Reading both Ruskin and Baldwin’s versions of their own open letters as well as their lectures was quite interesting, as the tones the authors took up were very different. In Ruskin’s pieces, his tone shifted from his lecture to his letters. In his lecture, his tone is quite rigid and academic and to be honest, I started to become a little bored after a while. Nonetheless, this provided the framework for his lecture to be highly informational and objective, which I assumed to be his goal. His letters, on the other hand, came across to me as rather conversational, playful, but also informative. This came across to me especially when he writes, “That last sentence is wonderfully awkward English, not to say ungrammatical; but I must write such English as may come today” (Ruskin, 323).

Baldwin’s tone remained the same in his lecture and letter to his nephew. In both these pieces, he writes with a sense of urgency and concern about America’s social climate. This is evident right off the bat when he says, “Let’s begin by saying that we are living through a very dangerous time” (Baldwin, 678). He goes on to explain in this lecture that this dangerous time is the erasure of black identity and opportunity by the dominating whiteness of society. He also stresses the importance of education as well as its paradox: that society encourages an education, but what education does is expose the broken framework of society. This tone of urgency and concern is paired with an overall sentiment of sadness and despair in his letter to his nephew, as he attempts to educate his nephew about the reality of society as his nephew prepares to emerge into young adulthood as a black man in a white society.

Letter:

To Theo,

I’ve always had trouble answering the “diversity question” on each of my college applications. I know that college is still a while off for you and you probably haven’t started thinking about high school yet, yet alone that. But I wanted to help you figure out the strange emotions that may come up when you have to answer it for yourself. 

Mom always told me to check the “American Indian or Alaskan Native” box and I have; it’s not like I’m lying, because she is Arawak. (You know, like the natives that Christopher Columbus first, uh, encountered?) It doesn’t feel as if we are though, and when you have our last name? Sheesh. People would not shut up about how I gamed the system. Dad told me how it was a good sign that one of the colleges I had applied to reached back to me wanting to know more about my “Native American/Native Hawaiian/Alaskan Native background”, and it felt… weird. Weird because this was something that was true on only this electronic application and nowhere else. No one saw me and thought: “Yeah, he’s Native American.” I know I didn’t think that way about myself. I wasn’t sure what to think, so I always let other people think for me.   

And Dad? I couldn’t tell you the whole story of how we arrived from India because it happened a century ago, and I’m not sure if any of us know the story. Sometimes it feels like that page in the history book has been torn out. But we did end up in the Carribean somehow, and God I felt weird checking off African American even though Caribbean kind of implies “black”, but it felt like I was claiming to be part of an experience I had no right to claim. So I didn’t. If you feel comfortable making that choice when you are older, I understand. Truth be told I’m not comfortable with the choice I made, because I was forced to make it. Leaving that question blank seemed worse both for my college acceptance chances and letting others make their choice on what my identity was. 

And I always felt out of place because everyone who saw me as different saw me in the same way that most people did, and I was afraid that the people who saw me as the same would realize that I wasn’t. I saw myself as different; they gave me a reason to feel different, through their questions about my name and where I was really from and how I couldn’t eat beef, no wait pork, right? I hope you don’t have to deal with more than that, because I know it can get much worse than that. But I also couldn’t relate to the stories of life back home, because I was so far removed from that space. So we are part of no group but yet all of them.

People will think whatever they want to think about us. Trust me, I know. I really hope that I can help because I’ve been through it without the words of a sibling guiding me.

I still have applications to work on, and I will still have to deal with this question in the future. I hope that my time pining over this seemingly small question will help you. It is a question that has not escaped me, and one I think will hang over me for a long time.    

Shamaul

Lecture:

Islamophobia is a misleading term. It does not capture the entire picture, as the implication is that it is connected to the aforementioned religion. But many people have conflated the religion with the skin color. Anything that seems religious that a brown person is wearing is seen as Islamic. Any foreign food, any difficult name, any belief that we keep with us is seen as an attempt to undermine American democracy. You may think I am being extreme, but perhaps you don’t remember the birther controversy, or the travel ban that President Trump enacted just 3 years ago.

It has, at the very least, stayed alive through the current administration, through tweets that claims Muslim communities cheered the downing of the Twin Towers, and that representatives who wear Muslim headdress are a danger to America. This divisive rhetoric alienates people who have done nothing wrong, because they are seen the same as enemies of the U.S government, protectors of freedom, democracy, and everything right with the world.

This idea of feeling otherized isn’t specific to brown-presenting people, but we have dealt with many antagonistic feelings due to the events of the last twenty years, including but not limited to terrorism attacks, American intervention in the Middle East, and anti-immigration sentiment. Note that I say presenting: Many times these choices aren’t made by the people around them. It matters less about what you think about yourself and more about what people think about you, and people like me can only do so much to change the minds of others. 

To prove my point further, even I do not feel as if I should belong to this group I associate with. I come from a small Caribbean nation called Guyana, which brought indentured servants from India under British colonialism over a hundred years ago. My disconnect with what many people consider my history is a century wide, and yet it does not matter. I must be Islamic.  

We have always been considered outsiders in a country that is meant to be built from people all over the world. An outside should not exist, because otherwise we become a country that is not welcome to everyone who wants to be a part of it. We must do better. Otherwise we cannot claim to stand for those ideals we are so proud to call our own.   

Process Notes:

Something that I noticed immediately when constructing these two pieces was how different my audience was and how I needed to use the right language when addressing them. In my lecture, it felt as if I had to explain the problem to someone else, whereas my letter had the premise that this was a problem that I have encountered that will continue in the future. That simple premise was the difference between being vulnerable and trying to convince others about the severity of the problem. The difference between the two uses of the word “we” is striking to me. I found myself toning down a lot of my expressions in the lecture, as if I had to justify everything I said, and not take it for granted. 

Baldwin’s language in his letter “My Dungeon Shook,” to vastly oversimplify, works. However, I contend this is mainly because it was presented as an intimate piece of writing, in which the specific wording and tone as read have significant meanings that may be lost if they were in a traditional argumentative essay or spoken. Lines like “you must survive because I love you,” “these men are your brothers,” and several other instances of using the second person singular are effective in imparting emotion, where a formal argument would fall short.

The main difference in how Baldwin presents himself between the two pieces is in his claim to authority. In “My Dungeon Shook,” he explicitly writes “Take no one’s word for anything, including mine,” a sharp contrast to his arguments in his “A Talk to Teachers.” While he does acknowledge, “I am talking to schoolteachers and I am not a teacher myself,” he generally makes more of an appeal to authority, mainly based off of his own experiences, saying things like “I was a street boy, so I know,” a nontraditional appeal to authority, but one all the same. This makes perfect sense given the format; he is attempting to convince his audience of something, so some measure of authority is necessary, while in the letter it is not.

Letter:

To my Ladies:

Whether you or your mother made the decision to enroll you in this class, I thank you for entrusting me with your Sunday afternoons. I understand the feelings of futility that you may be experiencing right now. After all, who wants to waste three hours learning how to shake hands and memorizing all the pieces of silverware? I know I didn’t. I will admit, however, that these Cotillion classes taught me some very important lessons, lessons that simply weren’t contained within the confines of the manual that we passed out at the beginning of class. During my six years of involvement with this program, I’ve learned to take all that is said here with a grain of salt or a recognition of my own, personal skepticism. I implore you all to do the same. However, you also have every right to make that decision for yourselves. With that in mind, I want to remind you of some things before this year kicks off.

For one, you are strong and you are powerful. We must enter this class with that knowledge intact. You will, for the next six months, be considered the weaker sex. You will be told that you are to be protected and that it is your male counterpart’s responsibility to do things for you. If you are comfortable with those statements, then that’s okay. However, if you find operating under the presumption that you are like a child to be guided jarring if not a bit insulting, you are not alone. The lessons that we teach here are, unfortunately, not as contemporary as the National League of Junior Cotillions claims; much of what you will learn comes directly from Emily Post’s Etiquette, 1945 edition. Here, in the 2018-2019 season, you have every right to determine the rules by which you will live. It is neither my job, nor Mrs. Humphries’ job, nor anyone else’s job to tell you what you can and cannot do. There are many different ways to be an upstanding member of society, only some of which require you to wear a skirt. You can choose your own path.

Your worth as a person is not determined by the path that you take. If you decide to throw these rules to the wind and exist in a less by-the-book manner, you are not giving up your value. On the other hand, choosing to follow these rules does not make you better than anyone else. You never know the choices that you will have to make, so don’t judge those of others. There are some people in this world who do not abide by that instruction. Please don’t let them get in your way. At the end of the day, I hope that you wear what you want, love who you want, and do what you want, because having that dominion over yourself is the most beautiful act of defiance.

I have not said all that I want to say, nor do I have that option. There is simply not enough time, nor are there enough words, for me to share those things with you. In truth, I’d likely be doing you a disservice by telling you everything and not allowing you to discover it for yourself. However, allow me to leave you with this: be good and be kind, be generous and be wise, and don’t let the bastards get you down. Have fun this year!

All love, always,

The Assistants.

Lecture

[From Then to Now: A Lecture on Etiquette and Standing the Test of Time | Mrs. Patrick (Susan) Humphries, NLJC]

Just as in any other field, there are works that remain relevant despite their age. One of these texts, Emily Post’s Etiquette, makes up the bulk of what we will teach this year not because of its age, but because of its continual adaptability to our time. Elegance and class shall never go out of style, after all. Thus, any deviation from our material will not be tolerated. 

I’ve some instructions for you regarding the students. For the ladies, exemplary behavior is key. They will watch you because they crave validation. They will mimic your clothing, so promiscuity may be unwise unless you want them to run amock in crop tops and miniskirts. It’s distracting for the boys. The rules of semiformal attire will be observed. Thus, I expect them to be clean, unwrinkled, and preferably colorful. Also, skirts are to be worn at all times. If they wouldn’t wear it to church, they shouldn’t wear it here, and no respectable woman in this state would wear pants to church. It’s distracting for the boys. Small talk shan’t be tolerated, nor grandiose conversations. Ideally, silent ladies are sweet ladies. I don’t want them gossiping. It’s unbecoming. Ensure that they do not dance together. I don’t want any of these subverted ideas getting into their minds. Instead, gently encourage them to practice the steps on their own. In any case, do not allow them to gather in shrill groups. It’s distracting for the boys. I expect them to be upstanding, classy, and pleasant at all times like the good little girls that they shall be.

For the boys, keep them off of their phones with jackets on. Thank you for your attention and I look forward to working with you this season.

Process Notes: This week’s assignment was particularly interesting. I wanted to explore these two sides of my time in Cotillion–my version of the experience and a brief lecture that my director delivered to us assistants before the year began. The latter isn’t exact, but it’s really not far off; many of these sentences are exact quotes. It was important to me to make rather clear the things that were expected of us as students in opposition to the things that I learned by reading between the lines. I hope that I was able to shed some light on this tradition. I’m not so sure how to feel about these works, but it was an interesting challenge nonetheless.

The difference in assumed responsibility as a writer from a lecture and a letter standpoint is stark. When Baldwin writes to his nephew, he follows his claims with supplements about how people will likely tell James contradicting things in his lifetime, acknowledging that they will say “you exaggerate.” In response to this, Baldwin urges his nephew to “take no one’s word for anything, including mine, but trust your experience.” He takes this approach, which accounts for James’ youth and therefore impressionable naivety, because in this letter format Baldwin must also take on the responsibility of being the one who has sought out James’ attention in a direct letter — as opposed to a lecture, which is not addressed to any particular person but rather the group of teachers in general — and therefore obliges Baldwin less, on a personal level, to account for the doubts that the individual reader may face. Additionally, the letter to his nephew is of emotional significance given the close familial ties, and therefore Baldwin takes on a gentler, and in some ways kinder, rhetoric. For example, whereas in the lecture Baldwin bluntly sums up the stereotypes involving African Americas in America as “happy, shiftless, watermelon-eating darkies who loved Mr. Charlie and Miss Ann,” in his letter to his nephew, he states that “these innocent and well meaning people, your countrymen, have caused you to be born under conditions not far removed from those described for us by Charles Dickens in the London of more than a hundred years ago.” The depiction of those who have brought about their oppression as “innocent and well meaning” sounds nearly sarcastic when read directly after the lecture. However, it is evident that in the letter format, especially when addressed to a child, Baldwin’s diction is more forgiving and accounts for the variability of individuals’ experiences, as opposed to blanket statements addressed to a general demographic. Whereas the letter format allows Baldwin to address more of the individual contradicting experiences that may come to mind when reading a personal address, the lecture format allows Baldwin to make more sweeping, and often scathing observations derived from his own experience and research. 

Letter:

Dear Twin A,

I hope you’re well! I know college can get pretty intense around this time of year – midterm exams, job applications, bitter cold, bitter people. I hope you’re finding some sunshine to make you happy under these gray skies, as mom would say. Does your school provide any resources to lift people’s spirits in the winter? Here, we have these “pet love” sessions where they bring in therapy dogs to bury our faces in and cry. The wellness center says the event is helpful because “as non-judgmental, fountains of love and loyalty, animals are natural vehicles for providing support and companionship to you.” You probably know where I’m about to go with this, but HAH – it seems like these people are getting caught up in their superiority complexes and forgetting that humans are animals too, because that definition definitely doesn’t fit naturally for our species! I’m sitting in the library right now, the watering hole of campus where we all gather to survive – to my right there’s a group screeching and gossiping about their friends, to my left a threatening professor cutting off some trembling freshman who couldn’t figure out the printer fast enough, and generally scattered around are the usual passed out and/or sobbing bodies invisible to those walking past –not because they’re not in plain sight, but because they’ve blended into a familiar part of our watering hole – what I can’t see are those people who are “non-judgmental, fountains of love and loyalty,” and not because they’re familiar too.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, anything is better than nothing and I love getting a chance to squeeze the life out of those joyous fluff-balls, but I wonder if it might instead be better to make events where we can create permanent “natural vehicles for providing support and companionship” in each other rather than relying on other animals to come in every so often and get the job done. It’s almost like they had to pick animals that we don’t share a language with as to avoid the risk of negative conversation in a space intended for support. Maybe instead of creating environments where conversation is impossible to remove the potential for harmful discourse they could educate us on how to best support each other in such important conversations? (The library bell just rung; I’ll have to walk home now in the swarm of stress that’s about to file out of here.)

You’ll never guess the post by the wellness center I opened upon getting home – they’re cancelling this quarter’s pet love event because, wait for it, the dogs are DEAD. Yep, dead. Classic. So much for my dose of love, loyalty, companionship, and support this term. But, again, I hope you are finding your sunshine, please write me back and let me know if you are!

Much love,

Twin B/Your non-judgmental fountain of love and loyalty

Lecture to the University of Chicago Health & Wellness Center Faculty:

At the University of Chicago, the Health and Wellness center hosts quarterly Pet Love events, wherein trained therapy dogs are brought onto campus to provide love and support to students during highly stress-inducing times. Psychological research has shown that spending significant time with these animals can lower cortisol levels, muscle tension, blood pressure, and the risk of depression while simultaneously elevating serotonin and dopamine levels, inducing a state of overall calmness and relaxation. These health benefits are undoubtedly positive, thus, in light of the recent Pet Love event cancellation due to the passing of many of the therapy dogs, fellow students and myself were left devastated. I understand that this may come across as an exaggerated response to you, but I believe it to be perfectly adequate given the circumstances. The University of Chicago Health and Wellness Center describes the event to be beneficial because “as non-judgmental, fountains of love and loyalty, animals are natural vehicles for providing support and companionship to you.” To be stripped of one’s “natural vehicles for support and companionship” would undoubtedly lead to devastation. This temporary instantiation of love and loyalty on campus, led me to wonder – what if we could instantiate this permanently?

Our campus is full of animals – the students and professors. If we could provide training in how to show care and support towards people to the humans constantly on campus rather than just the dogs temporarily visiting we would likely not have to face such devastation in the future. Therapy dogs are said to provide companionship, and they do, but a person can only utilize non-verbal communication with such creatures. These dogs cannot say “I hear you” after divulging your pain or provide experience-dependent advice or check in on you the next morning. This can only occur through human-to-human interaction. Thus, I believe additionally training our students in therapeutic methods would valuably construct a more accessible and in-depth system of support on campus that, given the present devastation, is highly necessary.

Now one might argue with me that we already have trained therapists available on campus for support. However, in considering the high attendance levels at the Pet Love sessions in comparison to the much lower number of students willing to walk through the doors of the counseling building, I believe my demand still stands. Having trained counselors on campus is unquestionably essential, however, they are often intimidating to students, especially those currently experiencing low moods or anxiety. I argue that if students in daily interactions on campus were to better understand how to support one another they would do so more frequently, thus, creating an environment where seeking emotional guidance becomes less daunting and appears more accessible. Therefore, considering the role of counselors does not undermine my demand that students be trained in the aforementioned ways, but rather further strengthens it.

We’ve taught dogs how to support us, isn’t it time we taught one another?

Process Notes:

I wanted to write the letter to my twin because I’ve always found it striking to compare the differences in our experiences later in life given that we came from the same environment of nature and nurture as children. In writing the letter, I felt myself leaning into more bitterness and ridicule of the university than I did when writing the lecture. In the lecture, I imagined presenting it to university faculty and focused on forming an argument that I felt would align with the university’s values rather than emphasizing how they had seemingly failed to live up to them. Interestingly, this observation led me to realize that in the lecture I backed the validity of my claims with scientific facts while in the letter I did so through the importance of ingrained family values and emotional responses to daily activities. In considering the power of referencing these daily activities, I was struck by Ruskin’s insertions of observations of his immediate surroundings in his letters because they provided insight into how his topic was impacting day-to-day occurrences, even while writing his letters. Thus, I attempted to insert such observations into my letter as well to hopefully provide the same sort of impact. Lastly, I found it interesting in this week’s assignment that I was much more aware of my target audiences, which allowed me to determine the type of tone I desired with much more ease than in prior weeks; I think this has reminded me of the importance of considering one’s target audience in all writings, not just those where you directly name those whom you are addressing.

Letter

Dear K — 

I have tutored you once a week for four weeks, now. You know my name and my face and my guidance, as I help you tie rubber balloons into knots, pipe cleaners around popsicle sticks. I do all this while you tell me about your day and your teachers and your amours. I was the same way, when I was nine. 

You are the youngest in my eyes when you talk gravely of your romances — or more accurately, those romantically interested in you. Off the cuff you mention tall Jimmy, who has promised you an iPhone 11 for Valentines Day, has promised you the newest iPhone every Valentines Day, though you never accept. You talk of Ash, who follows you around at recess and offers you smooth stones eroded from the edges of the cement sidewalks that line the playground. You giggle at Pierre, who you humbly insist has a crush on everyone in your grade, though every Tuesday after school he tries to walk you and only you home. You speak with not one ounce of shame and with all the regality in the world — it rivals what I imagine of Queen Elizabeth — and more than anything I wish for you to stay nine, stay shameless, stay humble but not bowed. But because you cannot possibly, I write to you now, for the most lonely thing of all is to bow your head for the first time and see nothing but your two heavy feet.

There may come a day — perhaps the day you read this — that Jimmy grows peeved when you rebuff his offers of grandeur and fulfillment. He may wonder how it is possible that you could refuse such a gift, from such an outstanding suitor — and rather than believing it possible of you, he may believe it impossible of your sanity. He may call you crazy, all for turning him down. My dear, the first time someone calls you crazy, questions your judgment, I urge you — dig in your heels with all your strength, whether that be in the tanbark of a playground or the carpeting of a classroom, or the duvet in a bedroom. The divot your carve will long serve anchor to your dignity, the core of your sense of self as a whole person in this world. Dig in your heels for it is your right, your rational, thoughtful, premeditated decision. Feel in the callouses that form from this repeated act, the stubborn testaments to your sanity.

My dear, the day you choose to open this letter, it may be too early for you to know simply through experience that this world is changing and those who previously ran it are reacting poorly. It is no longer accepted to call a woman stupid or hysterical outright (though I promise some will still do it, and they are to be feared the least, for at least they are candid). But there will be little transgressions that chaffe — eyes that glaze over you when you speak of things academic, intellectual, professional — voices that start just before yours ends, ears that seem not to have heard what you just said — past amours who speak of you as if your mind is something to be feared, your decisions erratic and baseless — and that, you will learn, is an allostatic load which has chaffed many strong and valiant women raw. When this happens, K, that is your cue to dig. And when in doubt, let me tell you a little secret — when Dorothy chanted “there’s no place like home,” she did not click her heels, as the director Victor Fleming would like you to believe — she dug them, firmly, into the ground.  

Best, 

Your Art Tutor

Lecture

A Talk for Pre-Medicine Students, etc.

It should be immediately obvious but it is not: that we live in a state of utmost crisis. Not one rooted in war, or economic destitution, but in a woman’s right to her own soundness of mind. 

The era in which a wife could be sent away to a mental institution on the basis of hysteria at her husband’s demand is not as long ago as we would like to believe. The medical institution, held above all to the standard of “first, do no harm,” provided a false justification for systematically gaslighting women — and still does, to this day, doubting the reported pain levels of women, diagnosing women for psychological conditions later than men, casting doubt on psychosomatic conditions that largely affect women. 

Nowadays, the ramifications differ but are even more dangerous in their subtle creativity: when dissatisfied or heartbroken, men eagerly declare their ex-girlfriends to be “crazy” or “manipulative,” and there is nothing that can be said in rebuttal — because “you didn’t see it,” and indeed, you weren’t there, couldn’t possibly have been, all that’s left is an uneasy feeling in your stomach that one wrong step and next time you’re the crazy one. Tom Haverford in Parks and Recreation, a popular television show, said it best — “She broke up with me. Didn’t really tell me why. Luckily when you’re the guy, you just tell people she’s crazy. ‘Hey Tom, I heard you and Lucy broke up.’ ‘Yeah man. Turns out, she’s crazy’ That’s what they always do on Entourage.” That’s Season 3 Episode 3, titled “Time Capsule.” Look it up if you don’t believe me.

The ripple effect goes beyond petty breakups and gossip. Indeed, female leaders in the workplace are dubbed bossy, or hormonal, simply because their judgment and decisions infringe upon the comfort of their fellow employees — and to have their firmness (of position and mind) believed, to have their decisions respected, they must go to great lengths — dressing differently, wearing just the right amount of makeup, lowering their timbre, just to get on the same playing field. When one of the most qualified candidates in history ran for president, she was dubbed as “shrill,” and lacking “stamina.”

One of the prominent clinical symptoms of hysteria was fatigue. Lassitude. Exhaustion. Sound familiar? 

Therein lies the danger — modern-day gaslighting of women has catastrophic effects, not only on individuals, but on the fate of the nation — and this sort of gaslighting cannot be disproved by rigorous clinical trials. Modern hysteria is diagnosed in the stratosphere of subjectivity, far beyond the glass ceiling. Those who object are, well, nasty. Should probably get that checked out.

Process Notes

As someone who wants to eventually go into the medical field, the role that medicine and paternalism within healthcare has played in contributing to our society’s systematic sexism is particularly interesting to me. The fingerprints of sexism are all over medical documents — ranging from diagnosis of hysteria, which has been a topic of interest to me in the context of my project, to negligence cases in modern childbirth and reproductive care. For that reason, I addressed my lecture to students intending on pursuing medicine. 

I thought about a number of different recipients for the letter — ranging from a fictional ex-boyfriend to Donald Trump, and finally settling upon a young girl. I wanted to write something that could serve to help, to prepare someone for the future and what it holds for their perception of their own mind and sense of self. I set out to write something that would have helped me and my peers who have been affected by these issues. 

Something I’m struggling with is the inherent heteronormativity of this subject matter. I want to figure out how to make my language more inclusive, or at least discuss the subject matter with consideration extended for those who don’t fit into the molds of “male” or “female” but have still been institutionally gaslit or had their mental stability questioned. I would really appreciate feedback on this issue, or suggestions about how I could possibly alter my terminology. 

To my white mom:

You think you’ve built a bridge. With the impact of sperm and egg, twice, sweat balled on your forehead twice you pushed out the perfect duo, one white one brown, to save the world. What weight we carry on our shoulders, with you and your world walking across them.

Mom, I am not a bridge. My existence does not cure you of the disease, it does not connect you to the other side, I do not fill the void between black and white, Light and Darkness. You have work to do. You cannot cross the bridge.

The work lies in the way you talk to Dad. Do not belittle him. Do not isolate him. Do not pretend you don’t speak Spanish. Do not pretend you don’t know how to pronounce arroz con habichuelas, mangú, aquacate y ensalada. You surround him with your white friends, spewing racist rhetoric, elitist rhetoric. You capitalize off his assimilation. You married a brown man! You hardly see race!

But I see you. I see you shrivel when reminded of your whiteness. I notice the nod when Grandma talks about how the Irish had it just as hard. I see you smirk with white supremacy if Abuela struggles for the English word.

I am Latina when convenient to you. A great candidate for college! A Latina who can actually afford her education! With your grades, you won’t be rejected anywhere! And yet you divide us whenever possible. We are white white white when we go through the airport and you gladly leave Dad behind as he is “randomly” searched by TSA, leave him in the long line while we zoom through with our Irish passports. He is other in our family. I am other when you want me to be.

So, Mom, I am not a bridge. I do not bridge the racial divide between you and dad. I do not excuse your whiteness. I am not a bridge. You do not get to walk over me.

Love,
Sofia

A lecture for white moms of colored children:

I cannot begin to assume that I know all the complexities of motherhood. I am not a mother, nor do I intend to become one. I am too close to my own childhood, still too entwined with my own mother-daughter relationship to even begin thinking about switching roles. But perhaps that makes me fit to give you all a quick lecture, just on my perspective, or on the perspective of the child.

Perhaps you are too far removed from your childhood to understand your child. I assume when you look down at the fresh, beautiful new life you have cultivated the love you feel can be overwhelming. You have just grown a human, how could you not know what is absolutely best for them?

But, moms, when you look down at the black, brown, or just non-white face of the child you just grew, remember that you won’t know. That child’s existence will be fundamentally different from yours, and you and your child will be perceived differently wherever you go. Neither you nor your non-white co-parent will truly understand that kid’s experience, how they will struggle through their muddled identities, and how the world does not want to accommodate for anything between a binary.

It is your job, then, as mothers, to be best prepared to prepare your child for the wrath of the world. It is your job, not your child’s, not your co-parent’s, not anyone else’s, to prepare yourselves. As white mothers of non-white children, pick up a book. Attend a lecture. Read some articles. Listen to podcasts. Listen to your children.

Your experiences will be different. Your child will exist on a spectrum of color, one that you have actively muddled, and your whiteness will be intrinsic to their identity. So will the coloredness of their other parent. Your child will have to grapple with something you have never had to grapple with, in a more complex fashion than you can imagine.

Remember, white moms, that your child’s color does not excuse your whiteness. I’m sure you’ve heard by now of systemic racism, of white supremacy. Your whiteness is a privilege that your child will not have, but will have to grapple with. You will also have to grapple with it. Your child is not the medium through which you excuse your complicit benefit from a system of white supremacy. Your child is rather the medium through which you become even more introspective, even more careful, even more confident. Because your child will need your guidance, and your guidance cannot be riddle with white guilt and insecurity.

So, go forth moms! You can do it! Parenting is full of tasks and challenges. This is just another one that you can handle, you must handle. Good luck!

Writing Process:

I found it rather difficult to do this assignment. My mom and I have a tense relationship, so I felt anger radiating out of my letter to her. But I had to change my tone into something more optimistic and inclusive when addressing mothers in general. I think there’s a really interesting relationship that white mothers can have with their mixed children, but its definitely something I need to unpack more. I think that white mothers can often try to compensate for their whiteness through their mixed children or their non-white partners, or fail to try to understand the differences in their experiences.

To the Expecting Mother on the Bus,

My grandmother always told me that some people are special. They just have it. No matter where they are, no matter what they’re doing, you can’t help but to notice them. They just have an aura about them that stops you in your tracks and screams “Look here! I have something to say!”

That was my first thought when the doors of the bus opened and you climbed aboard, the heat from the sun’s rays rushing in and making it unbearable to do anything, but complain. I, myself, fanned my face frantically with my hands, cursing myself for getting on a bus without air conditioning. If only I hadn’t missed the bus before this or better yet, I should have just stayed home where a nice glass of sweet tea with extra ice would surely await me.

But you patiently took your seat and settled in amongst the heavy sighs, shouts of “drive faster!”, and the holding of cold soda cans to foreheads. The entire ride, one hand gently cradled your swollen stomach, while the other held open a large, white book, the spine beginning to tear, several of the pages visibly folded over several times, ready to be returned to again perhaps on your next ride. 40 Ways to Prepare For Your Bundle of Joy!

Slowly the bus dragged from stop to stop, but your head remained bent over the pages, a soft smile appearing as you highlighted a new section. Until finally, your stop approached. You gently closed the book and climbed down the steps, a gleam in your eyes as more people pushed impatiently past you to escape the heat.

A few stops later, I too, emerged back into the heat, though in less of a happy mood. I trudged the three blocks from the bus stop to my grandmother’s house, where the usual group of children, with their colorful clothes and sticky hands from the popsicles their mothers thrusted into their hands, greeted me.

Something, besides the heat, was bothering me. I couldn’t quite understand it, but I knew that a worry had taken over me. As rumbling occurred outside, warning of a thunderstorm soon to come, I pondered my mood. Why was I so perturbed by this young, vibrant, excited mother-to-be? It was almost as if I felt haunted by your presence, but I didn’t know why. I sat on the porch swing, safe from the downpour, but near enough to watch the duration of the storm as I thought this over.

And then it hit me. Fragments of information came back to me from the psychology class I’d taken a few months ago. You were more likely to have severe complications after birth. Your post-natal concerns were more likely to be dismissed. You were more likely to die from these complications.

I felt uneasy as I remembered the excitement on your face. Is your nursery already set up? I bet it is. You’ve probably pored over every magazine looking for the right shade of paint, researched the safest crib, and picked out the best name. But would you make it back to this room…intact? What are the odds of you sitting in your rocking chair, healing normally, preparing for the journey ahead with your baby? Or would you never make it beyond the operating table? Would the nurses listen to your concerns or would they brush you off? Would they send you home to die?

I now know that what bothers me is that to be a black mother in America doesn’t mean that we get the liberty of being only happy. To be an expecting black mother in America means being forced to have this conversation. To think of what if. To worry if the swelling of your feet is more than a standard symptom of pregnancy. To worry if the pain in your chest after birth is normal or a hint of a complication to come. To worry if you are leaving the hospital knowing that you received the best care.

So I write to you to say: black mother, advocate for yourself. Trust yourself. Trust your body. Know that you are valued. Know that you deserve happiness. Know that you deserve the best care, not only for your baby, but for yourself.

Rewrite: Lecture to Doctors and Nurses

Yes, she is happy, but she is also scared. Maybe this is her first child. Maybe, it’s not. But she wants to leave this hospital with her worries assured. Listen to her. Do not make her feel crazy. When she tells you she feels a pain in her chest, do not write it off. You can save her life. You can change the outcome of her baby’s life.

She has a nursery set up back home. Did you know that it took her weeks to decide on the perfect shade of blue? Did you know that she read 40 Ways to Prepare for Your Bundle of Joy so many times that the pages are worn and the spine is beginning to fall apart? Do you see the joy in her eyes as she looks at her baby? The life that she envisions?

Do not rob of her of that. Order the test. Write down her symptoms. Explore all of the options. She deserves it. Do not let her become another statistic.

How many women come back through the Emergency Room with post-natal complications? And how many of them are black? Ask yourself, what could have been done better? What can be improved? How can you ensure that this disparity disappears?

When you dismiss her, it is her voice that you may deprive her child. Her embrace that they may never feel. Her laugh that they may never hear.

Your profession is noble. You save lives. You make a difference. Your work matters, but can we not do better? Do black women not deserve better?

***Writer’s Notes: After reading both pieces, I realized that the letter was easier for me to write. It comes more from a place of sadness, while the lecture comes more from a place of anger. I do realize that because of this, I don’t know if my lecture would be effective at causing change. It comes off as too accusatory, in my opinion. Baldwin, in contrast, is very aware of his audience and doesn’t come across as 100% angry, which I think would be something for me to work on when revising the lecture. I also struggled with ending both. Should I sign off on the letter? I ultimately decided not to because I don’t think it would be a letter that would be sent. It’s more so a reflection piece for the main character.

Dearest friend,

I write to you as I stare into my own eyes which stare back at me from set deep within my phone. The dark screen, which soon will grow darker from disuse, reflects my furrowed brow back at me, as if to say, “and what will you do about it?” The simple and mildly confrontational intimation of skepticism asks of me, as well, “why do you care?”

The simple answer is, I do not know. I don’t fully comprehend why the outright shunning of reason I see before me makes me want to abandon the thing I love. Because, dear friend, as you know, I, in words I’d hoped I’d never utter, love politics. I grew up in the nation’s capital, with parents whose working lives revolved around the decisions of people elected by lands I and they would never visit. “To hell with Tocqueville,” I would have said had I known his name, “let’s let my mom, Obama, and Jon Stewart make all the decisions forever, ‘Democracy’ be damned.” 

In the ninth grade I suppose I first brushed with politics, printing 60-odd t-shirts emblazoned with the words “I CAN’T BREATHE” to sell at school and raise money for the family of Eric Garner. I received payment for less than half, and, with my parents picking up the balance, I raised zero dollars and zero cents. Perhaps consequently, through the eleventh grade I dreamed of being a physicist, about as far as possible from the worlds of policy, politics, and people I now seek out.

The next year, on the day a student killed ten at Santa Fe High School, plastic cuffs left a serial number imprinted in the flesh of my wrist, after I broke the law against obstructing the halls (literally) of Congress. My new friend James, whom I had never met before that day and have never seen in person since, posed a question as we threw my unlaced shoe back and forth across the concrete cell to pass the time. “So, what made you want to do this?”

I do not remember what I said that day, but I know now what the honest answer would have been: “because I can.” While this may come off the the boisterous response of someone justifying his actions, I mean this quite differently. I was able to take this step because, for me, it was not a big deal. I was far less likely than many of my peers to be seen as “resisting arrest” by the Capitol Police for shifting my shoulder from an uncomfortable position. I’d called my mom and received her blessing and support, which even James had failed to procure before entering the Longworth House Office Building. I was of an age where this would not go on my record, and am of a class where it would not have mattered even if it had. Thus, I did it, simply put, because I could.

When I walked out of “jail,” as my parents now generously refer to it (it was three cells in the back of the DC police’s Sixth District Station), I was not instantaneously a politico. But, as my views developed, as I volunteered for and worked on campaigns, as I was exposed to the people at this school and elsewhere who have shaped my political ideals, I developed a true love for what I believe politics can be.

I, in my seemingly endless gullibility, open Twitter or turn on the news everyday, hoping beyond hope to see whatever idealized version of politics I’ve propped up in my mind as ideal, a combination of direct action (see above for my one claim to authority on this subject) and good faith, evidence-based discourse (I’d assume from my upbringing as the child of two lawyers, sent to the rather discourse-heavy University of Chicago).

The beauty of a mirror is that what you see is not actually the mirror itself, but the light you project towards it. The beauty of my darkened phone screen is that it shows me what I myself project towards the dimmed Twitter feed or CNN home page: an expectation of a combination of nuance, civilization, and passion I know I know won’t come.

It pains me to admit this, but I do not know what to do about this. I do not foresee the problem getting better anytime soon, and I hope my expectations of what we can be never lessen.

As we inch forward through 2020, I wish you luck, my friend. Perhaps you see it differently than I do? If you do, I beg of you, please advise me of your techniques.

Sincerely yours,

Daniel Green

I need to do better. I begin this way to demonstrate that I know the fallibility of my own viewpoints and origins thereof on this issue, but I contend that regardless of these problems, it is an issue well worth examining. The issue I wish to raise today is that of nuance. Now, my rather cautious and, some might say, nuanced, introduction of this issue may seem ironic, but it is for good reason that I bring it up in this manner – the issue of nuance is nuanced.

This needs explanation, and perhaps some more background. I base this lecture not on a single incident of, as someone on Twitter put it, “a single BernieBro was mean to me online and now I’ve changed my entire political beliefs.” Rather, I sat down to write this because of the modern atmosphere that has ruined a thing I love. For reasons inexplicable in a lecture of this length, I went from caring about individual issues but rather apathetic about electoral politics to a Politico newsletter subscriber in about 18 months. Simply put, I love politics because of what it can be. 

I will not sully my reputation by saying that politics is or should be just polite, civilized discourse; far from it. I developed my love for politics through passionate direct action – organizing and attending rallies and marches outside the Capitol, which sits mere miles from my childhood home, being arrested in House office buildings… Even before I turned 4, my parents took me to the March for Women’s Lives. Passion, dedication, and critique are the key building blocks of politics, along with nuance.

Here lies the problem. In early 2017, the Washington Post ran reports that Fireball sales had spiked in the DC area with the arrival of Trump staffers. As ridiculous as this may seem, I don’t doubt it. A cheap, easily-consumed way of getting drunk fast? To me, that sounds like a drink of choice for young Republicans just moving to town, as well as for the overwhelmingly Democratic population of DC, drinking to forget their woes. Since the election of 2016, we have seen, I’m sure you’ll agree, a total breakdown of nuanced political conversation in the Democratic Party, in the country at large, and in our own communities, accelerated by the Fireball craving-inducing time in which we live. 

As I’ve mentioned. I believe in the necessity of passion and pointed critique for effective politics. These things convince people. But, when strangers, friends, or even family members routinely dismiss one another as “communists,” “imperialists,” “anti-semites,” “BernieBros,” or, my favorite pejorative, “dividers,” we get nowhere. 

I know that I’m coming from a place of privilege – my race, gender, health, and religion mean that my political goals are not as urgent as others’. “Can’t we all just get along” isn’t the right question to pose, because the answer is no; some of these answers are truly life or death. But I know one thing. Name calling doesn’t work, and it may only serve to dissuade otherwise passionate allies from enthusiastically joining your cause.

Process Notes:

I think for the duration of this class, I’ve felt slightly self-conscious about my selected topic. My classmates have picked specific, tangible problems, while mine is far less impactful on everyday life. Thus, I wrote these pieces to explain, I guess, why I actually care about this. I set out to write this not knowing what would come out, and the letter above is a lightly edited stream-of-consciousness piece that I believe resembles what an actual letter (or email or text) I would write on this topic would look like. I wrote the letter first and the lecture second, which is the opposite order from the order in which I did the readings for this week, which made the process of transforming slightly different, but I focused on two things. First was tone and style. In the lecture, I made an effort to both transform the informal tone into a slightly more formal and intellectual one, while maintaining enough of a natural flow that it could be read aloud. Second was my rhetorical techniques. Rather than leaning on the anecdotal reasoning I have for caring in the letter, in the lecture I stick to more universal claims, with one more universally understandable anecdote thrown in in order to keep the audience’s attention. Finally, I attempt to end each with a sort of call to action, discouraged as I may be: in the letter I ask for advice on how to deal with this phenomenon (under the assumption that this was actually a letter, it additionally fulfills the suggestion of leaving a question to which the recipient can respond to continue conversation), and in the lecture I appeal to the public’s better nature, do eschew this brand of name-calling politics.