A hasty glance at the Bwog on Saturday evening disrupted what promised to be a normal day. It was then that I first read the story of Minghui Yu, a student in the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences who was killed by a car after fleeing from an aggressor.
The news was devastating. At that time, I was still processing the death of my pastor and a distant relative back home. I was also thinking deeply about Dr. King’s assassination nearly half a century ago. I was overwhelmed and indignant.
Quickly, indignation turned into rage. Below the Bwog’s fairly objective news story were over 100 comments from readers. Here are a few: “Dear Columbians: This is what happens when you support public housing. Please stop.” “This is why living next to three housing projects is dangerous.” “When I’m going home at night, I cross the street when there are black ‘thug’ types in pairs or threes walking on the same side of the street.” “Two black teens. Columbia must be sure to preserve their culture when they expand further into Harlem,” (implying that black culture equals criminality.)
These sentiments are rooted in a deep devotion to white supremacy and class elitism. They are also a product of fear. When white people, or anyone for that matter, cope with the (seemingly) intrinsic human fear of walking home late at night by perpetuating racist imagery of black male criminality, the falsely constructed stereotype of the dangerous black male is reinforced. It then becomes easier for some people to justify the unfair labeling and racial profiling of black male youth. A group of black males congregating does not necessarily produce criminal activities. Similarly, living near a poor neighborhood, albeit where crime rates may be high, does not justify labeling an entire community as “dangerous” or undeserving.
Now, I would like to think that these sentiments are not reflective of the Columbia community. Many of the people who commented on the Bwog admonished the aforementioned comments as reprehensible. However, similar racist and class elitist attitudes are discernible elsewhere in much more subtle ways. For instance, how many times have we been warned not to mistakenly get off at the 116th stop on the 2 train? How often do you have to reassure your parents you live in “Morningside Heights” and not “Harlem”?
Nonetheless, these sentiments should not be dismissed or silenced. They should be voiced openly and dealt with critically. Two weeks ago, I wrote about the rage people of color experience and the need for white folks to listen to our narratives of hurt and frustration. Today, many students are experiencing their own fear and frustration due to the tragic lost of a peer. We need a space where folks can voice their fear and frustrations even if these articulations take the form of racist and class elitist statements. We must be open and willing to engage each other.
Simply put, my fear is that dialogues around campus will continue to focus on an unquestioned fear of the Harlem community, particularly of black, brown, and poor folks. My hope is that we can develop constructive ways to deal with this fear. One such strategy is to reflect critically on why one feels unsafe walking home late at night in poor communities of color. Is this fear rooted in truth or some objective reality? Or is this fear rooted in images perpetuated by media, government institutions, and other aspects of American culture? How can you label that which you do not know? As Spec columnist Christien Tompkins pointed out last month, many of our interactions with the Harlem community are “frustratingly shallow, reduced to shopping, dining, or community service” and are devoid of any substantive community building efforts.
Some may question my motives in bringing up race and class issues in the wake of a tragedy. Some may (in fact, most will) accuse me of rabble-rousing, inciting a “race war” where one did not exist before. To those, I say: I did not bring up these issues. The people who left comments on the Bwog and all those willing to perpetuate racist and class elitist stereotypes to justify the gentrification of Harlem or the criminalization of black men are the ones who brought up these issues. I understand fully the sensitive nature of my writing, and I would not have written this if I thought it would be disrespectful to our fallen peer or his family and friends. I have chosen to speak out against hate, even though some may misinterpret my message.
When we speak out against hate, we turn our backs on the fear that seeks to grasp our hearts, making it more difficult to love. Fear grips us when we unfairly associate being black or being poor with being a criminal. Fear will paralyze us and make our journey towards a loving community a tortuous one. We should never allow this to happen. We must collectively learn to grapple with the fear we feel in order to cope with it in constructive ways that do not reinforce racist or class elitist stereotypes. We need spaces where folks can voice their rage, fear, frustration, and hurt. But we must also understand the implications of our words. As we move forward with our own lives and mourn the sudden, tragic death of a member of our community, we must remain resolved to uphold the principles of love and community that serve to unite us in the first place. When we fill our hearts with love, fear and hate have no place to reside.
Anthony Kelley is a Columbia College junior majoring in Women’s and Gender Studies. Strength to Love runs alternate Tuesdays. Opinion@columbiaspectator.com