The year 1967 seems to have been a big one for my encounters with racism. At nine years-old, my mom remarried and we moved out of my grandparents’ house and into a small, single-level ranch home on a cul-de-sac at the corner of Green Acres Street and Robin Hill Drive. It was a 12-minute walk to Colonial Hills Elementary School. The layers of meaning in that school’s name only now occur to me: Colonial Hills = colonialism = white folks. Was the school board, or whoever named the school, conscious of all those layers? No matter. In only three generations, my previously non-white Italian family had made it, happily ensconced in an upper-middle-class, white neighborhood.
San Antonio’s residents of Mexican decent have always been the majority. The latest numbers show “Hispanics” (excluding black and Asian Hispanics) at about 63% of the total population, with about 90% of that number claiming Mexican descent (the rest are Puerto Rican, Cuban, or South American). White (non-Hispanic) residents make up only 25%. In spite of being a clear numerical minority, whites live in more affluent neighborhoods and, because schools in most parts of Texas are financed by property taxes, their kids go to better schools. My family lived on the north side, and I attended Colonial Hills in the very well-funded Northeast Independent School District. I most definitely did not attend school on the south side, which was poorer and (in my mother’s mind) overrun by gangs.
The city of San Antonio grew up around the site of the Spanish mission of San Antonio de Valero. Franciscan friars named the mission for their patron, Saint Anthony of Padua, a thirteenth-century friar whom my grandfather claimed was Italian, though he was really Portuguese and only died in Padua. My grandfather was just like Michael Constantine’s character in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, who thought that every great person in history had been Greek, except that for my grandfather it was Italian. Saint Anthony of Padua was Italian, which you knew from the Venetian city in his name. Anthony Quinn—who was Mexican—was Italian because he had been in a Fellini movie. Alexander Graham Bell was Italian because he was played in the movie by Don Ameche, who was Italian, which, according to my grandfather is why people used to say, “I’ll call you up on the Ameche.” But Don Ameche was actually only half Italian, the other half being a combination of Scottish and German, just like me. I hope to God my grandfather was kidding about Alexander Graham Bell, but I never got to ask him.
The mission of San Antonio de Valero is also known as the Alamo, as in “Remember the—,” etc. I think I must have been ten when grandpa and my two brothers went downtown to watch the filming of a comedy called Viva Max!, which was released in 1969. It’s the story of a contemporary Mexican General who marches his men into modern-day San Antonio to retake the Alamo for Mexico. Hilarious premise! We looked all around the Alamo but we didn’t spot any film crews. Later we learned that the Daughters of the Republic of Texas (DRT) had protested the film and did not want to allow it to be shot in or around the Alamo.
The DRT were descendants of those who “rendered loyal service for Texas” prior to February 19, 1846, when the Republic of Texas ceded its power to the state of Texas, now the 28th state in the Union. They were also the caretakers of the Alamo, saving it from certain decline by managing the narrative of Texans fighting to win independence from Mexico. When I was growing up in Texas, every eighth-grader was required to study Texas history, which in my case was taught by the basketball coach. The Battle of the Alamo was likened to the ancient Battle of Thermopylae, in which Leonidas and “the 300” defended Greece from the massive Persian army for days, but were ultimately wiped out. The DRT opposed the film because they found it to be “a mockery and a desecration of our heroes who died for our liberty there.” To my knowledge, no Chicano/Latino activists protested the film’s portrayal of Mexicans.
Lead actors Peter Ustinov and John Astin (who are not Mexican) adopted comical accents and portrayed stereotypes of bumbling Mexicans. Since the 1990s, critics have referred to this kind of casting and portrayal as “whitewashing.” In the late 1960s, the Mexican-American Anti-Defamation Committee (MAADF) did not protest the portrayals in Viva Max, even though they were very busy at the time protesting comedian Bill Dana’s character of “José Jiménez”—a hapless Mexican who failed at every job he tried, including NASA astronaut. Dana, the descendant of Hungarian Jews, retired the character after learning that Mexicans found it offensive. Around the same time, the MAADF also protested the “Frito Bandito,” a cartoon advertising mascot based on the stereotypical Mexican bandits found in every Western: big sombrero, gold tooth and stubble, pistolas packed into his belt.
The premise was simple. The “Frito Bandito” went around robbing people of their Fritos corn chips, a snack food invented in San Antonio, as every kid growing up in the Alamo city knows. (The original recipe for Fritos was created by a Mexican-American named Gustavo Olguin, then bought for $100—stolen!?—by Charles Elmer Doolin, a gringo confectioner in San Antonio during the Great Depression who later made millions off the recipe.) The “Bandito” was voiced by Mel Blanc, of Bugs Bunny fame, with roughly the same accent he used for the cartoon mouse “Speedy Gonzales.” Following protests, Frito-Lay did clean-up the “Bandito” character, removing his gold-tooth and stubble. After the assassination of Robert Kennedy in 1968, the “Frito Bandito” no longer wielded a gun. Frito-Lay retired the character in 1971. Nowadays, if you happen to find “Frito Bandito” commercials posted to YouTube, they come with trigger warnings: “Politically Incorrect Ad from the 70s. This was when stereotypes were okay and children’s cartoon characters shot guns at each other.”
All of this, but no protest from people of Mexican descent about the Mexican caricatures in Viva Max! The Daughters of the Republic of Texas were outraged, but no one else seemed to be.
San Antonio’s city council allowed filming in front of the Alamo, since that was city property. But the DRT refused access inside the mission or its courtyard. Film crews constructed a fake Alamo set in nearby Bracketville, Texas, where most of the interior scenes were shot. I’m sorry to have to say this, but the movie is pretty funny. For example, Ustinov and Astin use codenames to gain entry to the mission, based on the stars of the 1960 film The Alamo.
“I’m John Wayne,” Ustinov’s character says, referencing the actor who had played Davy Crockett.
“I’m Richard Widmark,” Astin’s character replies, referencing the actor who had played Jim Bowie.
Maybe this stuff was only funny to people who had done some of their growing up in San Antonio, as was the case for Jim Lehrer. The distinguished PBS newscaster went to Jefferson High School in San Antonio, the same school my dad attended. Lehrer wrote the 1966 novel Viva Max!, upon which the film is based. Part of the comedy came from the ridiculous notion that Mexico could ever win back any of its former territory in Texas. It was the myth of the Alamo turned on its head. This wasn’t 1836! It was 1969, and it was the Mexicans who were outnumbered this time by the overwhelming power of the United States military.
It was funny, but was it racist? Was Jim Lehrer, respected PBS journalist, a racist? At one point in the movie, we learn that Max has invaded the Alamo in order to impress his girlfriend back home, who told him that “his men wouldn’t follow him into a brothel.” This makes the lead character seem pathetic rather than heroic. Where was the post-colonial rhetoric that might have linked Max to Che Guevara? There is one moment of nobility for the character. At the end of the movie, Max is shot while attempting to surrender by an armed militia of crazy Texans who think Max is leading a communist invasion. Max orders his men, who are unarmed, to attack the armed militia. His leadership has finally inspired them. Max’s men attack and the militia flees. Max uses the age-old military tactic of “advancing in retrograde,” as opposed to retreat. He mounts his white horse one last time and rides out of the Alamo and downtown San Antonio to the cheers of his soldiers, “Viva Max!”
It’s a cute movie. Maybe. I spend so much time on it here because it had such a huge impact on my understanding of Mexican-Americans and their culture—as did “José Jiménez” and the “Frito Bandito.” Even though I was surrounded by it, most of my knowledge of Mexican-Americans and their culture came from television and the movies.
The worst thing you could call someone when I was a kid growing up in my mostly white suburb, was a “Mexican.” This seems like an odd racial slur. Why not say “wetback” or “spic” or “greaser”? That’s because my mother taught us that those were bad words. That last one, “greaser,” was also used to describe Italian Americans in the 1950s and 60s. Maybe that’s what tipped mom off to the others. Either way, she would have washed our mouths out with soap if my brothers or I had used any one of them. “Mexican” was just the name of someone from Mexico. Completely innocent, right? But to us, “Mexican” meant lazy, stupid, illegal, possibly criminal. It was the perfect term to hide our elementary-school racism.
“You’re just a Mexican!” I would yell at my brother.
“I am not!” he would yell back. “Mom, Phil called me a Mexican!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mother would say. “You’re Italian.”
Man, was she tone deaf. And man, were we racist, in the way that only stupid, mean nine-year-old boys can be. To this day, I still have trouble using the word Mexican. I am able to say “For lunch, I had Mexican food,” without batting an eye. But if I call a person a Mexican, even if they come from Mexico, it brings up the horrible intent with which I used that word as a kid.
In his 1984 essay for Essence magazine, “On Being White ... and Other Lies,” Baldwin discussed how whiteness is constructed. Whites became white, James Baldwin argued, “By informing their children, that black women, black men and black children had no human integrity that those who call themselves white were bound to respect. And in this debasement and definition of black people, they debased and defined themselves.” A great example of this comes from Carl Zimring’s book, Clean and White: A History of Environmental Racism in America. Zimring relates the story of a Slovakian woman, recently immigrated to Connecticut, speaking to a researcher in the 1930s.
“I always tell my children not to play with the nigger people’s children,” she said. “But they always play with them just the same … This place now is all spoiled, and all the people live like pigs because the niggers they come and live here with the decent white people and they want to raise up their children with our children.”
Growing up in San Antonio, Texas, I had similar experiences, though these only came into my consciousness as racist much later. At the age of about four, my biological father skipped town never to be heard from again. We lived with my maternal grandparents until I was about nine. Among my most vivid memories from that period was the annual Fourth-of-July trip I took with my grandparents and my two younger brothers from San Antonio to Kansas City, for a reunion with my grandfather’s large, extended family. Grandpa was the youngest of ten siblings, great uncles who pinched my cheek and great aunts who buried me with hugs in their large-bosoms. There were dozens of aunts and uncles, my mother’s cousins (though mom never came on these trips), and somewhere short of a thousand cousins of my own, all with good Catholic names like Michael and Anthony and Margaret Mary and Josephine. All the clichés of large Italian families were there for the taking. The women were constantly cooking, except for the barbeque, which the men tended to. Because I was named for my grandfather, I was called “little Phil,” a name still assigned to me in some circles.
In 1967, when I was nine years old, the men at this annual gathering were headed to the liquor store to get more beer and pop. I must have had some really pathetic look on my face because one of my great uncles asked if they should take me along.
“Little Phil?” another great uncle said. “Sure, why not?”
We piled into somebody’s station wagon and headed for the North Side, Columbus Park, the Little Italy of Kansas City. In those days, Columbus Park had a long history with the mafia. The crime boss Nick Civella was born there in 1912, the same year as my grandfather. In 1969, a Senate committee identified Civella as the leader of the Kansas City mafia, though Civella denied the existence of organized crime, stating coolly in a 1970 interview, “I’m not a joiner. I’m not even a member of the Knights of Columbus.” Civella was buried with full Catholic rites in 1983 in Columbus Park’s Holy Rosary Church. This was the neighborhood where my grandfather and great uncles went to buy beer and pop.
We went into a liquor store where the men greeted each other with hugs and handshakes. They talked about all sorts of things, without, as far as I remember, ever getting around to ordering the beer and pop. I was left to wander around the store. Peeking behind the counter, I discovered a two-way mirror, something I’d never seen before. I went back and forth, poking my head into the store room and looking through the mirror at my grandfather and great uncles, then back out to the store, where I only saw my own reflection.
“What is this?” I asked. “Why do you have this?”
“That’s so nobody robs the store,” the man behind the counter said.
“Has anyone ever robbed the store?” I asked.
The men rolled their eyes and winked at each other, in gestures meant to acknowledge my naiveté.
“They tried,” the store owner finally said, smiling at me. Then to the men, he said, “Couple o’ Black Panthers.” Everybody laughed.
“What happened to them?” I asked. At that point my grandfather hurried me out of the store and back into the car. “But what happened?” I asked again. “What’s a Black Panther?” No answer. It wasn’t until much later that I came to understand the meaning of their silence. Two black guys had tried to rob a store in a protected neighborhood and they got “taken care of.” Maybe they were Black Panthers and maybe they weren’t. I’m guessing to the bent-nosed Italians in that liquor store, and probably to my great uncles, all black folks were Black Panthers, or they might as well have been. Hey, the Italians were only protecting their own, they must have thought, and those two [N-word] got what was coming to them, etc. None of this was in my consciousness at nine years old. I did not heroically stand up to my elders and declare that “black lives matter.” I didn’t do anything but stupidly take it in. It’s remarkable to me that this episode from my nine-year-old life sticks out. I now understand it as one of my first experiences of how my people dealt with issues of race.
Less than a year after the encounter with the two-way mirror, in April 1968, there were race riots in Kansas City. Police fired tear gas on student protesters on the day of Martin Luther King Jr.’s funeral. The protest turned into a riot that included looting, vandalism, and arson. So many fire alarms went off that the Kansas City Fire Department couldn’t keep up. Joel Rhodes, a history professor at Southeast Missouri State University, wrote his dissertation on the riots.
“When you look at the looting and the arson and the vandalism,” Rhodes said, “people had specific reasons for why they targeted some businesses and why they didn’t hit other businesses.” I have no idea if that liquor store in Columbus Park was hit. By the time the riots ended, property damage was in the millions, over 100 people were arrested, and five black men and one black teenager had been killed at the hands of police.
We did not travel to Kansas City that summer for the family reunion.
I am not black. I am also not a woman. I am not a member of the LGBTQIA community. I am not a lot of things, but for the sake of this book, let’s focus on the fact that I am not black. I did not grow up experiencing the daily moments of racism that black folks face. Nor do I walk this earth with 400 years of the history of slavery, oppression, rape and murder of my people ever present in my consciousness. I can never fully understand what that must be like. Because my brothers and sisters of color are human, and I am human, I believe that there is a small window that I might peek through to empathize with their situation, past and present, perhaps by analogy or comparison, but I acknowledge that I will never fully “get it.”
The matter of privilege is complicated for white folks to understand, and I must admit that I’ve only started to come to grips with the concept in the last ten years or so. It’s difficult because it is so a part of us that we cannot see it. It’s difficult because it is masked by the myths that society and we ourselves perpetuate. Think of the myth of the “self-made” man, from Carnegie and Rockefeller to Gates and Zuckerberg. The myth is that these men worked hard to get where they are, that they had an idea that no one else had had, or saw an opportunity that no one else has taken advantage of, and they made their move at just the right moment, entering or leaving the market just in time to become wealthy beyond belief. All of that may be true, but it ignores how ordinary tax-paying citizens contributed to their wealth, by funding police forces to protect their factories and roads to transport their goods, not to mention the leagues of workers who labored for a much smaller piece of the profits than the bosses made, often at the risk of their health and lives.
That’s how privilege works, even if you’re not a “self-made” capitalist. I worked hard to get where I am, to get into and out of graduate school, to find a tenure track job, to rise to the rank of full professor. It’s hard to even know that it’s happening, but I must acknowledge that at every turning point in my life, there might have been someone else vying for the same prize and seeing that prize go to me because of some (conscious or unconscious) bias in the person awarding the prize. Many paths are closed to black folks because of the immutable characteristics of their skin color. Those same paths remain open to me for the same reason, because I’m white.
I don’t feel any guilt about being white. Why should I? I didn’t consciously pick the immutable characteristics of my being: my gender, my skin color, the family circumstances I was born into. But once you grasp the idea of privilege it’s difficult to hold on to the myths that say “I got where I am today just through my smarts and hard work.” Many black folks are just as smart or smarter, they work just as hard or harder, and the prize eludes them. This is how systemic racism works. And while I don’t feel guilty about being a white man, I do try my best to pay attention, to listen, to advocate when possible and to move out of the way when needed, so that my brothers and sisters of color might not be held back. I don’t say this as some misguided do-gooder with a “white savior” complex. I’m a white man who is trying to be an ally in a world that is totally fucked up, largely but not entirely due to the actions of white men.
If we look hard enough, we’ll find that all peoples across the globe and throughout human history have suffered from some sort of racism or ethnic hatred. My Italian ancestors, considered less than white when they arrived, suffered some of the effects of prejudice. But they were not black. And I am not black. To show the difference between the suffering of my people and the suffering of Baldwin’s people, I cede the last word to him:
I had my fill of seeing people come down the gangplank on Wednesday, let us say, speaking not a word of English, and by Friday discovering that I was working for them and they were calling me nigger like everybody else. So that the Italian adventure or even the Jewish adventure, however grim, is distinguished from my own adventure … by one thing. Not only am I black, but I am one of our niggers. Americans can treat me in a certain way because I am an American. They would never treat an African the way they treat me.
—James Baldwin, from James Baldwin and Margaret Mead, A Rap on Race (New York, 1971) 67-68.
I am the oldest of five brothers, two of them half-brothers from my step-dad, but none of us use those terms or think of each other that way. Our professions range from 1) history professor 2) truck driver, 3) prison inmate, 4) warehouse worker, and 5) IT administrator. My dad likes to joke that we represent the full range of human accomplishment and misery. About three years ago my fourth brother’s wife was attending a conference in Minneapolis so they brought the entire family for a visit. This included their only child Evan, a bright boy who must have been 10 at the time. Because I live in the vibrant and progressive city of Minneapolis, most of my commuting is done by light rail or bus. Rather than always take a taxi with my tourist visitors, I invited my brother and his wife and son to do at least some of their sight-seeing by bus. Because they live in a gated community in the sprawl that San Antonio has become, riding the bus was completely foreign to them, in every sense of the word.
On one journey, we rode the infamous 21 bus—a line that also represents the full range of human accomplishment and misery. The front seats on the bus, the ones immediately behind the driver that face each other, were empty when we boarded. I sat with my brother and his wife on one side of the bus, looking across at Evan, who proudly occupied the long seat across from us. At the next stop, two Somali women got on the bus, both wearing their colorful hijab. I could see my young nephew stiffen up as they sat next to him. Poor Evan’s adventure on his first city bus ride was turning into an intercultural nightmare informed by the safe and sheltered life his parents had worked so hard to give him. He had never seen anyone resembling the women on the bus, except in movies with cartoonish portrayals of Muslim terrorists, or perhaps on Fox News, a channel that is always playing when he visits his maternal grandparents.
Young Evan quickly became so frightened that he came across the aisle and sat on his dad’s lap. I don’t speak Arabic or Somali, but I watched as the Somali women reacted to this 10-year-old being so frightened of them that he had to change seats. When we got off the bus, I turned to Evan.
“It seems like that was pretty scary for you,” I said.
“Yes,” he said with wide eyes.
“You know,” I said, “we have a lot of Somalis in Minneapolis. They fled a civil war in their country and lots of them came here. My neighbors on one side of my house are Somali. I have lots of Somali students. There are even five mosques in the Somali neighborhood around the college where I teach.”
“How do you know those people aren’t terrorists?” my brother intervened. “They’re Muslims. Don’t you think they’re dangerous? What about 9-11? Those people are just … I don’t think they should be here.”
“Listen,” I said. “That’s exactly what people thought about grandma and grandpa when they first came here. That they were dangerous. That they were Catholic! That they were different. That they didn’t belong here. Grandma and grandpa! That’s what people used to say about them.”
As with many such conversations on such sensitive topics, this one ended without resolution. We walked silently from the bus stop to our destination, and haven’t spoken about this incident since.
Here ends my positional preamble. It’s obviously much longer than anything I could offer in person, in a live discussion. Its length is its greatest disadvantage for oral discourse—who has the energy for any further discussion after all that? But it has the great advantage that you actually know something about me beyond “straight, white, cis-gender male.” After all there is just as much individual variation in that group as there is among the “lesbians of African descent” or the “LatinX non-binary” folks. In the end, these labels deceive us because we think they say a lot, but they actually say very little. I don’t deny the importance of these preambles, but only as a first step. To really get to know each other takes a lot more time, a lot more openness, and a lot more listening.
Some of you might be wondering if all this introductory stuff is intended to make me seem more sympathetic to the reader. Don’t forget how this chapter began: I’m the guy who said the N-word in his classroom, which caused his entire campus to explode! Am I trying to downplay my own whiteness by discussing my “not-quite-white” Italian ancestors? Did I tell the story of my nephew on the bus and my brother’s reaction to the Somali commuters just to show that I’m not the racist brother, I’m the woke brother? Don’t forget, there are students at Augsburg University who believe I hang out with white supremacists. Perhaps I’m just trying to pull a fast one.
But wait. The positional preamble isn’t over. Just as important as telling you who I am is telling you who I am not.
The term and concept of positionality seems to have first appeared in the 1920s. It started as a way for researchers to position themselves in relation to the subject of their research. A chemist who works for “Big Pharma” may not be as unbiased as a chemist who does not. Fair enough. Sociologists adopted this term to position the researcher in relation to the people they were studying. It’s good to know whether or not the anthropologist studying indigenous people is herself indigenous. No matter the answer to that question, biases will still play into conclusions. It’s just handy to have a hint at where the biases might lie. But what started as a fancy way for academics to say, “here’s where I’m coming from” has evolved into a required preamble for almost every utterance in a college classroom: “I am a straight, white, cis-gender male” or “I am a lesbian of African descent” or “I am a LatinX person who, in terms of gender, identifies as non-binary.” To people not in the Academy, this may seem tedious at best, and crazy at worst. But it does serve a purpose, which is the attempt to keep our unconscious biases about ourselves and others on the surface, where we can deal with them more easily.
With that said, here’s where I’m coming from:
I am a straight, white, cis-gender male of western European descent, who grew up in San Antonio, Texas, and now lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. I have an alcoholic mother who is probably bi-polar and a step-dad who is a wonderful guy, but who spent most of my childhood on the road as a salesman. I left Texas at 17, went to clown school in Florida and toured the United States as a clown with the Ringling Brothers and Barnum&Bailey circus. I lived in western Europe (Berlin, Cologne, Paris) for roughly seven years, also preforming as a clown. When I stopped performing—fearing I was no longer funny—I bummed around trying to figure out what to do with my life. I worked in a bakery, drove a truck, worked construction, had my own dog-walking and house-cleaning businesses, and eventually, at the age of 29, ended up as an undergraduate at the State University of New York in Albany.
I now have a Ph.D. in medieval history from The Ohio State University. I make a salary just under the median for history professors in Augsburg’s institutional comparison group. I have a modest, 1200 sq. ft. home with a fenced-in yard in a nice neighborhood. I say it’s modest, but of course this is only by comparison, and I count my blessings every day when I ride the bus past the tent city where my Native brothers and sisters have been living for months, along a stretch of highway that is roughly half way between my house and my workplace, Augsburg University. As of this writing, the city of Minneapolis has yet to find a solution to this problem, which includes not only homelessness, but drug abuse, rape, and assault. They have, however, put up a fence that obscures the view of the tent city from commuters driving by. Positionality. It is all about where the researcher/writer/thinker stands in relation to others.
While the relatives who contributed to my DNA represent a mixture of Italians, Scots and Germans, my abandonment by a biological father and the entrance into my eight-year-old life of an adoptive father named Adamo, meant that I was reared on both sides by Italian immigrants and the children of Italian immigrants, who arrived in the United States in the late nineteenth- and early twentieth centuries. When these ancestors first arrived, Italians in America were not seen as white. Historian David R. Roediger talks about “structures of racial inbetweenness” in his book Working Toward Whiteness: How America’s Immigrants became White, Roediger recounts the story of 13 million southern, eastern, and central European immigrants who came to the United States between 1886 and 1925, how the government and society categorized them into a racial pecking order—below whites, but above people of color—and how these immigrants, Slavs, Poles, Armenians, Jews, and many others, including my people, the Italians, fought their way up the pecking order to be considered white.
In my family, this struggle became the stuff of myth and legend, similar to myths and legends told in other ethnic families. My ancestors worked hard at jobs nobody wanted. Sometimes they had to steal in order to buy food so the children would not go hungry. My maternal grandfather, for whom I am named, narrowly escaped a career as a Mafioso when World War II broke out and he joined the Army Airforce instead. He served as a staff sergeant in the 9th Airforce Division and was awarded the Silver Star for gallantry in action against the enemy while serving with a bomber squadron in the Mediterranean in 1942. He retired from the Airforce and in civilian life became a middle-management purchasing agent. He liked to joke that his was the “second oldest profession.” He died of a heart attack at 63, just three years older than I am now. My paternal grandfather, my nonno, had a similar immigrant story. He labored and saved enough money to buy his own grocery store where the entire family worked. He also put on a suit every day and went downtown to play the stock market—apparently, he was pretty good at it. When he’d made enough money, he brought his cousin Agatha to America and married her, thus amplifying the genetic weaknesses in their family and leaving my step-father and half-brothers with cardiac problems.
These are my people, whom the novelist Henry James, witnessing their arrival in his country at the turn of the nineteenth century, called “Italians of superlatively southern type.” Even among the Italians themselves, a kind of hierarchical racism existed. My Sicilian grandfather thought the Neapolitans were stupid, telling many jokes in which that was the punchline. My Neapolitan grandfather, like many other mainland Italians, thought the Sicilians were dirty, uncultured, and shifty.
I read the word “nigger” out loud, just as James Baldwin had written it in his 1963 book, The Fire Next Time. A shock wave moved through my classroom that eventually spread across campus.
“You can really only be destroyed by believing that you really are what the white world calls a nigger.”
That’s the line from Baldwin that caused some students in the room to gasp. I decided that we needed to have a serious discussion about the use of the term.
“I need to ask you a difficult and dangerous question,” I said. This was my version of offering a “trigger warning.”
“In an academic context,” I asked, “quoting from an author’s work, was it appropriate to use the word ‘nigger’ if the author had written it that way? Wasn’t substituting the euphemistic phrase ‘the N-word’ in these cases, in fact, a disservice to Baldwin’s prose?”
Some students said the word made them uncomfortable, others said that black folks could say the word, but only in certain contexts. Some said that white folks should never say the word and a few said that no one should ever say it. We had what seemed to be a reasonable discussion that ended with a consensus decision for the class never to say the word, even when quoting the author, but always to substitute the euphemism, “the N-word.”
But in thinking that we’d ended with reason and consensus, I had deluded myself. Within two days, I had student monitors attending my courses without invitation, secretly recording class discussions and posting them to YouTube and Facebook with inflammatory headings like “Warning: Racial Slur” and “Phil Adamo Justifying Use of the N-word.” A group of students complained to the Provost, editorials appeared in the campus newspaper, faculty turned against each other, compelled to choose between “supporting our students” and “academic freedom.” I was labeled a racist who probably hung out with white supremacist groups.
Then things got really nasty.
—Now what? Aristotle says to start "in the middle of things." Check. Description of myself, the students, the course? What will this book be about? Aftermath? Must avoid whininess.