I feel rage. When I walk through campus and have to move out of some white people’s way because they seem to think they own the place, I feel rage. When I hear about the hate mail a black female friend of mine receives because of her never-ending critique of white male hegemony in her CC class, I feel rage. And when I think of the Manhattanville community being deemed “blighted,” I feel even more rage. The rage engendered in these contexts is a direct manifestation of my frustration with the audacity of white privilege and the white supremacist attitudes and behaviors that exhibit themselves in multiple, and sometimes shocking, ways on this campus.
For example, two and a half years ago, when Chris Kulawik, CC ’08, wrote his inflammatory and irresponsible column on the Malcolm X Lounge in the Spec (how it got past the editors still amazes me), many black students were enraged, and justifiably so. In the column, Kulawik called Malcolm X a “hate-spewing, violent, anti-American racist” (in his autobiography, Malcolm anticipated such future interpretations of his image by the white racist imagination). Ironically, Kulawik ended up in the Malcolm X Lounge discussing his views with the members of the Black Students Organization. He could hardly get a word in, and folks were visibly and vocally upset with him. I noticed that many were trying to repudiate the specious claims contained in his column while others were pushing for a more level-headed, reasoned conversation. It did not take long for a BSO officer to ask Kulawik to leave.
The Kulawik controversy is instructive in a couple of ways. First, it lays bare the fact that white people (just to clarify, when I mention “white people,” I refer broadly to those who receive—consciously or unconsciously, wanted or unwanted—the privileges and immunities granted them by a white supremacist state and culture) can and do enrage people of color—in this case black folks—through things they say or do, whether they intend to or not. The rage we as black students felt in this situation was a direct result of what many of us considered to be anti-black racism.
Second, the Kulawik controversy illuminates the different ways black folks responded to their rage. Some folks were ready to fuck him up. Others were willing to listen to his justifications. Few seemed interested in tending to the wounds his words caused our community. Two and a half years later, we as black folks have yet to discuss the impact this had on our community. This absence of a focus on community healing is rooted in the politics of shame and a particular conception of social justice work.
Often, it is difficult for some people of color to express their pain and frustration in public because we fear we will be labeled as angry, nonsensical, or simply complainers. We are shamed into remaining silent. In private, safe spaces that we have worked so hard to create, many people of color feel as though they can get angry and not be judged and that we can voice our pain without being rendered helpless. The Students of Color Leadership Retreat hosted annually by the Office of Multicultural Affairs is one such space. At the retreat, held in upstate New York at a remote location, students of color are encouraged to share difficult personal narratives in order to reflect on their own positions of power and privilege. My experience there was one of the first times I had a space sanctioned by the University in which I felt comfortable sharing my experiences of anti-black racism and brainstorming practical steps to begin a journey of healing.
Such dialogues on people of color’s experiences under white supremacy, however, should not be limited to log cabins in upstate New York. They should be integrated into the fabric of social justice work. Particular conceptions of social justice work tend to focus on political education, struggle, and critique of social hierarchies. Absent is the community reflection wherein we inspect the dehumanization, learn coping strategies, and take pragmatic steps towards healing. In the Kulawik controversy, for example, we were so adamant about proving him wrong and engaging his hate speech that we did not reflect on what it meant for us as a community to experience his hate speech (i.e. the physical and emotional reactions to the hate speech, per se). This is not to say that the two strategies—repudiation of hate speech and community healing—are mutually exclusive or that one should be valued over the other. Rather, I am suggesting that they must work cooperatively to further the goals of social justice.
Giving voice to the rage and pain people of color experience under white supremacy, particularly on this campus, is an act of resistance against attempts at shaming that will further our efforts to build a loving community. Healing is at the center of such a task. White people must take seriously the voices and narratives of pain, hurt, and frustration that they hear from students of color. Likewise, students of color must be more courageous in their expressions in whatever form they take. By doing so, we will have taken a step towards that loving community and a step away from the strife and lovelessness of our current situation.
Anthony Kelley is a Columbia College junior majoring in women’s and gender studies. Strength to Love runs alternate Tuesdays.