The acknowledgment of white supremacy as a founding principle of our country requires a critical look and renewal of our educational approach. The stories told, the way in which histories are framed and presented, our understanding and teaching of what is civilized and what constitutes civilization, needs to be de-constructed if we hope to do the work of dismantling racism within our education systems. This work must begin with children as young as Aiyana Stanley-Jones, who slept in her bed, aged seven, she lost her life to police violence. Since black and brown children are not protected from the realities of a violent world, we do no service to white children in protecting them from these harsh truths. Without honesty, no change will result.
There are many resources available in the streams of anti-racist education and decolonizing education. So many resources that it is overwhelming! To look at white privilege is to enter into an exploration of economic and political systems, of public housing policy and food access, prisons and schools and health care, of personal power and privilege, and much much more. As always, we must begin with beginnings, each one where they are.
My own exploration is personal. I am a brown man with a beard, associated with global acts of terror. I have been called both a nigger and a suicide bomber. I have been asked if I am a citizen of my own country of birth. My beautiful children carry a mix of my brown complexion of my ancestors and my wife’s darker tone. Since I moved in fourth grade, from a mixed-race, mixed-income neighborhood to a predominately white and wealthy Detroit suburb, I have wrestled with the intersectionality of race and class, of foreignness and nativeness, of otherness and being accepted. Of course, I carry my own privilege and power as a CIS-gendered man, the college-educated son of two medical doctors.
Professionally, I’ve worked as a tutor, program manager, and community liaison in urban schools -- predominately black and brown -- throughout the United States. I have also worked at predominately white and wealthy private schools. Just as I rarely had an Indian classmate in school, I’ve rarely worked with people who look like me. The only Indian historical figure I learned about was Mahatma Gandhi; someone so romanticized that he never said the quote most often attributed to him. This means I have worked independently to learn about my own ancestor, instead of learning about his work and influence through my years of formal education.
I once walked into a school in Jacksonville, Florida. I was in my late twenties, slightly unkempt, my hair and beard grown out, passing through the hallways of a high school my national non-profit worked in. I was somewhat infirmed, my left foot still in a boot from Achilles surgery, and I walked with the assistance of crutches. Despite my feeble appearance, I managed to frighten the hall monitor, a middle-aged black woman. When she looked up and saw me approaching, she nearly jumped out of her skin! Half-apologizing and realizing I wasn’t a threat, she asked if I needed help finding a classroom. I smiled and got directions, navigating to the stairs to slowly proceed to the second floor.
I grew familiar with these passing flashes of fear. But I have only seen the face of fear. I have not felt the brute force of violence in my body. I do not carry the schism of cultural messaging that my skin color makes my life worthless, and my parents did not give me instructions on how to leave the house and come home safely. I am not called names soaked in the blood of my ancestors. This is part of my privilege.
I did not internalize these fears as my own. I’ve been fortunate to be called so many different names, that none were able to touch my own soul. I do not need sympathy from others who hear of these experiences; I need those with a voice that can be heard and the power to influence others to look at themselves and understand their own complicity in the injustices that exist in our world.
In our personal studies, turned inward, moments when fear arises can be most instructive. When reading accounts of the oppressed, or being exposed to new ideas on education or public health policy, we often experience brief and subtle reactions. These reactions are culturally conditioned, based on what we were raised to believe and reinforced by the society in which we live. These sometimes imperceptible reactions are like windows into ourselves. If we choose to open those windows, we find often difficult and challenging realities just outside of our house. But this is the work that must be done, as Gandhi said, “to look the world in the face with calm and clear eyes, even though the eyes of the world are bloodshot today.”
Humility is important. The process of de-colonizing requires seeing one’s own power and privilege. Humility is protection against one’s own feelings of guilt, shame, or even responsibility that may arise. Humility is a means to make oneself small, to see a new perspective, and find another way forward.
The first step is to listen. Listen to the black and brown voices in your life today (if there are any). Learn about the black and brown voices ignored by history. Listen to the black and brown voices in your classroom and in your parent body. Notice when conversations take place, or decisions are made, without the voice, input, insight, and perspective of black and brown people. White people are placed at the center of history, the center of evolution, the center of everything. Naturally, this leads to a form of blindness. This process of listening and observing may be new to you, but your own reactions can provide clues to your biases prejudices and patterns of discrimination. Further study can help you see how these personal biases and prejudices have become codified into our society, structures and systems of oppression.
This work of decolonization is ultimately work of nonviolence. For most, Dr. Martin Luther King is the most familiar proponent and teacher of nonviolence. However, King came from a long history of African-American resistance (nonviolent and armed), and the intellectual and philosophical ideas of King’s nonviolence were global. There are many names left out of the history books. And while most are familiar with Gandhi, few understand from where his power generated. How did a man who Winston Churchill derisively called a ‘half-naked fakir’ become a voice of resistance for hundreds of millions of Indians, and inspired countless more around the world?
One insight Dr. King provides into Gandhi is his “amazing capacity for internal criticism.” This is useful instruction for white people looking to dismantle white supremacy at large.
Most others have the amazing capacity for external criticism. We can always see the evil in others; we can always see the evil in our oppressors. But Gandhi had the amazing capacity to see not only the splinter in his opponent’s eye but also the planks in his own eye and the eye of his people. He had the amazing capacity for self-criticism. And this was true in his individual life; it was true in his family life; and it was true in his people’s life. He not only criticized the British Empire, but he criticized his own people when they needed it, and he criticized himself when he needed it. (Dr. King, Sermon on Gandhi, 1959)
If one wishes to dismantle white supremacy in our education system, one must first confront the oppressor within. It is not a matter of feeling different about white supremacy; rather, one must do something with the power and privilege granted to those who are white. While this process can be assisted by black and brown people, the burden of this work rests firmly in the hearts, minds, and hands of white people.
The aim of anti-racist, decolonizing work is not to replace white supremacy with black supremacy, or any other type of oppressive system. One of Dr. King’s central visions was that of the Beloved Community. He spoke of it often:
The aftermath of nonviolence is the creation of the beloved community, so that when the battle’s over, a new relationship comes into being between the oppressed and the oppressor [...] The way of acquiescence leads to moral and spiritual suicide. The way of violence leads to bitterness in the survivors and brutality in the destroyers. But, the way of non-violence leads to redemption and the creation of the beloved community. (Dr. King, Sermon on Gandhi, 1959)
The work of deconstructing and dismantling white supremacy is to at once confront bitterness and brutality. It is an act of individual courage. It is soul work. It is uncomfortable. One who benefits from white supremacy can only work to dismantle it if they are willing to give up unfair advantages conferred to them by the accident of their birth. The advantages of being white, the advantages of identifying as white, must be undone. In the same way, black and brown people carry the trauma of centuries-old racism, white people suffer the consequences of privilege. This work carries the potential of a more just world, potential only made possible by those who hold power, those most afflicted by the disease of white supremacy, white people themselves.