Silent Conversation

Its the language.
Threatening, problematic, race/age/anti-semit --ism, oppressed, silenced, aware.
Words are tossed around the circle drawing my eyes toward the voices. Matti, one of the facilitators of the Undoing Racism Conference, is in the middle of the room. He points at the board, the left side, written in black, is what we would think if we saw a person in a grocery line using food stamps, the right, written in red, is what you would overhear the couple behind you saying.
“This is the language we are given to explain the world around us.” He uses his hands and body to emphasize what he's saying, occasionally going over and touching the red side of the paper. “The language that we use influences how we treat each other and what we have to use is a language that only allows us to access the worst in our communities. So then by using that language, you are then working for the system.” He pauses for a second, looking at the faces around the room. “I want you to understand..”
I bask in the sound of his accent as he speaks, the strength of his voice. It takes me back home.

Laughing voices and loudness fills the air. I see people moving up and down over the tops of the seats. I sit curled up at the back of the bus. I am one of the leaders of the team. I know this. On the field I take charge but here, in these social settings, I am passive. I sit back and watch them battle it out. There insults back and forth, a dap and congrats for the illest line dropped. It’s outrageous what we say to each other yet put down, we lift others up, uncaring that we are at the bottom because were having fun. In the end, we know that nothing will change because we know how not to take offense. The music starts and I jump in. Every word flows, listened to time after time, in pain and in happiness, the same rhymes…connecting. Words of meaning. Surrounded by people who know the same feelings and a similar way of life. Then I curl back up again assuming my place until the game starts and I zone into my own world, escaping everything else, concentrating on the ball and letting my body just move naturally, the way my mouth does when I'm rapping. But it was all abandoned for a world of hierarchy and concentration on useless information..
“Look at the first amendment.” Annie, another facilitator, steps forward and back, her fingers intertwined, cupping her hands and opening back up as she speaks. “Article 1: Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for a crime whereas the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.” She pauses. “Incarceration is slavery. It says it right there in the thirteenth amendment.” She hits the paper with the back of her hand as she speaks. “Who here has learned about the thirteenth amendment? Even those who have access to it need the tools to really be able to understand it correctly.” She steps back to the board. “It goes back to the language,” she says touching the side written in red.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“It always took you so long to say something. We'd be waiting for you to finish for like 5 minutes.” Stanton remembers our sophomore english class. It was my first year at Deerfield Academy, a private boarding school in New England.
I remember too. I remember searching desperately to find the words to express what I was thinking. “Um...what's it called?” I would say, trying to articulate myself. I over exaggerated my pronunciation, unaware that my accent was slowly fading away. I remember the nights I spent talking to Dorothy, asking her what words meant after each thought she expressed. “I'm really glad that you ask me what things mean instead of just pretending that you know what I'm talking about,” she said to me one time. “Its refreshing.” I asked Dorothy about everything, soaking in her words and her knowledge...her vocabulary.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“We are going to take a break for dinner and then come back,” Annie states ending her sh-peal. “Are there any more comments before we go?”
One of the ladies at the back left corner raises her hand. “I just wanted to say that it makes me so happy to see all of the young people here not only for being here but actively participating in all of this. It's really amazing.”
I hear breaths around me breath in deeply. Nia raises her hand to respond. “I know that that was meant to be a compliment but as a 'young person' in the group, it makes me feel like I'm not expected to have the ability to understand and articulate myself as well as the older people in the room.
An argument erupts.
“In the group that I am a part of we call ourselves youth in order to stop perpetuating power dynamics between the staff and the participants,” Nilani says.
“We need to be responsible for our interpretations,” Matti responds.
“Escapism,” is stated.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
'Systematic Oppression' is scrawled, almost illegible, on the board. It is all beginning to make more sense. I soak in the information as Tinson preaches, “People of color cannot be racist against white people.” I let the idea sit with me.
We are the loudest group in the stands. Little boys are standing, their lacrosse sticks up, waiting for a shirt to be thrown into the crowd. Most of us are facing each other, half paying attention to the game. The metal of the benches sends chills through my body. I pull my jacket tighter around me. The sun is just starting to set behind the stadium making it hard to look toward the field. “Look at Austin!” Sadiki says. A few of us look down at the sideline where Austin Hightower is standing, stick cocked back, ready to launch a t-shirt. The little boys start screaming and glancing over at the scoreboard to see if the camera is heading toward them. “I fucking hate white people.” Sadiki says looking toward the kid's parents. “People got a fuckin starin problem.”
I wonder how long it would take to really piss them off; How obnoxious we'd have to be. Even though I feel like it wouldn't take much, I wonder if they'd ever even have the balls to say anything to us, never mind have the balls to say it to our face.
Dorika, who is sitting in the row above me, looks over to my sister and I. “He doesn't mean you guys,” she says.
Her sister, Kerley, chimes in, “Vicky and Didi don't count; they're hispanic.”
The roar of voices brings me back to my class. I get lost in the debate. Comments fly back and forth. It is getting easier for me to understand them. I know at least half of the words that they are using and could probably use a few of them myself if I tried. I look at the faces around the room, listening intently, gears turning. These kids are probably just like the kids at Deerfield. They've probably been trained for this environment from the day that they were born, given the opportunity to be whatever they want to be and the tools and skils that they need to get there.
I raise my hand. Tinson calls on me after a few more comments. By the time my turn comes what I have to say is a little less on topic than it was originally. “I also just wanted to point out that we should be aware that there are youth of color in the inner city who, like, aren't aware of all the stuff we're talking about here and don't have any opportunity to learn it. “
As my voice goes silent, the tension in the room becomes palpable. It's like the peak of a 97 degree day that slowly grows more humid throughout the morning.
“We don't all live in the inner cities,” one of the girls across the table says.
My chest tightens. “Thats not what I said. I said there are people whose communities and lives we are talking about who have never heard of any of the stuff that..” My sentence trails off, my breaths growing faster as I begin to panic.
Words flow from each of our mouths into a steaming puddle consuming the table between us. “Now, hold on.” Tinson waves his hand trying to get everyone's attention. “Hold on. Explain what you mean. Speak you truth.”
Someone chimes in. “ Yea, speak your truth.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I write:
The words
choke up
in my throat
wanting
needing
to be expressed
needing
to disagree
not to
oppose you
but because
that
is
who I am
opposition
disagreement
conflicting
feelings
thoughts
ideas
perspectives
breaking down
everything.
I know.
You
do not
know everything
Everything
is not
about you
It is me.
This is me.
These
thoughts
words
scars
eyes
that tell stories
if
you would take
the time
to listen.
They are
mine.
I feel
your energy
your 'presence'
expanding
'filling space'
pushing down
on my chest
as it
expands
with every breath
filled
with your
vocabulary
and your
words
conveying my emotion
the same
words
that you use
against me
...
distributing
your power.
It is
silencing.
I want to give people the voice that society has taken from them. I will not allow my voice to be silenced in the process.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As we finally disperse for dinner, the tension in the air brings me back to that classroom, that conversation that happened first semester of first year in Framing Blackness.
I was silent for half of the walk back to the dorm. The crisp, fall air blew around our hair and the leaves with a bite that made us walk with our hands shoved deep into our pockets.“What are you doing for the rest of the day?” Rae asked me. Papers, readings, classes organized in categories flashed through my head.
My mind was hazy, part of me was still in the classroom having a conversation. “I have a ton of.. ugh..what's it called?”
Rae looked at me and laughed. “What's it called?”she said sarcastically, putting the emphasis on the -alled.
“What?” I questioned, a little annoyed with her making fun of my inability to speak.
“You always sat that...'What's it called?' Its funny.
I thought for a second. “My dad always says it. Probably cuz thats how its translated from italian or cuz when he's trying to think of how to say something its cuz he doesn't know how to say it in English.” I had never really thought about that before..
We came back together after dinner and tried to sort things out. People talked, listened, debated, accepted, and apologized but the tension did not seem to be relenting.
“I just..I feel as though this is something that I need to say and need to put out there to the group.” One of the men began speaking. “I don't really know what to do at this point because I'm so afraid of offending someone now, especially as a white man in this group and I'm not sure how to deal with it. I came here to participate and be vocal and now I feel like I need to just sit back in the shadows so that I don't offend anyone. And I..” He opened his hands that were palms together in front of him, as if in prayer.
My hand went up. I waited for Matti to point at me before I began speaking. “I know how real it is to afraid of offending someone. If you think this is bad, I can assure you that Hampshire College is worse.” I laugh, taking a deep breath, trying to stop my voice from shaking. “I feel like I've spent the last year working up the courage to be able to talk about these subjects in groups. As scary as it is to put yourself out there, not talking about it only helps to perpetuate system that were talking about.” I lean forward, putting my elbows on my knees and looking at the man who had spoken up, occasionally glancing around the room. “This is why were here. To understand each other and work through our thoughts. We need to be able to make mistakes, we need to be able to confront them progressively and we need to be able to learn from them. Its all a necessary part of confronting the system.”
I take another deep breath. “Thanks you,” Annie says, though her statement is not necessarily directed at me. I sit back in my chair and continue to observe, as I do. I have said my piece.