a grizzly in real life and close up. I almost disagreed. Never in my life had I been so consumed by fear or certainty of death. Never in my life had I been more aware of each moment of my life as it slipped by, moment by excruciatingly glorious moment.
It was nearing five o'clock, which is on the late – meaning dusky – side of things in the great outdoors, but my sister and I had been sitting in our cramped blue Saturn for at least seven hours that day and we needed to stretch our legs in a slightly more athletic fashion than is possible lying in a sleeping bag, so after we pitched the tent we took out our free Glacier National Park map and searched desperately for the nearest hiking trail.
We found a short one, about two and a half miles long, that was a walkable distance from our campsite. This was an incredible blessing, as my cynical side cannot fathom anything more ludicrous than driving somewhere so you can walk when you get there and my sister, Evie, doesn’t appreciate cynical insights. I was all for doubletiming our usual pace and doing the whole trail that night, which would have left us finishing just as the stars started to peek through the navy glass of a darkening sky. Evie, however, eying the abundant "Warning: Bears!" signs did not agree. Before we had hiked half a mile she was using every approach but her words to suggest we turn around immediately.
I also had a healthy fear of bears, so I talked incessantly, incessancy not being something I am fond of, much less known for. I noted that we were on a hairpin trail and defined the term explicitly, immediately moving on to extrapolate on the beauty of the trail, trees and river with every combination of “awesome”, “cool” and “gorgeous” I could. Almost every word or idea that passed through my mind also passed through my lips, loudly. I kept waiting for the conversation to become two-sided, but Evie's bear-repulsion method was sulking in the hopes of turning around.
As we came to another turn and I veered left to stay on the path my words suddenly dissolved on my tongue and I immediately began backpedaling, completely forgetting to finish explaining my theory on whether or not a civilization exterior to our own would be capable of accurately understanding the purpose of our highway systems or billboards. A sizable brown mass in the center of the trail sat unmoving approximately twenty feet from us, making my life, before a given, suddenly infinitely more important than alien anthropology.
A sudden guffaw tore out of my throat. It was a dead tree. Nonetheless, heart still racing and face still flushed, I decided to finally acknowledge my sister's persistent nonverbals and another quarter mile up the trail we turned around so we would get back to camp while the sun was still up.
The next morning we repacked and drove through the park, stopping occasionally to enjoy summer snow or a glacial stream, the colors of which were such a stunning turquoise that the only accurate comparison would be to the ocean waters unique to beach resorts known for their fine white sand and tendency to fence themselves off from impoverished locals. One of our first stops was a short, touristy trail to a waterfall.
Evie, being a morning person, tried to keep up a steady stream of words or song, and whenever we lapsed into a silence she would shout "Ay yi yi!" to fend off any nearby bears. I led briskly, excited to see the waterfall and to be on a hike for which there was mutual excitement. Evie had just let out a rather weak "Ay yi yi!" when we rounded a corner and I felt my body turn rigid through no control of my own. My eyes widened, disbelieving, trying unsuccessfully to turn the massive grizzly bear ten feet up the path into a dead tree. Its head turned slightly and two small points of sunlight reflected off its eyes from where they were nestled deep in its thick, ragged fur.
Oblivious, Evie caught up to me and tried to continue walking forward as I began taking unconscious, self-preservationist steps backwards. As we collided I tripped over a rock in the middle of the path and fell to the dirt. I could sense Evie looking up the path as she helped me to my feet and the adrenaline suddenly burst into my veins screaming that this was the time for flight; none of that pansy, ranger-mandated quiet backing away nonsense, either. I had fallen to the ground and proved myself prey to the bear. Now my only choice was to run like the prey it thought I was and win the race for my limbs and unscarred skin.
Luckily, by the time Evie got me to my feet she had me in such a vice grip that I couldn't have run if I tried. She pushed me down the trail in the direction from which we had come and, looking over her shoulder, whispered, “It’s moving up the trail.”
My body seized impulsively, like a runner’s in the moment the starting gun fires, the body ordering the mind to let it run. Evie’s grip tightened and I noted the hill to our right, figuring that if the bear started running, not just walking up the trail, I could throw myself down and roll through the rocks, bushes and small trees, land in that freezing glacial river and doggypaddle my way to safety. Bruises, cuts and hypothermia wouldn’t matter so long as no mauling occurred.
Eventually we got far enough away from the bear that I was able to slowly turn and see the empty trail behind us. The three or four seconds in which I saw the bear and fell to the ground replayed in my mind constantly that day, until, like a movie on an old VHS, the memory almost became fuzzy in its detail, blurred by my constant attention. We were told that grizzlies are marvelous swimmers, so my river plan had been a bad one, and a ranger said we were lucky to have seen a grizzly in real life and close up. I almost disagreed. Never in my life had I been so consumed by fear or certainty of death. Never in my life had I been more aware of each moment of my life as it slipped by, moment by excruciatingly glorious moment.
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