Note: I focus on what I'm learning from Black scholars, activists, and academics in this essay; however, I want to note that people of color throughout this country deal with similar--oftentimes worse--situations because of racism. Native, Latinx, Asian, and other minorities also suffer immensely because of the pernicious poison of racism. I am a huge beneficiary of the systemic racism in the United States of America. Some of the privilege I have comes through no fault of my own, of course--I didn't choose to be a white cis-het male born in Utah. I don't have a problem with those aspects of myself; despite what some people might claim about the purposes of race- and gender studies, learning a type of self-loathing because of my privilege isn't the end result of studying these topics. (Besides, I'm a Mormon--a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints--so I don't need an academic course to learn how to self-loathe; I already know how, thank you very much.) I recently finished Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? by Dr. Beverly Tatum and I'm working through Hood Feminism by Mikki Kendall--I recommend both of them, by the way--as I, along with the rest of the country, tries to come to grips with the continued protests against police brutality. I've denounced racism before and I do it again: I'm anti-racist and believe that the current system in America needs radical and permanent change. What I've lacked up until now is a stronger understanding of the ways in which racism rots the American experience. What's valuable to recognize, I think, is this simple question: Why does racism keep getting blamed for what's going on? In other words, if Einstein couldn't find a universal theorem to explain physics, what hope have we to figure out a unifying theory of social inequity and problems? Adjacent to that question is another issue, one rooted in the conceit of the "best possible world" and millenarian theology, which I think helps explain the equally puzzling reality that so many people actively shore-up, defend, support, and apologize (in an academic sense) for racism, misogyny, and the patriarchy. What I hope to do here is trace a couple of things that I'm seeing on both of these issues. This post tackles the first one: Why can racism be blamed for so many ills? I find it helpful to follow the Socrates-attributed concept that "the beginning of wisdom is the definition of terms" and define a couple of terms. I found Dr. Tatum's definitions incredibly useful as I started to see the larger, more complex components of racism in our society. First, she uses Ven dem Berghe's explanation about what race is: "a group that is socially defined but on the basis of physical criteria, including skin color and facial features" (96). She goes on to include the definition of ethnic (which is something I've struggled to understand) as a "a socially defined group based on cultural criteria, such as language, customs, and shared history" (96). These two concepts are closely intertwined and can often be self-generating and -reaffirming*. The other definition that Dr. Tatum operates under is a simple, six-word definition of racism that helps demonstrate my thesis: Quoting David Wellman, she says that racism is a "system of advantage based on race" (87). I've been teaching my students that racism is a description of the operations of power--who has it, who controls it, who can face it--within our society, but I like Wellman's more. That simplicity underscores why it's so useful to use when considering the racially-centered problems in our society, and it also shows why it feels like "everything is about race". It's because it kind of is. Before looking at that, though, I feel like there's more to the question of "Why does it have to be about race?" Really, it's the assumptions that are going on beneath the question that deserve some attention. I don't want to craft a strawman to argue with here, so I'm going to recognize that there are many lived experiences that I don't have access to--many of which I don't care to learn about at this point in my life, if I'm being honest--and that not everyone who asks this question is a bad faith actor, antagonistic to the idea, or any other criteria. However, there's a strong likelihood that someone who asks this question out of a sense of genuine confusion and frustration is A) white, B) comparatively socioeconomically secure, and C) misled by what is being asked of society when race is discussed. The reason that this conception is important is because there's a lot that the questioner reveals by even asking the question. It assumes that it isn't already about race, which argues that the speaker hasn't had to be racially aware in any significant or consistent way. Dr. Tatum explains this anecdote that drives the point home: I often begin the classes and workshops [on racial inequality] by asking […]: "What is your class and ethnic background?" White participants […] often pause before responding. On one such occasion a young White woman quickly described herself as middle-class but seemed stumped as to how to describe herself ethnically. Finally, she said, "I'm just normal!" (185) If you're in a system that doesn't provide advantages based upon race, then racism isn't affecting you**. That doesn't make it not real, just less influential. Almost all systems--educational, religious, bureaucratic, justice, consumer, political, medicinal, and more--have been constructed on the premise of white superiority. To focus on just one area, there is an abundance of evidence supporting what many Black people already knew: Black patients are not correctly treated by white doctors. Over 40% of first- and second year medical students have bought into the falsehood that Black people's skin is thicker than a white person's, and that they don't feel as much pain. The students may not harbor animosity towards Black people, but they are still operating within the confines of a racist system. There's still harm; there's still trauma.
Better qualified and smarter people than I have laid out the case--backed by decades of research from sundry areas--for all of the other systems I noted above. (Again, Dr. Tatum's single-volume take helps provide a good groundwork for many of them.) When the forest is racism, you can sometimes mistake the trees as "social justice warriors'" protest du jour. The brutality of police against Black bodies, the disenfranchisement of Black voters, the starvation of Black youths, the hyper-, over-, and premature sexualization of Black girls--all of these things are all tied back to one specific and clear source: Institutional, perpetual, and enforced racism. There's a paradox at play, here: People prefer simple answers over complex ones…or maybe they prefer complex answers when a simple one will suffice. (People are complicated…or maybe we're really simple. I don't know.) The point is, when it comes to complexity versus simplicity, we run into hypocrisy. One stance is that life is so large, complicated, and multifaceted (which it is) that we can't reduce the behaviors of people and institutions into "racist" and "not-racist". Ironically, it is a simple answer to the complexity of the question. Another stance is that racism itself is large, complicated, and multifaceted, infecting and indoctrinating its hate-poison into and throughout the histories, institutions, and programs that people create, causing lasting harm and perpetuating sundry types of violences on to all people of color. Another is that "Blacks are racist, too!", as if that claim (which doesn't work within the context of systemic racial problems, though might fit within the bigotries and prejudices of individual Black people) justifies a failure to engage with and interrogate racism and its many manifestations. Additionally, this point of view is absolutely "thing-adjacent"*** and not the point that needs to be addressed. I wonder if it comes from a suspicion that Occam's Razor isn't sharp enough to apply in most situations--which is not necessarily a bad take. However, the more you learn about how racism intersects with things like gender identity, socioeconomic inequalities, school-to-prison pipeline, and educational opportunities, the more you see that the simplicity of the answer ("because racism") only opens the door to discovering the solution. Kimberlé Crenshaw's efforts in expanding the role of feminism to better incorporate these intersecting difficulties is one of the ways that helps to provide the nuance that's needed to the question of why racism exists--and why that's such a big deal. And maybe that's another component to the question in the first place: Why does it matter so much if [fill in the blank with institution of your choice] is racist? I struggle to take this particular question seriously. I definitely believe that there's a lot of good to be had by having conversations. Debates, Socratic seminars, thoughtful panels--these are all good and healthy things. However, I'm at a loss to understand why certain things are considered fair game. I was under the impression that we had already answered questions like, "Are Black people humans?" and "Do Black people deserve rights?" I've always believed that, when it comes to the concept of Nazism and the foul toxin of fascism, we fought against those ideas. How many times does a bad idea need to be brought up and defeated before people stop zombifying it? How is it that some people think that they can run a Socratic discussion on whether or not another human being counts as human? As the police continues to riot against people protesting their brutality in the name of George Floyd and Black Lives Matter; as the country fails to again confront the bitter roots of racial injustice that are fundamental to its history; as the states fracture over their proper role and their people die in the interim; as corruption at the highest levels of the government go unopposed--if not endorsed and empowered--by political parties; as life-altering decisions about educational needs and public health requirements become infected with politicization; as our world bakes through the hottest year on record; as cabin fever and reckless indifference stokes the flames of the pandemic; as we reel from headline to headline, never being able to grasp what a moment may mean before another one avalanches us; as life continues to be so complicated and difficult, it can be hard to see how so much of these issues are coming out of the same fount. And for someone who is pretty opposed to conspiracy theory thinking, it's tempting to dismiss the idea that we can just blame racism for so many of the problems that we see. I feel that recognizing the problem as racism is too often conflated with solving the problem of racism. It isn't enough to point out that there are Confederate generals whose statues are in front of state capitols. Doing something about that is what's necessary. And though statue-removal is definitely "thing-adjacent", it's a way of working into the deeper, more difficult work of understanding the rotten legacy that racism has left us. It is an example of praxis as an answer to the question. I have a lot more to learn, understand, and believe. I can take certain points as axiomatic, allowing them to be the foundations on which I can build my clearer view of the world--the reality of racism, the personhoods of people of color, the recognition of my privilege. Moving forward from there will be its own challenge--one for another day. --- * As a lifelong Mormon, it makes me wonder if there may be a time when the religious culture of Mormonism becomes so disparate from the way mainstream Christianity operates (as if it isn't already like this) that Mormonism eventually morphs into an ethnicity. I think there are a lot of reasons why it fits Ven dem Berghe's definition. For example, if you don't know what a Mormon means by FHE, Mutual, or food storage, then it shows that you're outside of the cultural taxonomy Mormonism uses. (Or, to push it further, if you aren't aware of the way my use of the word Mormon affects members of the Church, there's another example of lexicographically generated cultural differences.) There's a lot to process here, more than a footnote allows, so I'ma put a pin in this and see if we ever return to the thought. ** Writ large, the American system is most definitely racist, so there's technically no escaping its pernicious influence. However, there are other systems that abound, and sometimes, within the contexts of those smaller systems, racism doesn't have as strong a hold. Family dynamics, for example, may not see many directly racist effects (assuming, of course, that there isn't a problem within a mixed-race relationship) within the interpersonal experiences. *** I happened upon the thinking of Jane Coaston via a Twitter thread--which I can't find right now--that helped to draw focus on why it feels like there are a million fires to put out and more keep springing up. She talks about "the thing" and being "thing-adjacent". The example she brought up is the face mask hullabaloo. The "thing-adjacent" is that masks are an infringement of rights (in a way that pants aren't, I guess?) and so on and so forth; "the thing" is the absolute, unequivocal failure on the part of the United States to get a handle on the pandemic. If the "thing" (pandemic response) had been taken care of, the "thing-adjacent" (mask wearing) wouldn't need to be focused on. Because we tend to focus on "thing-adjacent" controversies, we leave the underlying "thing" uncontested or unchallenged. I'm not a fan of the terminology, if I'm being honest, but it's an effective way of conceptualizing the issue. This one is for me.
The reason is simple: Black lives matter, and Blacks and other POC are already aware of the faultlines [sic], the quicksand, the mires that they have to traverse. I would say almost all Black people know why the country is rioting. Anything that I would say to try to explain to a Black person why Salt Lake implemented a curfew, why Minneapolis is burning, why other places in the world are marching in solidarity would be condescending at best and insulting at worst. This isn't about explaining why the riots are happening, even in my home state. This one is for me to try to understand how a White person could ask, "Why is this happening here?" "The guy who killed George Floyd was arrested. Why are they rioting?" "George Floyd died in Minneapolis. Why is there a burning car in Salt Lake City?" The permutations of the question are legion but the gist is always the same: How can someone else's problem be spilling into my life? It's hardly a unique observation to say that 2020 has been a pretty crappy year: Australia kicked the year off by losing 27 million acres to wildfires; the impeached president was not removed from office due to party loyalty rather than an attempt at an impartial trial; the impeached president botched a correct response to COVID-19 that has, so far, sent over 100,000 Americans to their graves; American schools dismissed mid-March due to the coronavirus, never rejoining despite reaching into graduation territory; an entitled White woman weaponized her tears in an attempt to get a Black man killed; and images of George Floyd's body was paraded around social medial and news networks as outrage grew over his murder. We're only half way through the year. While my list is far from complete--mass shootings, as often happen in America, haven't hit much in terms of the national consciousness, for example--it's a sharp reminder just how much has happened, and the election hasn't even heated up yet. White supremacy, in many of its forms, is on the rise (and has been for the past few years). The strains of extended lock downs and a failure to return to normal when many people (naively) hoped the pandemic would end are absolutely part of the equation, too. It has been a long, difficult year this week, and it doesn't look like there's much chance of a respite. The respair that we all hoped for by the arrival of the summer months appears to be misplaced. Speaking for myself and how I understand the world, there is an underlying expectation that things work out for a person. It comes from the egocentric view of the universe that we are stuck within, enhanced and encouraged by the nature of narrative--our stories are usually about a handful of characters (often just one or two) and we're encouraged to identify with them--and we rarely want to watch tragedies. People of faith hold onto that perfect brightness of hope with an understanding of their connection to the divine (in many traditions, including my own, it's a filial line) as the source of their strength. When good things happen, it's to the individual; when bad things happen, it's to others. And, if the bad does happen to them, it's temporary. This is why it's so shocking when something goes continuously, catastrophically wrong. It's like winning the worst kind of lottery. Sure, we all have our trials and hardships, but they're part of our lives. The fridge breaks down? Of course it does: We're in a pandemic. The difficulty is real, the problem must be solved, but the questioning--Why did this happen to me?--remains unanswered. Hence the reason we crowdfund our miseries: Everybody has something happen to their sprinklers, computer, garage door, washing machine…whatever it is. These minor inconveniences of life are tangential. But, like all tangents, they do ultimately connect to another line. I am on the easiest setting in this video game called Life: I'm a cis-het married male, college-educated middle class, within the locally predominant religion. I'm also White. The only thing I'm missing from a blackout on the Bingo Card of Luck is that I didn't inherit wealth from my parents. (You could make a worthwhile argument that my Mormonism is also a handicap; not, however, in Utah, where being the opposite is.) I am a homeowner, relatively free of debt, and have a salaried job at a school I love. I am #blessed. I don't deny this--because how could I? Like, it's pretty obvious that I have it really good. I also can't claim much of my success on myself. I know that this flies in the face of libertarian doctrine and objectivist dogma, but it would be ridiculously naïve and self-serving of me to argue that I got here on my own. I built off of a foundation that my parents provided me. I met my future wife while we were juniors in high school--what did I do to put me in that school? Oh, yeah, nothing. That had nothing to do with me. And though my courtship and eventual marriage to the remarkable woman who is my wife had something to do with me, there are all sorts of components that were built into me that I did not install: My religion (which, if you don't know about Mormonic courtship expectations and rituals, you should ask me what it's like; rather different than how other people think about this sort of thing), my location, my sense of humor, my expectations for a relationship…I could go on. There are active things that I have to decide, of course--relationships require proactive work. But let's be honest, here: I've been draining half-court shots for most of my life without ever practicing. Let's look at some of the things that have happened according to my plans/desires:
Now let's look at the things that have not happened/worked out the way I expected:
I'm not trying to dismiss the last three: They're real and they continue to be a tender spot in my life. I could go on about what those three "failures"* mean to me, but the broader point is this: I live a charmed life. (Remember, this essay is for me.) I know a handful of Black people and some POC--mostly students--and I know that, while they, too, are benefiting from a lot of great perks that are outside of their control, I know also that they still deal with a pernicious cloud of racism that will always be a miasma in their lives. I wake up every day as Steven Dowdle, first and foremost. Other roles, other responsibilities flicker onto me rapidly--father, teacher, husband, driver, adult, whatever the day requires. But I never have to look at my white face in the mirror and wonder how it's going to endanger me. I go to sleep White and I wake up White and the result of that is that I don't have to think about my Whiteness. I don't have to gird up my courage to leave the house (though we know that Black people aren't safe from cop killings inside their own houses…not in America; they can't even unlock their front doors without it becoming a presidential problem). We recently had some fridge problems. We contacted a company and they sent out a representative. Gayle received a text the day before with a picture of our repairman--a fellow named William, I believe. A large, friendly Black man, he arrived the next day within the expected time. He wore a mask--which I appreciated, and did the same when near him as a matter of courtesy, respect, and common human decency--and kept himself limited to the kitchen as he diagnosed the problem. Once some parts came in, he returned a different day and finished up the work. He did a great job--our fridge is running fine and now we don't have to worry about spoiled milk or a broken refrigerator during a pandemic. I have to wonder what William worried about when he came to our home. Was he concerned that the woman of the house hadn't told her husband about the refrigerator repairman coming? Did he worry that I would come home from work while he was there? Did he fret about whether or not we had a gun in the house? Did he think that we were suspicious of him? Did he assume that we had hidden our valuable things so that he wouldn't rob us? Was he concerned about his safety on the way to our house, on the way back? Did he check his taillights to make sure they worked so that he didn't have to worry about being pulled over? Does Javon Johnson's reminder about the speed of hand to wallet echo in William's mind? And, if you're operating on the easiest level on the video game of life, you can ask yourself this: How many of the questions I wrote above have crossed your mind when visiting a stranger's house for whatever reason? I knocked on countless doors in Miami, Florida and those types of questions almost never surfaced. This was because of the naïveté of my age, an innocent faith, and the color of my skin. This sort of thinking has been haunting me for quite some time. One of Obama's many failures was his inability to do what he was elected to do: Bridge the gap between Black America and the Whites who've dictated so much for so long. But we all saw what happened to him. He was accused of not being an American (the impeached president has never produced his own birth certificate…nor his promised tax returns, for that matter), and one of the biggest peddlers of that racist idea sits in Obama's office now, with the lights turned off. President Obama was denied his Constitutional imperative of nominating a Supreme Court justice for an entire year, making our first Black president capable of completing only 3/5 of his job. President Obama was hobbled from before he started by the rage that racism's most open--but by no means only--face vomited over him on a constant deluge. Yet it was under Obama that Black Lives Matter was created. It was under Obama that Ferguson erupted in violence, riots, and agony. Flint's water crisis was not solved by Black faces in high places. President Obama failed here, and that failure is not one that's isolated to a certain area of the country: It's an American failure. This is America. We are America. We all have to deal with the reckoning that's been too long delayed and ignored. I fear I may have been to broad in my sketching of what I see, so here's a more direct answer to the question that inspired this post, "Why is this happening here?" Because racism is like piss in a swimming pool: It can't be held in one corner that you avoid. It spreads and ruins everything. Because racism is the mortar between the building blocks of this country. Because racism explains why we're living on looted land. Because racism isn't a problem that other people have: We all have to deal with it. Because racism turns systemic power against fellow brothers and sisters, against human beings, and objectifies them. Because racism diminishes everyone, and it always has. Because being part of a country means being a part, not apart, from it. Because when others mourn, cry out for justice, or seek change toward the betterment of mankind, I am duty-, morally-, religiously-, and ethically bound to mourn, cry out, and seek change with them. Because the failures of leadership going back to the British colonies and deep into the Age of Genocide (or Exploration, if you're feeling like wearing kid-gloves) and continuing in every subsequent era has given us a world that needs us to recognize and wake up. Because the failures of individuals who wish that this didn't happen encourage, support, and provide justification for the continuation of the abuses that are being protested. Because beneficiaries of racism can no longer hide behind a purported veil of ignorance. Because kneeling for the anthem didn't work. Because preaching non-violence got a King assassinated. Because Gandhi's words work when everyone believes in them, not only the oppressed. Because nothing else has woken us up. --- * I put this in quotes because, while serious, they are fortunate failures. Still…while my oldest is now a teenager and, as I mentioned, healthy, there is always a specter of fear that haunts me and my wife; it's why this pandemic has been so stressful. And as far as him being a "failure" of mine, I do not know of a parent who would look at their two-week old son, nested by an embrace of tubes and wires as he valiantly fought for breath, and not feel somehow and somewhat responsible for that situation. If you've never been in the antiseptic atmosphere of a newborn ICU, you are 1) fortunate, and 2) unable to know what it feels like to be a parent there. To say that the fourth track on Dave Matthews Band's Before These Crowded Streets is anti-imperialist is as uncreative as coming up with a band name like "the Dave Matthews Band". In my mind, however, this song's power is not just in its message but also in its delivery--its simplicity is its power; its complexity is its worth. To start off, "Don't Drink the Water" has to be looked at from an African point of view--and by that I mean a Southern African point of view. Dave Matthews was born in Johannesburg, South Africa, and spent time, off and on in his childhood, in that country. In other interviews (which I couldn't find right away, so this may be hearsay), Matthews acknowledged that the sonic tapestry of South Africa influenced him throughout his life, and Carter Beauford, the band's drummer, locks into that pulsating rhythm in the song. The drum line--a couple of bass kicks and then some distinct snares--is the guitar line. Matthews's earlier work didn't see a lot of unique tunings--no capos, no open tunings, and until Everyday, he didn't use electric (or baritone) guitars--so this song was, reportedly, called "Drop-D"* during the production of the album, as it's the first to really feature this alternative tuning (though "Crush" is also in drop-D). This is how the guitar and the drum end up as the rhythm section: Matthews' striking of the low D is in time with Beauford's kick and Stefan Lessard's bass D. Instead of allowing those three parts of the band to break into lead guitar, bass, and drums (the last two often being the rhythm section), the song pulsates with all three instruments marching along in tandem. Despite this potentially static beat--written in 4/4 time and a scant 84 bpm in the album version--the intricacies of the bass line (freed up to be more melodic and riff-laden than the guitar part, for once), the droning of the violin, and the contributions of both LeRoi Moore's saxophone and guest-artist Bela Fleck's banjo all interweave in such a way that the music becomes layered and complex. One could pick a specific instrument and pay exclusive attention to it each time one listened and glean new musical connections. During the third verse, an electric guitar with distortion and a way hammers on harmonics, again providing texture and variability in what is, for most of the guitar part at least, a one-chord song. In fact, the majority of "Don't Drink the Water" is a D5 - G5 - B minor affair, with the verse running through the D5 until the pre-chorus begins ("So you will lay your arms down" is the first one) by playing the G5. The droning effect of this song makes the shift from D5 to G5 striking and refreshing--as if the brooding groove of the verse can only pound on the listener for so long before relief needs to come in. However, it's only two measures before it's back the D5--this is repeated throughout the pre-chorus--and then the verse returns. It isn't until the chorus (finally dragging in at 2:08) that a new chord is added to the vocabulary, the B minor. Though the guitar brings this in for a couple of measures to change that drone, it's only for two measures before it returns to the G5 to D5 progression. The point of all of this is to say that the guitar is painfully simple throughout almost all of the song, yet it remains captivating despite all of that. The album version of the song (used above; the music video is an interesting, abbreviated version that's worth looking at) goes at a slower, more inexorable pace than the live versions (also worth hearing). This slower pace turns the thudding of the rhythmic triad into a pounding wall of inevitability, one that underscores and enhances the theme of the track. That leads me to the lyrics of "Don't Drink the Water": Come out come out At the beginning, I pointed out that it's clear that the song is anti-imperialist. Phrases like "All I can say to you my new neighbor / Is you must move on or I will bury you" make it pretty clear what's going on. But the way these lyrics are constructed is what fascinates me: Matthews has taken on a persona of a colonizer, of a greedy conquistador. Rather than speaking about imperialism, he's speaking from it. Though I can't be certain, I feel like growing up in apartheid Africa surely gave Matthews a different lens through which this song is being cast. The Dave Matthews Band, at the time of this album's creation, was a five-man band--two white guys (Dave Matthews, guitar; and Stefan Lessard, bass) and three Black (Boyd Tinsley, violin; Leroi Moore, saxophone and others; Carter Beauford, drums). Racially and musically diverse, the Dave Matthews Band is, in many ways, a repudiation of the world that Matthews knew growing up. I don't know when I started to view imperialism with skepticism, though I'm certain songs like this were instrumental** in changing my assumption that the course of history was blameless. The music video of "Don't Drink the Water" puts us in an Amazonian flavor, but the song applies to Manifest Destiny--the way I used to take it, when I was younger and bothered to think about anything--as well as any other example of greed-as-motive-for-atrocities. I feel like the Manifest Destiny interpretation is one that I, as an American living in the West, am most responsible for and benefit the most from. As I've driven around my state, looking at the scrub oak and the variability of the Wasatch, the acres of farmland and the quiet cold of snow-swept mountains, I have thought back to the earlier inhabitants. As urban sprawl swallows up more miles of "empty" land, I can't help but think of the lines "And here I will spread my wings / Yes, I will call this home." The chilling dismissal of concerns ("What's this you say? You feel a right to remain? / Then stay and I will bury you" and "I have no time to justify to you / Fool, you're blind. Fool, move aside for me" are two quick examples) exemplifies what I hear in the rhetoric about imperial Europe. Progress, of course, is the banner under which these behaviors and beliefs live, and anyone who's blind to progress must be moved aside…or so the story goes. Which pushes me to the outro--the part where, particularly live, Matthews' anger at the injustice which he has been satirizing boils over--and the complete dropping of pretense. (I should say that, on occasion, Matthews will play the chorus one extra time, substituting his words for some of the lyrics of "This Land Is My Land", the effect of which is a haunting condemnation because of the context that surrounds it.) As the last chorus ends, Matthews sings, "I can breathe my own air / And I can sleep more soundly / Upon these poor souls / I'll build heaven and call it home / 'Cause you're all dead now." Atrocities like the Trail of Tears and recent injustices like Standing Rock are, in my mind, sudden snapshots of would-be ghosts, a people that has gone nowhere but here and were moved aside for the expansion of the imperialists. For a second time, here are the lyrics of the outro: I live with my justice The rank honesty--the mask of satire has slipped into outright scorn--is shocking. The musical effect here is striking as well: Alanis Morissette sings the melody with Matthews, though an octave higher, to provide an eerie doubling effect. More than that, however, a new chord is introduced, one which jabs at what Matthews is singing here. Instead of a D5 chord (with that 6th string still thumping away), he modulates the 5th note (usually an A) and slides it up a half-step (to a B flat). This discordant chord (try it out on an instrument and see how grating it is) is the crime of imperialism. It doesn't look like anything is too wrong; it's really close to a resolved chord. But it's completely jarring. It grinds away, creating an antagonistic clash to go along with the naked error that pushed so many millions into forgotten graves. Whose justice reigns? My justice. What's the motive? My frenzied feeding and greedy need. Why are they doing this? Hatred. Jealousy. These dark emotions are spat out, as if we could perhaps excise them if we were only to try hard enough.
The penultimate couplet--"I live with the notion / That I don't need anyone but me"--is such a withering indictment of the "rugged individualism" by which "the West was won" that I have a hard time really saying anything more than what's already there. Our founding as a nation is done because of our founding fathers; our country has been defended by our men and women in uniform--the notion that the individual I has created this world is clearly a false one, yet it is one of our more beloved lies. "Self-made man" is, actually, not a thing--John Donne was right: No man is an island. But there's another possibility--faint and unpleasant--that what Matthews' persona is pointing at, is the "me"…the "me" is the only one that even matters. "Me, yeah…" is how he drives toward the end of the song (after the ominous warning "Don't drink the water / There's blood in the water"), turning again to this monstrous concept of personal exceptionalism and Machiavellianism qua truth and justice--that the might of historical pressures and sundry conditions has made the right of the status quo. The cacophony with which the song ends--much like with "The Last Stop"--is a clash of cymbals, drum beats, screams, and warnings. Live, the song will pulse on for another couple of measures, ending where it begins but with the B flat/D chord jangling everything else. In the album version, the song winds down and slides into an interlude. However, the deep marks--the menacing history--that the song points us towards shouldn't do anything other than carve a new empathy for others, for what they've lost, for what we've gained. Interlude Almost as if we need something to cleanse our palate, we get a sixteen measure interlude. Different key, different time signature (the always-peculiar 5/8 time, until the last four measures, which are in 3/4 time). It's reminiscent of "#34" from Under the Table and Dreaming, with arpeggio chords and the entire band weaving their unique brand of music into the shifting chord progression. Of all the interludes of the album, this one is the most necessary (with "The Last Stop" being a close second), if only because its simplicity helps alleviate the weight of the previous song. Indeed, I think the interludes are one of the most crucial aspects of Before These Crowded Streets, giving a logical flow to the order of the songs, as well as emotional breaks from the intensity the music can create. So far as I know, the band never performs these snippets of music--and that's a real loss. Pieces of the songs are audible in other--sometimes earlier, sometimes later--works, but I'm not aware of any other Dave Matthews Band song that relies on the interlude for "Don't Drink the Water". --- * Tuning a guitar to a drop-D is simple: The sixth string--the low E--is detuned a full step so that its an open-D instead of an open-E. Because of how a guitar is tuned, this allows power chords (three note chords: an octave with a fifth in between) to be played more easily and aggressively. ** Pun most definitely intended. Note: Every year, the Utah Shakespeare Festival has a symposium, called The Wooden O, in which scholars and aficionados of the Bard get together and, well, sympose, I suppose. This year, the three plays that are being put on during the summer season are The Merchant of Venice, Othello, and The Merry Wives of Windsor. Kind of like I tried to do last year, I'm going to write an essay that I want to submit to the symposium. Last year, I missed the deadline for abstracts, so I'm jumping on this right now in the hopes that I can generate some sort of thesis of this essay and then get an abstract out of it. Additionally, these are preliminary thoughts, so there's a chance that this might crop up again Jacques Derrida: "There's no racism without language…The point is not that acts of racial violence are only words, but rather that they have to have a word. [Racism] institutes, declares, writes, inscribes, prescribes."* Juliet: "What's in a name? that which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet." Othello: "I know thou'rt full of love and honesty,/And weigh'st thy words before thou giv'st them breath." Iago: "I hate the Moor." In his eponymous play, Othello is called by his own name twenty-seven times. He is referred to as "the Moor" forty-three times. David Suchet makes a similar observation about Shylock in the trial scene in The Merchant of Venice: "He's only called by his name, Shylock, six times; Jew, twenty-two." These two statistics underscore the use of nomenclature as violence against aliens, the way the most fundamental system in which people operate and learn and grow--namely, language--can be sharpened as a tool of oppression. From Derrida's perspective, that is the only way that racism germinates. We can perhaps interrogate Shakespeare's motive, but, like Iago's, it is as allusive as it is illusive. Certainly, meter plays a part of Shakespeare's decisions. "The Moor" has two syllables, while Othello does not. And though "uh-THELL-oh"** contains a full iamb, on its own it's an amphibrach. The Bard could not end a line with Othello's name without pushing it into a feminine ending (with the stress on the penultimate syllable). This is not to say that Shakespeare doesn't rely on feminine endings. Desdemona completes her husband's line in 3.3.282: "I'll not believe't./How now, my dear Othello?" Always keeping in mind that perhaps Shakespeare was less worried about his lines than we are, we can see all three of Desdemona's lines are feminine. The extra syllable is necessary, of course, to express all of the words that she's using, but there could also be an additional tension, an indication that though she's innocent of the crime he assumes of her, she senses something wrong in him. The lines throughout this middle section of the scene scan differently. Lines with too many syllables, others with too few--Desdemona's words and actions, all orbiting around the napkin that proves to be the false evidence her husband needs to commit murder, interact with the tension of something being wrong. The relationship, much like the scansion, is falling apart at this crisis moment. There are other moments where the language of oppression is subtly attuned via the euphemism. For example, when Iago expresses his enmity toward the hero (1.3.375), the line also scans differently than the norm (emphasis mine): But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor. Not only is it eleven syllables, but the inclusion of the pyrrhic foot between the ultimate syllable of "profit" and the monosyllabic "I" is what causes the line's extension. Rather than pretend to know a viable alternative for the line, it's clear that "Othello" could not be simply swapped into this line's current structure. It would become hexameter instead of pentameter and gain an unstressed ending. The deterritorialization of humanity and Othello's ontological beinghood that is perpetrated by means of the euphemism thus stands within the poetic system as being integral, yet at the same time uncouth, out of place, and indicative of a deep problem. In a word, it is a poetic excoriation of racism. Shakespeare tends not to take sides--his urge to editorialize in any particular area is countermanded by some other aspect of his work--and it would be too much to say that a bonus syllable on a line early on the play is his way of subverting the oppressive system which allows the continuation of racism. Rather, it may be better to consider this as symbolic, a recognition of the ways in which something that is wrong can nevertheless be explained away, incorporated into the system, and--as is especially the case of Iago--thought of as "the way things are". There's nothing too extreme about having an eleven-syllable long line. So, too, do racists often justify the small expressions of white supremacy with which they vocally oppress minorities. Snide comments, failure to listen to those whose lived experiences are replete with examples of the very real ramifications of racism, or jokes that only operate by assuming the worst of a stereotype are all "eleventh syllable" versions of racism--tiny things, operating on the fringe, yet embraced and allowed with the system. That Othello--both the man and the play--exists in a world and whirl of words underscores and expresses the depth of the anxieties within the Venetian society (as well as subsequent generations). Iago as his foil is foul, his mind at its starting point in the gutter and only descending lower. Much has been made of the various possibilities of his motivations--so much, in fact, there's no reason to repeat them here. Iago's vileness is sketched at first with hasty lines about what Othello and Desdemona are doing--a married couple's consummation seems to fill him with revulsion and disgust. And though his (in)famous line about the "old black ram/Is tupping your white ewe" (1.1.88-89) equates the act among the same species, his implication is only a matter of degree away from Horace's "snakes do not mate with birds, or lambs with tigers" (qtd. Neil 41). That these are racist "undertones" is clear: To imply that there are gradations of humanity, that the Human Race can be subdivided into separate species, some of whom are inferior to another, is visible inside of how almost everyone sees and treats Othello. Othello has to struggle against the internalized racism, which slips out in some of his moments of distress. Consider: "Her name, that was as fresh /As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black /As mine own face" (3.3.388-390). Equating the color of his skin to an inherent filthiness is perhaps not surprising when one recalls that Othello is a former slave (1.3.138), or that his father-in-law is so openly hostile that he accuses Othello of having charmed his (Brabantio's) daughter, a piece of witchcraft that could be the only explanation for the miscegenation: I therefore vouch again Certainly there's something about Othello's society that has seeped into him. We see his words degrade the longer he spends time with Iago. By the end, it seems as if he's swearing almost as often as his ensign. Perhaps the endless assaults on his basic humanity, the innuendos and the prejudicial barriers, the need to justify a behavior as fundamentally human as falling in love with a woman and, seeing that love reciprocated, marrying her--perhaps it's not surprising to see Othello is crippled with doubt.
This is the reason why the race issue can't be ignored. Othello's eventual downfall is done because the privilege of choosing a beautiful woman as a wife without it being called into question is a privilege that is far too often held in abeyance for a Black man. It's certain that Shakespeare didn't see race the way that we do, as the four hundred years of static between our cultures has seen monumental and significant shifts. Nevertheless, his words about the ways in which the words we use to classify--and, more importantly and painfully, separate--the many beautiful varieties of the human race are earnestly and urgently needed. Iago uses the verbal tools of his own demoniacal brilliance and the linguistically saturated assumptions of the racist society in which he lives to leverage that gift in order to extract all would-be meaning from the life and marriage of Othello. Though Shakespeare doesn't always imbue deep significance in the final words of many of his creations, he does do so on occasion. In the case of the end of Othello, there is great meaning in Iago's final lines: "Demand me nothing: what you know, you know; / From this time forth I never will speak word." Sadly, the silence of Iago cannot undo the damage that his words have done. "There's no racism without language," but sometimes silence comes too late. --- * As quoted in "Othello's African American Progeny" by James R. Andreas. Materialist Shakespeare: A History. ** See http://www.shakespeare-online.com/plays/characters/charactersO.html for a pronunciation guide. Happy 89th birthday, Dr. King.
Though a student of history, I have to admit that I don't spend nearly as much energy going through American history as I do other parts of the world (most notably English history wherever it touches Shakespeare or Milton). There's nothing wrong with specialization, and I'm happy that I have a job that needs my kind of knowledge, but I can't help but wish that I were better versed in American history than I am. Now, that isn't to say that I know nothing about the country of origin. I studied enough advanced courses of American history to know more than the average high school class requires, but I don't have any areas of particular expertise. The area in which I am most woefully lacking would have to be the Civil Rights movement and the different currents that were afflicting the country during that time. Like most American school kids, I looked at Dr. King's "I have a dream" speech each January. I remember dim memories that may be fabrication of appreciating the words and seeing the picture of Martin Luther King, Jr. on posters. I also recall being surprised when I learned that he'd been assassinated, and also, later, that he had extramarital affairs. But today is his birthday--the official, actual day of his birth--and it's also the national holiday, a confluence of dates that happens every few years. So it seems appropriate to break down some of my own ignorance and think about what Dr. King stood for, stands for, and how his legacy is interpreted. Yet, with a scope as large as that, I feel a familiar sense of enormousness that makes me fear the attempt. Especially because of my paucity of knowledge, I don't really know what I could contribute here. His whitewashed reception and near universal approbation now, even in the voices and minds of racists and bigots and fearmongers of all stripes, makes the entire thing problematic. As I've tried to become more aware of cultural appropriation, revising history, and challenging systemic abuses of power, it gets harder and harder to appreciate Martin Luther King, Jr. in the way I once did, and it becomes more and more imperative that I perceive him as the peaceful radical that he was. But beyond that is the day itself. We call it a holiday, which is a contraction of "holy" and "day", and I have to admit, I didn't feel any particular impulses toward the holy today. Part of that was because my wife and I had to go car shopping, which took over six and a half hours--essentially, the whole day--and, no, we weren't looking for any "MLK Day sales!" Which isn't to say that I didn't hear them. I think it was Spotify that was running an ad about some pointless piece of consumerism, throwing in the good doctor's name as the impetus for the sale. While I don't know any man's mind, I'm willing to bet that, if one were to ask Dr. King how he wanted to be commemorated, he would not likely have said, "Big, big mattress sales." Even this critique of capitalism isn't what's on my mind. So maybe it's the fact that there are two states in our Union that commemorate Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert E. Lee today. Mississippi and Alabama. Considering the vestigial (if I'm being generous) tendencies toward racism that are well documented, it's hard not to view this irony as, at best, an intellectual- and moral dissonance. If you're being a bit more blunt, it's flat out hypocritical. How can you honor a man who killed fellow countrymen in order to keep Blacks enslaved while at the same time paying tribute to a Black man who strove to help our country see all people of color as humans worthy of love, respect, and protection? Not being from either state, I can't really weigh in on the cultural contexts for such a decision, but it's not something that's localized to some of the South. Here in Utah, we have our own troubled history with slavery and racism, though some of it manifests itself more subtly. For the first part, a quick anecdote: I was teaching a class and, somehow, the topic of Utah history came up. I pointed out that slaves arrived with the Mormon pioneers, as well as the fact that the Utah Territory was a slave territory in the antebellum dynamics of the United States. I had a parent send me an email that demanded sources for what I had claimed (because, being able to send an email does not immediately include, apparently, the ability to search Google for information), so I sent a response with a link to the state's official history. The parent didn't have any follow up comments after that. This is always a telling experience to me. I, too, wish the past to be a happier, more straightforward place, one onto which my morality can be easily mapped. But it never really seems to fit that way. Mormonism has its own issues with racism that go back generations, but the idea that the original settlers were abolitionists or that there wasn't slavery as part of the territory is disingenuous. And that leads to Utah's continued problem with racism. It's not simply that approximately 91% of Utahns are White. We have a woman of color as a Representative (who represents me, as a matter of fact), and that is remarkable and praiseworthy. However, the state has very little when it comes to diversity. While the Hispanic and Filipino communities provide some variety, the homogeneity of my home state is remarkable. The result is a comfort and tolerance with whiteness that allows casual racism to remain fixed. Example: We finally found a car that was to our liking and could probably fit into our budget. As the papers were being filled out, the finance guy threw out a casual comment about how "Volkswagens are Mexican cars, with all that means," or something along those lines. Now, we had spent the whole day driving different cars, and two of the salesmen that we worked with were from out of country. One, if I had to guess, was from India, while the other was from Paraguay. I was encouraged by this, as it helps restore some of the hope I've lost in the American Dream. Anyway, the finance fellow's comment took me off guard. I didn't confront him on that, in part because the statement was just subtle enough to be passed off as a matter of "professional opinion" (the idea of having worked with a lot of different cars over the years and seeing a particular quality coming out of Mexico, for example), and also in part because I didn't even know what to think of it at first. There's a possibility that I'm sensitive to these things, as I try really hard to think of the oppressed first and the oppressors as little as possible, but there's a real chance the guy didn't think the statement was racist. Then again, he said something about one of the pamphlets he gave us, hoping that it "wasn't a Spanish one". Earlier, one of the employees came in and said there were nine people looking at cars, but none of them spoke English. He said it frustrated, which I totally understand, on one level. Because I'm bilingual (marginally), that isn't a feeling that I have as often. Failure to communicate can be very frustrating. But there was also something else, something latent and potentially unpleasant. I can't say that it was substantial; I could be imagining it. Nevertheless, I got a sense of it. I'd like to say that their behavior was enough for me to walk away, but that isn't really my personality. Not only was I tired of trying to find the right car, but I'm not the kind of person who makes a fuss. If I get the wrong order of food at a restaurant, odds are good I'll shrug and eat it anyway. If a store closes in fifteen minutes, I won't go in unless I'm certain I can find what I need before they close. I have a hard time telling telemarketers and telesurveyers that I'm not interested in helping them out (which is why I screen almost all of my calls). But of all days to see it? To realize the benefits and privileges* I was receiving on the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr.? I don't know. I feel like I missed a chance to be a better person. Whatever the reality of this interaction, it's given me a clearer light by which to see the inequalities in the world. I can see better (not much, but some) how deeply run the rivers of presumed superiority/inferiority. That's why racism is so pernicious and so perfidious and so seemingly permanent. It's why Dr. King ended up arrested. It's why he had to protest, had to push. And, of all the things that I want to commemorate of Dr. King on his holy day, it is a desire to strive toward greater equality--and recognize that we have far, far to go. --- * This is entirely a supposition on my part, but, due to reasons, the dealership didn't have the temporary license to give us. So, after a moment's consideration, the finance guy--who, I should say, was very polite and, though digressive, worked hard to get everything settled for us--decided that he would give us his dealer license. This essentially allowed us to take the car home even though we didn't have the temp license, which my wife will pick up tomorrow. As he was arranging everything, I thought to myself, If we were a Latino couple with competent but imperfect English, would he have been as generous? What if we were a mixed-race couple? What if we were Black? I cannot honestly say that I think the same offer would have been extended to any of those hypotheticals. That's what I mean when I say privileges: Slack cut just because. There was no reason for him to come up with this solution. We could have picked up the car tomorrow with little additional effort. And maybe he wanted to create a positive feeling in some buyers so that we'd come back to his company at a later date. I don't know. There's no way for me to know. And that's part of what has me so…uncertain. I can't say for certain what the guy would have done had we been other than who we are. He likely doesn't think of himself as racist. And maybe he isn't…but I was picking up on some undertones that could belie the assertion. |
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