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Don’t homogenize Latinx identity.
I sometimes joke that when I moved to the United States from Mexico, I changed races. I went from being Mexican to being identified as an Asian-American by others.“You don’t look Latino,” Americans would say when I introduced myself.
I was born in Mexico City to a Chinese mother and a Mexican father of Indigenous descent. Spanish was my first language, and for a while, the only one I spoke. But when I arrived in the United States at seven years old, I quickly realized that I was not allowed to claim my Latinidad because I did not fit a narrow understanding of what being Latinx was supposed to look like.
Happy Friday. Lots of people pointing fingers at the Latinx community right now, which only further emphasizes how complicit whiteness is in this election – and society as a whole. Today, Ian joins us to discuss the diversity of the Latinx community.
This is the Anti-Racism Daily, where we send one email each day to dismantle white supremacy. You can support our work by giving one time on our website, PayPal or Venmo (@nicoleacardoza). You can also give monthly or annually on Patreon. If this email was forwarded to you, you could subscribe at antiracismdaily.com.
TAKE ACTION
Support Voto Latino (@votolatino), an organization that seeks to increase Latinx representation in U.S. politics and recognizes racial diversity within the Latinx community.
Learn more about the Afro-Latinx diaspora by following @theafrolatindiaspora.
Reflect on some stereotypes you might have about the Latinx community and where you received the information that allowed you to form those stereotypes.
GET EDUCATED
By Ian Kumamoto (he/him)
I sometimes joke that when I moved to the United States from Mexico, I changed races. I went from being Mexican to being identified as an Asian-American by others.“You don’t look Latino,” Americans would say when I introduced myself.
I was born in Mexico City to a Chinese mother and a Mexican father of Indigenous descent. Spanish was my first language, and for a while, the only one I spoke. But when I arrived in the United States at seven years old, I quickly realized that I was not allowed to claim my Latinidad because I did not fit a narrow understanding of what being Latinx was supposed to look like.
Our collective misunderstanding about Latinx identity has never been displayed as clearly as it was this election. On Tuesday night, Democrats hoped to carry Florida and Texas in large part because more people of color, especially Hispanics, were turning out (NBC News). Instead, we saw historic numbers of Cubans and Venezuelans who showed up and helped Trump win. Although part of this can be attributed to those country's socialist histories, we must also confront another ugly reality: Latinx people can be white supremacists, too.
We often talk about Latinx identity as a monolith, especially when it comes to race. But “Latinx” and “Hispanic” are not races; they are ethnicities, as we will discuss in a future newsletter. As the elections near and discussions about the Hispanic vote intensify, we risk reducing a diverse population down to a singular cultural trope. More than 21 million people identify as Latinx in the United States. Many of them have vastly different notions of their identities, which means they also vote in radically different ways. One month ago, up to one-third of self-identified Hispanic people said they would cast their vote for Donald Trump in this coming election (Pew Research Center).
But Latinx people who vote for Trump aren’t “self-hating,” despite what John Leguizamo recently said on Real Time with Bill Maher (Remezcla). In fact, some feel like they have a real stake in upholding white supremacy (Remezcla). White supremacy within Latinx communities has thrived for centuries and has upheld a monolithic notion of the "Latino" that is exported abroad, one that erases Black, Asian and Indigenous people (The Nation).
Part of the reason the language around Latinidad is confusing is because it was made deliberately so. When the Spanish arrived in what is now Mexico in the 15th century, they created a racial caste system that positioned full-blood Europeans at the top. Peninsulares were the white ruling class while mestizos, who were mixed European and Indigenous, were below them (San Diego Reader). Similar systems developed throughout Latin America. But as more and more people became racially mixed, it got increasingly harder to determine the exact racial makeup of every person and categorize them accordingly. Eventually, Mexico discouraged such categorizations altogether (Indian Country Today). The umbrella term of “mestizo” was chosen as a sort of default national identity, even when referring to people who were mostly European or mostly Indigenous.
But a general mestizo identity glosses over the millions of people of other races who have little or no European ancestry at all. African enslaved people were transported to plantations in the Caribbean and Brazil. Chinese and Japanese immigrants went to South and Central America to farm, mine, and build railroads; in Peru, for example, people of Chinese descent make up 5 percent of the total population (Panoramas). Full-blooded Indigenous people were disenfranchised from economic systems and relegated to obscurity.
Despite the great racial variety of Latin American countries, its diversity is not reflected in the media. When you turn on the news, watch a telenovela, or scroll down a list of prominent celebrities in most Latin American countries today, you will likely see light-skinned or European-descendant people (The Nation). In the United States, many of the most recognizable Latinx figures (Bad Bunny, Pitbull, Shakira) are light-skinned. But it is much more difficult in these contexts to call out institutions for their lack of representation because they can simply claim a generalized Latinx identity and ignore how our cultures uplift whiteness.
Arguably the strongest pillar preventing a more inclusive notion of Latinidad is deeply-rooted beliefs that don’t question the idea of whiteness as inherently desirable. In the Dominican Republic and Mexico, for example, concepts like mejorar la raza (“to better the race”) are blunt ways of encouraging people to marry “up” and create more European-looking children who will be lighter-skinned than the generations before (Huffington Post). In Mexico, I grew up hearing the word Indio, or Indian, used as the worst kind of slur, while güero, or blondie, was used as a term of endearment.
In high school, I stopped speaking Spanish altogether because it promoted questions and sometimes even jokes (“Wow, an Asian who speaks Spanish!”). Even though the curiosity was seldom ill-intentioned, it became a barrier between me and the people of my community, who had internalized their own ideas about who was and was not allowed to be Latinx.
When discussing Latin identity and the political habits of Latinx people in the United States, it is essential to remember that our countries’ diversity means that our values and convictions can vary tremendously. It is crucial to have conversations about how white supremacy can be just as easily replicated by people who come to the U.S. from other countries. We must be vigilant against racism that pervades seemingly homogenous groups, or else we risk allowing the worst tendencies of a dominant group to thrive unchecked. Black, Asian, and Indigenous Latinx people are still fighting battles within our own communities to be seen, heard, and valued.
KEY TAKEAWAYS
Latinx identity is not a monolith. More than 21 million people identify as Latinx in the United States, and many of them have vastly different notions of their identities.
When the Spanish arrived in what is now Mexico in the 15th century, they created a racial caste system that positioned full-blood Europeans at the top.
Despite the great racial variety of Latin American countries, its diversity is not reflected in the media. In the United States, many of the most recognizable Latinx figures are light-skinned.
Latinx identity often glorifies light-skinned people with European ancestry, but millions of Latinx people are racially Black, Asian, or fully Indigenous. We are still fighting battles within our own communities to be seen, heard, and valued.
RELATED ISSUES
9/16/2020 | Fight for paid sick leave.
10/5/2020 | Protect undocumented Americans.
8/10/2020 | Respect the relationship between name and identity.
PLEDGE YOUR SUPPORT
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Respect the relationship between name and identity.
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Happy Monday!
A couple of weeks ago, we discussed the petition against Trader Joe's and I asked you to submit stories about whether your own name has ever been challenged or questioned. In today's newsletter, Jami explains the relationship between our names and our identities and features stories submitted by our community.
As always, we appreciate any and all contributions. Consider giving one-time on our website or Venmo (@nicoleacardoza), or subscribe for $5/mo on our Patreon.
Nicole
TAKE ACTION
Ask yourself what gut-level judgments you make based on other people’s names.
Make more intentional efforts to pronounce and honor other people’s names.
Learn the names and histories of Black and Indigenous activists and leaders who are alive and fighting—not just the ones who have been murdered.
Support BIPOC activists as they fight to change the names of institutions that honor racist legacies.
GET EDUCATED
By Jami Nakamura Lin (she/her)
In America, many of our institutions, schools, and organizations are named after white men with racist histories and legacies (Education Week). After facing increasing public pressure from activists after the murder of George Floyd, many of these institutions are undergoing a reckoning. Some of the outcomes initially seem positive: Congress now has bipartisan support to remove Confederate names from military bases (New York Times). But an institution’s reluctant willingness to remove a problematic name isn’t the same thing as a willingness to publicly honor and support BIPOC leaders. After years of pressure from its Black students, Louisiana State University Library finally removed the name of its segregationist former university president—but refused to rename it after the school’s first black female Ph.D. graduate, Pinkie Gordon Lane, as petitioners wished (Library Journal).
People who resist these changes often think: what is the big deal? A name is just a name. But names are powerful symbols. For a person of color, a name can be one of the most visible links to our communities and backgrounds—and also a target for racism and discrimination. A 2003 study showed that job applicants with white-sounding names received 50% more responses than those with Black-sounding names (National Bureau of Economic Research). Just a few months ago, a white male professor asked Vietnamese American student Phuc Bui Diem Nguyen to “Anglicize” her name because it sounded offensive in his language (diemquyynh on Instagram). When she refused, he made up a nickname for her; he didn’t back down until her story went viral (New York Times).
Honoring names is especially important in light of the way Black and Indigenous people have had their names and cultural identities forcibly erased by white colonizers throughout their histories. In Liseli Fitzpatrick’s African Names and Naming Practices, she writes: “European colonizers attacked and defiled African names and naming systems to suppress and erase African identity – since names not only aid in the construction of identity but also concretize a people’s collective memory by recording the circumstances of their experiences.” Indigenous lawyer and writer Christina Gray notes: “Renaming has been a critical part of settler colonialism generally, which is predicated on the erasure of Indigenous peoples, including their languages, cultures and social structures — any and all evidence of Indigenous peoples’ living presence,” (Yellowhead Institute).
As a light-skinned Japanese Taiwanese American, my experience with my name is wholly different than those of Black or Indigenous folk. And yet as a child, I too felt shame because of my middle name, Nakamura, one that made me visibly different from the people around me. It wasn’t until I was older that I began to take pride in the ways my names connect me to my family and my history. I have thought long and hard about what my daughter’s name reflects to the world (New York Times).
Our names say that we are here. Our names say that we exist, that we have always existed, even if you haven’t always seen us. And read these powerful stories we received from readers reflecting on their names. Responses have been lightly edited and condensed for space constraints.
My father is Indian, and his name is Rajiv, but after being teased all throughout his school years he decided to go by 'Neil' when he started college, and still uses that name today. He also lost a lot of his ability to speak Hindi because my grandparents were afraid that it would hinder their children's English or their acceptance in America. I'm now teaching myself the language, which got him to attempt to re-learn it too. - Anonymous
When I was born, my parents named me Ángela. But that quickly got Americanized, as whoever did my birth certificate dropped the accent over the first letter of my name. It wasn't until the age of 21 that I decided to reclaim my name: Ángela. Doing so was incredibly empowering because I felt for the first time like my truest authentic self. Some people uplifted said reclaiming my name was honorable and beautiful. Other people did not get it and did not take me seriously. Over time, I've tried to not let those comments and reactions get to me, but to be honest, it still hurts. I hope one day that all changes. -Ángela Mendez
When I came to this country my teachers called me Lah-teef, which as a little girl, I assumed was my American name. I spent 15 years introducing myself that way to folxs. My name is really pronounced Lah-tee-feh. It just demonstrates how impressionable kids are. Had my teacher just asked me how to say my name, I wouldn’t have spent almost so much of my life mispronouncing my own name. -Latiffe Amado
There was one teacher that always mispronounced my name, saying that it "just sounded so much better that way." I never felt like I could correct him myself. The power difference was too great.
-Anonymous
If immigrants from Europe felt the need to "Americanize" or "English-ize" their names in order to be accepted/assimilated into American culture, how much greater that pressure must be for those from other parts of the world. My ancestors chose to change their name in order to separate themselves from the country they left and to start anew in America. That does not give me the right to expect the same from anyone else coming to this country. -Anonymous
My entire family in Thailand calls me a Thai nickname but it's very hard for Americans to pronounce. By pure coincidence, my parents had accidentally given me a Thai name that had an English-sounding name at the beginning of it. So I started going by [that name]. I had heard it would help me be remembered on resumes and at job interviews. My mom was even so worried she asked if I wanted to legally change my name to [the English-sounding name]. But I have legally kept my full name because it's a tribute to where I came from and I don't want to erase that. -Anonymous
My name is Dilpreet, which is pronounced phonetically. It’s written the way it’s said. Yet many times when I say my name, people look at me with complete confusion and annoyance that they have to pronounce such a different name. I made it a habit to give myself a nickname like Dil or DK to make it easier for those who thought my name was too difficult. In college, I finally met classmates who positively reacted to my name and wanted to make sure they were pronouncing it right. I’ve learned that I shouldn’t have to make others feel comfortable to say and understand my name, my identity. Let them say your name. -Dilpreet Kainth
KEY TAKEAWAYS
Take the time to learn how to say our names correctly, even if at first the sounds are difficult for you.
Acknowledge that a name is not just a name— it represents a history and a community.
Understand how the ongoing denial of names connects to our country’s legacy of erasure of Black, Indigenous, and other people of color.
RELATED ISSUES
7/22/2020 | Don't Americanize other cultures.
PLEDGE YOUR SUPPORT
Thank you for all your financial contributions! If you haven't already, consider making a monthly donation to this work. These funds will help me operationalize this work for greatest impact.
Subscribe on Patreon | Give one-time on PayPal | Venmo @nicoleacardoza
Honor the biracial / multiracial experience.
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Hi friends,
Today's Anti-Racism Daily is written by Ebony, our newest addition to the team! This piece honors her identity and the perspective she'll bring to our daily conversations. Send her a virtual warm welcome from wherever you're reading this!
This newsletter also offers a small glimpse into the breadth, depth and complexity of racial identity in our society and how it impacts our collective experiences – something to keep in mind as we continue to dismantle systemic oppression. It's why I'm committed to ensuring we continue to offer diverse perspectives on these critical issues.
This work is possible because of your contributions – you can invest one-time on Paypal or Venmo (@nicoleacardoza) or monthly on Patreon to keep this community growing. Thank you for your support!
Nicole
TAKE ACTION
To better understand the struggles biracial and multiracial people face daily, read books such as Beyond Black: Biracial Identity in America, watch Ted Talks, and videos that fully breakdown the biracial and multiracial experience.
Reflect: How would I feel if my racial identity was constantly being questioned? If this is already your lived experience: what do you wish to reclaim about your identity?
GET EDUCATED
With conversations around Black Lives Matter becoming more prominent over the last two months, this has left multiracial people asking themselves, “where do I fit into these conversations?”, “am I allowed to voice my opinion?”, and “is my Blackness valid?”.
For biracial and multiracial individuals, especially those who are half-Black, 2020 marks a year of racial challenges. Whether it’s questioning their right to identify as a BIPOC or wishing they had the same physical appearance as a specific parent to fit into society’s standards, it can be difficult for them to accept their racial identity.
Throughout history, there has been a long list of words to describe people who are two or more races, and some of those were used to be hurtful. “Mixed”, “half-breed”, “mutt”, and “cross-breed” are just a few examples. In America during the 1800s, “mulatto” was the term used for someone who had one white and one black parent or was racially ambiguous. In South Africa, “bushie” is a derogatory slang term for mixed-race people because it’s believed multiracial children are conceived in the bush. While in Japan, they use “hāfu”, which means half, and in Brazil they use “cor de canela”, “cor de rosa”, and “cor de crema”. Read All Mixed Up: What Do We Call People Of Multiple Backgrounds? by Code Switch to learn more about the history of the terms used to identify multiracial people.
Today, “biracial” and “multiracial” are the most common terms used to describe a person who identifies as more than one race. Biracial is normally used for someone who has parents from two different races. While multiracial is used when someone has parents from two or more races such as a child having a half-Colombian, half-Trinidadian mother, and a father who is German, Nigerian, and Korean.
Unfortunately, it has become a glorified goal in society to have biracial or multiracial children. More and more individuals are seeking out partners from other races because they want their child to have “good hair”, light-colored eyes and a lighter complexion. But, they fail to realize the emotional and psychological challenges their children will face due to their complex racial background.
“Being able to pass as a lot of different races means other people don’t know how to categorize me, but it’s also made me second-guess how to categorize myself”.
Kayla Boyd, 23-year-old fashion and lifestyle blogger, in a Marie Claire article that shares the stories of biracial women who are half-white and half-Black
Growing up biracial and multiracial means people constantly asking, “where are you from?” and wanting you to categorize yourself. Although this question may seem harmless, it’s a difficult one to answer because not everyone wants to explain their racial background. Some individuals struggle with their identity and aren’t sure how to identify themselves. Plus, they don’t want to feel like they have to prove themselves if their physical appearance doesn’t closely resemble their race.
In today’s society, people are obsessed with their peers being “exotic” or a “cool mix.” This is extremely problematic because biracial and multiracial people are human, not a collector’s item or an object. It’s not their job to fulfill your curiosity by explaining their racial identity. Their race shouldn’t be the only aspect of them that defines them. That’s why a number of biracial and multiracial people refuse to disclose their race because they know they’ll be asked a million questions about their ancestry or if they like certain things because of their race. These questions are our subconscious way of placing people into a box based on stereotypes.
As a society, we feel the need to categorize people so they fit into our world views. And, when we can’t identify them we get frustrated and form unrealistic opinions on who they might be and how they should act. A good example of this is assuming all people with darker complexions are Black and like rap, the same music and fried chicken. That’s inaccurate and a dangerous way to think. Watch this 4:51 minute-long video BBC Three which discusses things you should never say to biracial and multiracial people.
We live in a world where our race determines how we’re treated by our peers and what opportunities we’ll be granted. Race plays a large role in how we relate to other people and how we see ourselves. So for biracial and multiracial people, they sometimes feel like they can only be one race. Simple things like applying for a job or scholarship require them to pick one race to identify with because a lot of companies and organizations still don’t offer two or more races as an option within the application. It’s a constant battle to figure out where they belong.
It’s human nature to want to feel like you’re a part of something. We all want to feel understood and represented in society. But, that’s something biracial and multiracial people don’t experience often enough because they feel like they constantly have to prove their self-worth and their identity.
“Identity is understanding who we are in the world. Part of that is how others understand us, and the other part is how we understand ourselves”.
Kerry Ann Rockquemore, co-author of Beyond Black: Biracial Identity in America for Marie Claire
As a biracial woman of Hispanic and Black descent, I can only speak from my own personal experiences. Not all biracial and multiracial people have the same experiences. Here are some viewpoints of other mixed-race people so you can further understand the biracial and multiracial experience in America.
"White people like to believe I'm Caucasian like them; I think it makes their life less complicated. But I don't identify as 100% white, so there always comes a time in the conversation or relationship where I need to 'out' myself and tell them that I'm biracial.”
Helen Seely, 'Racial Impostor Syndrome': Here Are Your Stories, Code Switch Podcast
“My mum’s family are from Cyprus. My dad’s family are Jamaican, with African heritage. But I grew up in northwest London. When I was the president of the African Caribbean Society at university, one of my friends who ran the society with me told me I wasn’t really black because I had a white mum. I think from that point onwards I’ve always referred to myself as black – very intentionally. I stand in solidarity with all black people. I don’t think being mixed makes me any less black. Whiteness is set up to exclude all those who are not white.”
Dean Atta, The mixed-race experience: 'There are times I feel like the odd one out', The Guardian
“I've noticed that some people are much less tolerant. They get tied up in knots when people identify in ways that don't square with their own worldviews or racial math. Check the comments on any article that refers to Obama as the first black president, and you'll find someone lamenting that he is just as much white as he is black — half and half! — and it doesn't make sense to call him African-American. But he's chosen a descriptor that reflects his life experience, and, hard as it is for some to accept, we don't get to dictate what other people call themselves.”
Jenée Desmond-Harris, 6 things I wish people understood about being biracial, Vox
KEY TAKEAWAYS
Research the history behind the terms used to identify people of multiple racial backgrounds to better understand the biracial and multiracial experience.
Although we’re curious about people’s racial identity, we shouldn’t interject our own personal opinions on race when talking to someone who is biracial or multiracial.
Read perspectives from biracial and multiracial people when understanding what not to say in conversations.
Acknowledge that each biracial and multiracial experience is different and unique.
PLEDGE YOUR SUPPORT
Thank you for all your financial contributions! If you haven't already, consider making a monthly donation to this work. These funds will help me operationalize this work for greatest impact.
Subscribe on Patreon | Give one-time on PayPal | Venmo @nicoleacardoza
Reflect before apologizing to your Black friends.
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It's Wednesday!
Our emails for the past week or so have been focused on structural racism: how public policies and institutional racism perpetuate racism in our society. But as we dive into those topics (and there are SO many more) it's also important to remember that racism exists on an interpersonal level, too, and upheld and perpetuated by how we treat one another.
As this lovely community has grown, a frequently asked question is how to have conversations around current events, or apologize for past harm, with friends who identify as Black. Although I can't speak for all Black people or the specific circumstances of your relationship, I can offer resources to contextualize how you approach this conversation. This is an updated version of an earlier newsletter from 6.8, which analyzed it only from a work lens.
Thank you to everyone that's financially contributing to make this possible – and ensuring this can always be free for those that aren't able. Consider investing one-time on Paypal or Venmo (@nicoleacardoza) or monthly for this community to grow.
Nicole
TAKE ACTION
If you identify as non-Black:
Reflect and respond to these questions below before you reach out to a Black friend / colleague:
What prompted me to reach out to this person?
What do I know about this person's emotional state right now?
What assumptions am I making?*
What burden am I putting on this friend I care about?*
Would I normally ask this question?*
Did I, say, wish this person a happy birthday?*
What would I do if they really aren’t okay?*
*These prompts are from Priska Neely's article Please Stop ‘Checking In to See If I’m Okay in The Cut.
If you identify as Black:
A kind reminder that you have no obligation to respond or engage with any harmful messages in your inbox right now.
GET EDUCATED
Over the past month, Black people have been bombarded with texts, calls, IG messages, emails, Slack messages, etc with apologies from white people (and other non-white POC) – apologies for the police brutality, for the collective awakening in society, and for past microaggressions or more overt forms of racism.
Part of this is sparked by the apology train unfolding in our news. We've watched celebrities apologize for insensitive content in the past, like Jimmy Fallon (NYTimes) and Youtube personality Jenna Marbles (Forbes). White actors are stepping down from voicing Black characters on animated series (Glamour). It feels like every day there is a new, public, grand apology posted on Instagram or in a series of tweets coming across my newsfeed.
These public apologies make sense for celebrities with influence. They shine a public light on public examples of past harm. But when we look at apologizing or reaching out on an interpersonal level, I'm not sure the same rules apply. Acknowledging pain or harm in an interpersonal relationship is much more nuanced. And to fully understand it, we need to understand intent vs. impact, a concept critical to social justice work.
Unpacking intent vs. impact is a practice of decoupling our words and actions from how they impact other people. Oftentimes when addressing race, our words and actions don't land the way we intend, especially in times of deep emotional pain and trauma. And regardless of what we think we're doing, there's still harm in what we do. Or, as Rebekah aptly said in a blog post from January 2018, "if I punch you in the face on accident—you still got punched in the face". Although we can never be fully responsible for how someone responds, we need to get critical on how our impact can cause harm to people – especially when they are already in pain, and our intention is to acknowledge that pain without causing more. Watch this 2:30m video by Diverse City by Dr. Cheryl Ingram on the importance of intent vs. impact in diversity, equity and inclusion (Youtube).
Many people when causing harm tend to attach themselves to the intent side of the narrative. "I didn't mean to" is a common refrain. But that doesn't get us anywhere; acknowledging the impact is far more important. Let's circle back to our celebrity apologies, many acknowledge this in their own posts. Many use language like "although I didn't mean to, I realize now that my actions were harmful". It's as if, even in the apology itself, there has to be some semblance of innocence. And that can often get in the way of accountability. Stop holding onto your innocence so you can carry your culpability – otherwise, you're forcing a Black person to do it for you.
Today's action should help you do move from intention to impact, first by getting clear on what your actual intention is for reaching out. Are you actively willing and able to support your Black colleagues? Or, are you instead looking alleviate some guilt that you're feeling with the weight of this moment? Remember that it's not fair to alleviate your own guilt about current events and your own relationship with this work by reaching out to a Black person. If that's your intention, you might want to consider how to take care of that outside your relationship.
The second is to understand what the impact of your outreach will be. Does your outreach add burden, or feel disingenuous? Does it directly benefit the Black person you're reaching out to? If you're checking in to see if someone is okay, are you in a position to actually support this person with their feelings? And if you're apologizing for past transgressions, how committed are you to continuing to learn and unlearn what brought that harm to begin with? I have a feeling you're committed if you're reading this newsletter! But important to note nonetheless.
And consider how your privilege may muddle the impact of your intent. When prompting a conversation with colleagues at work, note: are you their direct report, or in a higher role than them? Consequently, are you placing them in a space where they may feel forced to respond? Perhaps you can focus your intention instead on creating a safer work environment for your Black colleagues (inspiration via CNBC). Even more simply, are you reaching out during a time where you feel rested and healed, without acknowledging whether the other person in the conversation has had the same opportunity? Remember that your apology is likely to land in your friend's inbox on top of three more – does that change how you'd like to approach the conversation?
“Apologizing is the dual act of recognizing another’s humanity as sacred while also working to dismantle the internalized-ideologies that led you to dehumanize someone in the first place.”
Ciarra Jones in "The Violence of white (and non-Black PoC) Apologies" on Medium
As a Black woman writing this, I can't speak for all Black people. You can read through these reflections of the apologies and check-ins that many have experienced, and how they feel about them.
"So please, stop sending #love. Stop sending positive vibes. Stop sending your thoughts. Here are three suggestions on more immediately impactful things to offer instead."
Chad Sanders, I Don’t Need ‘Love’ Texts From My White Friends in the NYTimes
"So if this is the first time you’re asking me how I am, if this is the first time we’ve talked about my existence as a black person in America, you are definitely not the person I’m going to call if I’m not okay. And that is okay! It’s also the reason I don’t need you to check on me now."
Priska Neely, Please Stop ‘Checking In to See If I’m Okay in The Cut.
"If you're a white person, you want to try to understand how you might be feeling if you were in the kind of crisis that your black colleague or friend is in right now," she explains. "What would I want to hear?" Dr. Breland-Noble also points out that if they were really our friends — if they were really coworkers that we valued — we would always be coming from a space of trying to understand, whether in a crisis or not."
Elizabeth Gulio, Before You Check In On Your Black Friend, in Refinery29
"She wanted to make sure she was not creating an emotional burden for her friends, she said, but also that she was not missing an important moment to help if they needed anything. She settled on a simple rule: She would only check in with people of color she already interacted with on a daily basis before the protests, those who she felt would receive her message with a sense of relief and not as an additional burden."
Jose A. Del Real, White people are pouring out their hearts - and sending money - to their black friends in the Washington Post
KEY TAKEAWAYS
Although we can never be fully responsible for how someone responds, we need to get critical on our impact can cause harm to people, especially when they are already in pain
Read perspectives from Black people and others in different relationships when understanding intent v. impact in these conversation
Move into apologies with a full commitment to do the work to dismantle the preconceptions that got you here
Acknowledge how white guilt can often play a role in misconstruing intent, and causing negative impact
PLEDGE YOUR SUPPORT
Thank you for all your financial contributions! If you haven't already, consider making a monthly donation to this work. These funds will help me operationalize this work for greatest impact.
Subscribe on Patreon | Give one-time on PayPal | Venmo @ nicoleacardoza
Capitalize B in Black and I in Indigenous.
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Hi all,
Today's newsletter looks at how language wields power, and how quickly our language is changing based on the movement of the past few weeks. I particularly liked writing this one because, as someone that's always defined herself as Black, I didn't know the grammatical and historical context of the terms below. I love that reclaiming something as simple as a capital letter can carry so much pride, belonging, and historical significance.
ps – your support makes these email possible! You can donate one-time on Paypal or Venmo (@nicoleacardoza) or give monthly on Patreon to keep these going.
- Nicole
TAKE ACTION
Capitalize the B in Black when using in reference to a person or group of people
Understand the cultural difference between "African American" and "Black" and use correctly. If you must, use "Black" if referring to a Black person and you are unclear of their background.
GET EDUCATED
Capitalizing to signify respect.
Last Friday (on Juneteenth) the Associated Press announced that it was updating its style guide to capitalize the "B" in "Black" and "I" in "Indigenous", a decision that came after several news outlets changed their own standards in the past few weeks to signify respect and understanding in the wake of the protests.
Although the difference between a capitalized letter may seem harmless, it carries weight. Our language carries power, and, according to Lori Tharps, an associate professor of journalism at Temple University, "influences how we validate, or invalidate, identity". And with Black there's history with how we have been perceived in the press. W.E.B DuBois fought in the 1890s for the term "negro," which was commonly used at the time, to be written as "Negro," considering all other racial and ethnic identifiers were already being written in uppercase. As the word negro phased out in the mid-1960s and was replaced with "black," the conversation restarted to continue to add respect to the term that identifies a community of people systemically marginalized because of the color of their skin. You can read more about the historical significance here >
Both terms Black and Indigenous represent distinct communities with shared cultures and experiences that differ from dominant culture, or whiteness. According to Sapiens, capitalizing Indigenous helps to "articulate the common challenges they faced as communities impacted by colonialism, settler governments, displacement, and exploitation." Similarly, capitalizing Black signifies "an essential and shared sense of history, identity and community among people who identify as Black, including those in the African diaspora and within Africa" (via Axois). As a contrast to these definitions, the lowercase "black" is a color, not a person. And the lowercase "indigenous" signifies that anyone is from any place.
"When a copyeditor deletes the capital ‘B,’ they are in effect deleting the history and contributions of my people.”
– Lori Tharps, Associate Professor of Journalism at Temple University
So we're capitalizing Black now. What about "white"?
The AP is actively reviewing their guidelines on this, but currently has "white" used as lowercase in their style guide. But standards on this vary in different publications, and in personal opinions, for a multitude of reasons. To fully understand it, we have to first acknowledge that race itself is a social construct, formed and shaped over history. Race was a way to yield power and privileges over others, and preserve identities from being "tainted" by others. I'm simplifying, and recommend this article by Ta-nehisi Coates for details.
The need to add respect and understanding to the Black community is also in response to whiteness. I mentioned above that acknowledging Black and Indigenous as a community helps to "articulate the common challenges," and these challenges are an effect of being marginalized and exploited by dominant culture (more on that here). Some use this point to argue against white being capitalized, because white people already have enough power and don't need further acknowledgement. In these cases, some writers also note that white supremacists often capitalize white to demonstrate that they should remain in power. I paraphrased a detailed perspective you can read here >
On the other hand, other journalisms note that without identifying whiteness as its own race that, in itself, includes practices of racism and oppression, we won't move forward with it. Not identifying white as its own race also perpetuates the idea that it's the normal and status quo. The Center for the Study of Social Policy announced that it would follow the American Psychological Association’s style rules and capitalize white, citing the following:
"We believe that it is important to call attention to White as a race as a way to understand and give voice to how Whiteness functions in our social and political institutions and our communities. Moreover, the detachment of ‘White’ as a proper noun allows White people to sit out of conversations about race and removes accountability from White people’s and White institutions’ involvement in racism". You can read their full statement here >
Another argument on this is purely grammatical: if Black is capitalized, white should be too. They both are used as proper nouns and represent groups of people, and it looks unbalanced without.
I used the AP style guide for the sake of writing this email, as did most of the articles linked, so you can see it in action for yourself.
Why not African-American?
The term is still commonly used, but doesn't reflect the breadth of the Black population. African American refers to an American Black person of African descent. But there are Black people that more closely identify their roots to the Caribbean, for example, so Caribbean American may be preferred, and this person can also identify as Black. There are also Black people all around the world that may not have roots here; as of 2016, about 10% of Black people in the United States are foreign born.
For some Black people there's also a cultural difference. I am an African American woman, but personally feel more connected to the broad definition of Black; my African heritage is unknown to me, and I've also got Portuguese blood in my ancestry. Black, to me, feels more representative of the full complexity of my identity.
Also, the hyphen between African-American and all other race / ethnicity mashups was removed by the AP Style guide in 2019, noting that the hyphen dates to the 19th century as a way to distinguish immigrants as “other” and has been a common microaggression for more than a century.
I personally didn't know anything about the hyphens until researching this piece, and will reflect in my future emails.
ps – remember our conversation on diversifying news and media? Note that the AP and Poynter, another prominent voice in journalistic standards, announced this news without citing any Black or Indigenous journalists. As this conversation grows, there's another conversation on ensuring Black and Indigenous journalists are in the newsrooms to help guide this narrative.
Black America is constituted overwhelmingly by the descendants of people who were not only brought to the country against their will but were later inducted into an ambivalent form of citizenship without their input. The Fourteenth Amendment, which granted citizenship to all those born here, supposedly resolved the question of the status of ex-slaves, though those four million individuals were not consulted in its ratification. The unspoken yield of this history is the possibility that the words “African” and “American” should not be joined by a hyphen but separated by an ellipsis.
– Jelani Cobb for the New Yorker
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Center Black trans lives.
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Happy weekend, and Day 10 of the Anti-Racism Daily 🎉
You may notice your feeds and conversations with friends start to move "back to normal". But remember that there is no such thing as normal anymore. The work of dismantling and reimagining doesn't fade with the protests. In fact, now is the most urgent time to dive deeper. So stay here, with all of us, doing the work each day.
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As always, you can give via PayPal, Patreon or Venmo (@nicoleacardoza) to keep this work growing.
Nicole
TAKE ACTION
1. Raise awareness about today's subject using the hashtag #BlackTransLivesMatter
2. Donate to the COVID-19 Relief Fund for Black trans people, hosted by the Marsha P. Johnson Institute.
This cover is the forthcoming issue of Time magazine. Photo taken by photographer Devin Allen showing people lying on the street during a Black Trans Lives Matter protest in Baltimore.
Via Axios.
GET EDUCATED
Since the protests began there's been significant shifts in protecting Black lives. But as the Black Lives Matter movement takes hold across the country (and around the world) the narrative about the violence against Black trans people often gets left behind. We touched on this briefly when we discussed Breonna Taylor in an email from last week.
In just this past week alone, two Black transgender women were reported dead: 25-year-old Riah Milton was murdered in an attempted robbery in Ohio, and Dominique “Rem'mie” Fells was killed in Philadelphia. According to the HRC, this marks at least the 13th violent death of a transgender or gender non-conforming person this year in the U.S., but because violence against this community is systemically underreported, that number is believed to be much larger.
And throughout the protests the stories Black trans people who were victims of police violence, like Tony McDade, got lost in the larger conversation around Black Lives Matter. Remember that centering those that are most vulnerable is critically important in movement work, because a specific community's distinct pain can be minimized when lumped in with others.
And that's clear when we look at our political system as a whole. Although there's been significant political progress to protect Black lives over the past few weeks, there's still very few legal protections for the transgender community. The HRC, reflecting on the death of Dominique “Rem'mie” Fells, note that "at the state level, transgender and gender non-conforming people in Pennsylvania are not explicitly protected in employment, housing or in public spaces. They are also not covered under the state’s hate crimes legislation". Read more in their 2019 report >
And as all of this unfolds, Trump chose yesterday to erase transgender civil rights protections in health care. By narrowing the legal definition of sex discrimination so that it does not include protections for transgender people, Trump has reversed part of the Affordable Care Act from 2010, which bans discrimination based on race, color, national origin, sex, age or disability in “any health program or activity".
June is Pride Month in the U.S. so it's all the more critical to center the needs for our LGBTQ+ community during the movement for Black lives – especially because their liberation are so closely intertwined. No one defines that more distinctly than Marsha P. Johnson, a black, transgender leader that paved the way for both Black and LGBTQ+ rights in America. Known as a self-identified drag queen, performer, and survivor, she was a prominent figure in the Stonewall Uprising of June 1969, one of the most important events leading to the gay liberation movement. She, alongside her friend Sylvia Rivera, a legendary transgender activist of Venezuelan and Puerto Rican descent, centered the lives of Black and brown transgender lives throughout their work for decades. Now, as the Black Lives Matter movement forges on, we must too.
“What happens is that black trans people are erased and made invisible in society, but then we actually disappear in our deaths.”
Kei Williams, a founding member of the Black Lives Matter global network and a national organizer at the Marsha P. Johnson Institute, in an interview with The Lily
Thank you for all your financial contributions! If you haven't already, consider making a monthly donation to this work. These funds will help me operationalize this work for greatest impact.
Subscribe on Patreon | Give one-time on PayPal | Venmo @nicoleacardoza