What It's Like

The week before we left, I shared with my colleague Tiffany my apprehension about being in the numerical minority as a white person. I worried that people might think I was ignorant, that they wouldn’t take my ideas seriously and figure I didn’t belong there. Tiffany smiled at me knowingly and said calmly, “Well, that’s what it’s like to be Black.” I smiled back and gave her a big hug.

Our first keynote speaker was a prominent Latino-American journalist at ABC News. After narrating his inspiring story of how he persevered against stereotypes throughout his life, he off-handedly referred to the concept of becoming strong as “manning up” and later described a blond person he didn’t know as someone who “obviously” didn’t speak Spanish. Ignorance? Irony?

At my first session, I promised myself I would listen rather than share my ideas. But my ideas got the better of me, and out they came. I immediately regretted it, second-guessing what I had said, wondering whether the participants of color had interpreted my ideas as based in stereotypes rather than in a comprehension of the issues — even though none of them gave any indication that they felt this way. The whole rest of the morning, I felt incredibly guarded. 

Consequently, when I sat with my “white affinity group” later that day (to the greeting of “Welcome, beautiful white people!”), I thought I would feel awkward, but I didn’t. Instead, I felt incredibly comfortable. Finally, I was with people “like me” who might be feeling the same way I did. I could be open and honest about my feelings and ideas. And I remembered Tiffany’s remark: “Well, that’s what it’s like to be Black.”

Later, I explained all this to my white colleague Patty: that I typically feel empowered with wisdom and advice and am eager to share it, but I didn’t feel that way on this day until joining the white affinity group. Interestingly, Patty responded that she didn’t have the same reaction in our affinity group. Perhaps, she mused, it’s because I’m male. As a female, Patty said, she has been conditioned never to feel completely at ease dispensing wisdom and advice, and this time was no exception.

At an evening reception, a white male administrator from my school asked me whether I have ambitions to become an administrator eventually. I told him I’m not sure, that what I love about working in a school is teaching in the classroom. I also remarked about how odd it seems that many people have asked me this question over the years, assuming that I’m a future school leader. My colleague Dawn, standing near us, then said, “Have you considered that maybe it’s because you’re a white guy?” Of course. Duh. In the eyes of many, any white male teacher must be a teacher merely as a stepping-stone to “bigger and better things.” Is that perception just as true of females and teachers of color? Do school administrators tend to be white males simply because the idea is placed into their heads enough times that it becomes their ambition?

In addition to the intersections of race and gender, I also had an opportunity to ponder the intersections of race and sexual orientation. One session I attended previewed a fantastic new film called Straightlaced, in which high school students share their experiences related to gender expectations. In one scene, a group of baggy-clothed Latino boys is shopping at a clothing store, and one of them playfully holds up a skin-tight T-shirt from the rack. “If I wore that, I’d get shot!” exclaims his friend. At first it seemed that he was joking, but as the film progressed, it became more apparent that he might actually have meant that literally. As a frequent advocate for a more open conversation about sexual orientation and gender identity, I typically assume that the goal is simply a respectful and harassment-free school community. This film, though, helped me remember that in many communities—defined by class but rooted in race — conforming to gender norms can be an issue of life or death. 

At one session of our white affinity group, the facilitator asked a few of us who arrived early to begin forming circles of eight: we could either sit on the floor or un-stack chairs from the back of the room. We chose to sit on the floor. Soon, the room was filled with numerous groups of eight sitting on the floor. The last person to join our circle was an elderly man. During our group’s discussion, he remarked that sitting on the floor was very uncomfortable and that he wished he could get a chair. I told him that we actually could get chairs, to which he replied, “C’mon, look around. Of course we can’t get chairs.” He meant that if he were to get a chair, he’d be the only one; he’d be bucking convention. Fittingly, this was an analogy for exactly what we were discussing. Even with explicit permission from those in authority to be true to our own needs—to grab a chair, or to come out of the closet—the pressure to conform is often more powerful. Perhaps, once others saw this man get a chair, those who were also uncomfortable would begin standing up, one by one, to get chairs of their own, and the man will have initiated a movement. But maybe that wouldn’t happen, and he’d remain the only one. And that’s the biggest fear, isn’t it? 

On the last morning, we had a chance to share our thoughts with some of the students who had participated in their own version of PoCC over the same three days. One student in particular stood out with this comment: “Over the last three days, I’ve felt comfortable sharing my deepest personal experiences and fears with people I’d met only three minutes earlier. But I know that when I return to school on Monday, I’ll see people I’ve known since kindergarten, and all I’ll ever say to them is ‘Hey, what’s up.’” How can we foster environments where kids and adults feel comfortable sharing more of themselves and making themselves a little more vulnerable in the pursuit of richer understandings of each other?

Finally, after passing through security at the Denver airport en route back to DC, our scruffy group of mostly Black kids and adults waited in a clump as one colleague tied her shoes. A white security officer approached us and asked us to move on down the hallway, noting that such a large group standing together by the metal detectors was a security risk. We complied immediately. Later, I asked Dawn whether she thought the officer would have communicated the same request had we been a group of white people, adding, “I guess we don’t really know.” “You can never know, Mike,” Dawn replied. “You never really know.”