Jami Nakamura Lin Nicole Cardoza Jami Nakamura Lin Nicole Cardoza

Reject the modern-day poll tax.

Yesterday was National Voter Registration Day. And today there are still millions of people who can't vote in the U.S. this upcoming election. As part of our ongoing series on covering various forms of voter suppression, today we're analyzing how the modern-day poll tax disincentivizes people to vote.

Today's article – written by Jami – centers the voter disenfranchisement in Florida and the work of the FRRC. If you can do one thing today, share their work using the action items below.

Thank you for your contributions! If you enjoy this newsletter, you can give one-time on our website, PayPal or Venmo (@nicoleacardoza), or subscribe for $5/mo on our Patreon.

– Nicole

TAKE ACTION

  • Donate to the Florida Rights Restoration Coalition’s We Got the Vote fund. 100% of these tax-deductible donations will help returning citizens pay their court fines so they can vote and fully participate in their communities.

  • Listen to Voting Rights for Returning Citizens episode of The Returning Citizen podcast, which explains the issue in a national context.

  • Read through the ACLU Florida’s collection of actions to fight racism and white supremacy in the state. Choose one or more to participate in.

GET EDUCATED

By Jami Nakamura Lin (she/her)

On Friday, September 11th, the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals upheld SB 7066, Florida’s law requiring returning citizens to pay off their court debts before being able to register to vote (NPR). (The term returning citizen refers to people with prior convictions, in this case felony convictions specifically.) The law blocks almost 800,000 potential voters, a disproportionate number of whom are Black (The Guardian). In other words, it’s a poll tax—a fee one must pay in order to vote—and like the Jim Crow era poll taxes, it’s specifically designed to suppress the votes of low-income and Black citizens. But here in 2020, the poll tax is back again. 

That this is happening in Florida is relevant. Florida is not only a swing state, but also considered one of the presidential race’s primary battlegrounds (FiveThirtyEight). It also has a history of poll taxes (Richmond University). People convicted of felonies were not allowed to vote until Floridians overwhelmingly passed a referendum restoring those voting rights in 2018, enfranchising 1.4 million people (NYTimes), including one in every five Black adults (Sentencing Project). In a swing state, 1.4 million potential votes matter a lot; in 2012, Obama beat Romney in Florida by just 74,000 votes—an 0.88% margin (St. Augustine Record). 

Just eight months after these voting rights were restored, Republican Governor Ron DeSantis signed the new law requiring payment of court debts (Washington Post). This was a way to again disenfranchise the same population without explicitly saying so, as 774,000 of those 1.4 million owe debt, according to a University of Florida report (Courthouse News).

This May, a federal judge determined that DeSantis’s law was unconstitutional, but now the 11th Circuit Court has overturned that decision, making it valid again. Florida’s system also makes it difficult to know how much these potential voters owe, or how much they’ve already paid, as Slate outlines. The case could wind its way to the Supreme Court, but that takes time, and the Florida voter registration deadline is October 4th. For this presidential election, the damage is done. 

The poll tax as we understand it now developed in response to the 15th Amendment, added in 1870, which stated “The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude” (National Archive/Our Documents). The idea that Black Americans—including formerly enslaved people— could vote did not go over well with many people in power.

 

“After the 1870s, particularly in the southern states, there was an effort to restrict any kind of political power for African Americans,” William Pretzer, the curator of the National Museum of African American History and Culture, told Smithsonian. “There was great concern on the part of the white power structure that this was a revolution in their lives.”

In response, white legislators enacted voter suppression laws that included required literacy tests (as we discussed in a previous newsletter) and poll taxes, which effectively blocked not only Black Americans, but also Mexican Americans, Native Americans, and other people of color whose growing numbers struck fear into the white political elite. In Texas, voters were required to pay around $1.50 ($30 in 2020 dollars) to vote, unless they were covered by a “grandfather clause” which exempted anyone who could vote before the Civil War (or whose ancestors could vote) from paying the tax (African American Policy Forum). As only white men could vote before the Civil War, this meant that only the descendents of white men were exempt from paying the tax. (The law also disenfranchised poor white immigrants who came to America after the war.) Similar laws were enacted across all the former Confederate states (Smithsonian). Thus the Southern political elite ensured that while the federal law might give Black voters the vote in theory, the state poll tax still forbade it in practice, consolidating power amongst the wealthy white. 

In 1964, President Lyndon B. Johnson signed the 24th Amendment, which abolished the poll tax and guaranteed American citizens the right to vote regardless of wealth (National Archives). “There can be no one too poor to vote,” he said; everyone deserved the “freedom to vote without bans or barriers” (NYTimes). 


And yet Florida’s law clearly shows that there are still people too poor to vote. At least three-fourths of people convicted of felonies in Florida owe the courts money, and most of them cannot pay it (NYTimes). Often, the word “felony” can call up images of murder, but driving three times with a suspended license is a felony in Florida, while murderers are explicitly excluded from the voting law. Instead, in a racist state with a history of overpolicing and overconvicting Black communities (ACLU Florida), the law is, again, a way to block poor people and Black people from voting while not expressly saying so. Like those Jim Crow voting laws, Florida’s law is a smokescreen. It is unconstitutional. It is voter suppression. Support the work of the Florida Rights Restoration Coalition and donate to their We Got the Vote fund to support the cause and help returning citizens vote.

Key Takeaways

  • Florida’s law SB 7066 suppresses the vote of returning citizens (people with prior felony convictions) by requiring them to pay off their court debts first. SB 7066 affects around 774,000 people, a disproportionate number of whom are Black (The Guardian).

  • This law follows in the footsteps of the Jim Crow-era poll taxes, which effectively blocked Black voters and other voters of color.

  • The 24th Amendment (passed in 1964) abolished the poll tax and was supposed to ensure that anyone could vote regardless of wealth. But the overwhelming majority of those affected by SB 7066 do not have the means to pay their debts (NPR).

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End Hollywood whitewashing. 

Happy Tuesday!

With the recent release of Mulan and Concrete Cowboy, and the Oscars' new standards on diversity, I thought it might be a good time to discuss the role of whitewashing in Hollywood – and how it has perpetuated harmful stereotypes about people of color.

As many of us continue to stay home, WEAR A MASK, and scour Netflix for something new, it's a good time to invest in watching more diverse stories, celebrating the works of filmmakers of color, and analyzing how our worldview is shaped by what we watch. Jami does a great job of analyzing the many ways whitewashing persists, even in today's times.

If you're enjoying these newsletters, consider making a contribution. To support our work, you can give one-time on our website, PayPal or Venmo (@nicoleacardoza), or subscribe for $5/mo on our Patreon.

– Nicole

Oh and one more thing – last night the Aurora council voted unanimously to ban the use of ketamine by law enforcement until the investigation is complete 🎉

TAKE ACTION

Pick one of your favorite movies or TV shows. Do a deep dive into the cast, directors, writers, and producers and reflect on the following:

  • Are they predominantly white?

  • Are there any people of color with decision-making ability?

  • How did actors and staff of color feel during production? (Twitter is often an excellent place to find behind-the-scenes information.) 

Ask yourself why you relate to the storylines or characters.

  • Do the characters look like you?

  • Do their experiences mirror yours?

  • Are you resistant to TV shows with main characters that aren’t like you? 

Speak out against whitewashing when you see it. Public backlash is one of producers’ strongest motivators.

Reject the idea of whiteness as the default. 

GET EDUCATED

By Jami Nakamura Lin (she/her)

In the Hollywood and media context, whitewashing usually refers to the practice of casting white actors as characters of color, though it can also refer more generally to “preferring white actors, directors, cinematographers, and so on, over equally qualified people of color, as in the Oscar nominations,” (Merriam-Webster). (Here, for ease of use, we’ll use the word actors to refer to people of all genders who perform).

 

Often whitewashing occurs when the film is based on the life of a real person or adapted from a book. In some cases, a white actor’s appearance is altered to fit the role, as when Jim Sturgess’s eyes were digitally altered to appear almond-shaped for his Asian character in Cloud Atlas (Hyperallergenic). While this technical ability is new, it is merely the latest step in a long history of white actors donning garish makeup and outlandish costumes to depict racist caricatures and stereotypes (Paste).

As our past newsletter on digital blackface explains, “Minstrel shows gained popularity in the 1830s in New York, where white performers with blackened faces (most used burnt cork or shoe polish) would don tattered clothing and imitate enslaved Black people. These performances characterized Black people as lazy, ignorant, superstitious, and hypersexual.” Later this tradition expanded into brownface and yellowface, with white actors performing as other races and ethnicities explicitly to dehumanize them. Many contemporary movies and TV shows still depict people of color as flat and stereotypical, as shown in a Native professor’s examination of Jane Krakowski’s Native character in Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt (CutchaRislingBaldy.com). 

 

Whitewashing also happens when characters that were people of color in the original material are changed to be white characters in the film, as in the movie 21 (IndieWire). While this bypasses the problem of blackface, yellowface, or brownface, it leads to the same result: rendering actual people of color invisible. Such casting often results from the belief that white actors are more capable than actors of color (Teen Vogue), or that it’s simply too difficult to find actors of color to fit the roles. 

 

In every whitewashing controversy, defenders often ignore the context in which whitewashing occurs. They often fire back responses like, “Is someone of British descent not allowed to play someone with French descent?” But this is deliberately obtuse in a media landscape when the flipside doesn’t apply: people of color are not considered for white roles and are underrepresented in general.

A study of the 100 top-grossing movies from 2013 showed the racial breakdown of cast members by race: “74.1% were White, 14.1% Black, 4.9% Hispanic, 4.4% Asian, 1.1% Middle Eastern, <1% American Indian or Alaskan Native, and 1.2% were from "other" races/ethnicities. No meaningful change has been observed in the frequency of any racial/ethnic group on screen in 600 popular films between 2007 and 2013” (University of Southern California). More broadly, whitewashing takes place alongside structural oppression. In those minstrel shows, white actors assumed Black roles while Black people were still enslaved; later, white actors assumed Asian roles while Asian people were still not allowed to enter America (Teen Vogue).  

 

These choices happen—whitewashed casts, stereotypical characters—often because the people making the decisions behind-the-scenes are also predominantly white. Despite people of color constituting almost 40% of the population, in 2016-17, they represented only 12.6% of movie directors, 7.8% of movie writers, and 9.4% of TV show creators, according to the Hollywood Diversity Report (University of California-Los Angeles). While detractors are quick to point out tentpole examples like Black Panther, these statistics prove that such movies are the exception, not the rule.

 

A goal, of course, is more representation for people of color in Hollywood across all roles. But representation is not enough. As Hari Ziyad explains, “ ‘Representation matters’ cannot be the beginning and the end of the conversation. Representation matters, but only when the white gaze doesn’t” (Afropunk). Hollywood is about veneers, and a diverse cast can provide cover for endemic behind-the-scenes problems. Even directors and producers of color can only do so much when we have an entire media system that privileges white stories and white identity, when Hollywood is inherently “imbued with white supremacy and a patriarchal structure designed to proffer advantages unequally,” as Elaine Low and Angelique Jackson outline (Variety). 

 

Most of us can’t control who gets cast in the latest blockbuster, but we can denounce the beliefs that lead to whitewashing. If we reject the idea that whiteness is the default (APA PsycNet), we also reject the idea that white actors can invisibly inhabit any role. We can support directors of color, Black filmmakers, indie studios, and other people pushing for change in media. We can question what stories feel relatable to us and why. “So long as whitewashing continues to occur, we need to be conscious of whose stories are being marginalized and whose stories are not being told in mainstream media,” sociologist and author Nancy Wang Yuen told Teen Vogue. 

 

Whitewashing exposes which identities Hollywood sees as being worthy of the big screen, what kind of audience it desires, and whose experiences it sees as universal and whose experiences it sees as niche. As moviegoers (during non-pandemic times!), we can make a difference with our wallets, our views, and our support.

Key Takeaways

  • In a Hollywood context, whitewashing is the practice of casting white actors in roles that were initially designed to be people of color, while overlooking actors of color (who are underrepresented in movies and TV).

  • America has a long history of white actors portraying people of color in dehumanizing, caricature-driven ways (as in blackface, brownface, and yellowface).

  • Despite people of color constituting almost 40% of the population, they represent only 12.6% of movie directors, 7.8% of movie writers, and 9.4% of TV show creators (University of California-Los Angeles).

  • While representation is a step forward, it is not enough in a Hollywood that structurally privileges white identities and white stories.

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Learn the legacy of Japanese American incarceration.

It's Tuesday and a new month. And here's hoping it brings some ease, grace, and collective healing. 

I didn't learn about the Japanese American "internment" in school. Perhaps you didn't either. Yet this narrative isn't surprising considering our country's relationship with exclusion and inequitable criminal justice system. I'm grateful to have Jami's article – laced with heartbreaking personal narratives – carry us through history for today's Anti-Racism Daily. You can read more stories on incarceration on our updated archives page (long overdue for a facelift).

Thank you for all who make this work possible. If you're inspired by this work, you can give one-time on our website, PayPal, or via Venmo (@nicoleacardoza). Or, subscribe monthly to our Patreon.

Nicole

TAKE ACTION

  1. Investigate how your state or local school district teaches Japanese American incarceration. If it’s inadequate, contact them. (Feel free to share this newsletter).

    Read more about the history of Japanese America on Densho’s Core Story.

    Follow Japanese American activist organizations on Instagram like @tsuruforsolidarity, @jasforjustice, and @nikkeiresisters.

GET EDUCATED

By Jami Nakamura Lin

“I was wondering how will they ever put all of us in a place that small. What surprised me most was why did the soldiers have to stand guard with guns...and to tell you the truth the way some people stared at us, it chilled me a bit.”


My grandfather, then sixteen, reflecting in 1944 on his arrival at Amache (Granada) Relocation Camp two years earlier.

Often when we talk about it amongst ourselves, we call it camp. To others, the benign-sounding word could recall sleepaway summers, pitched tents, sing-alongs around a campfire. But when I ask other yonsei (fourth-generation Japanese Americans) if their grandparents were also in camp, what I mean is: was your family also forcibly removed from their homes, from their lives? Were they also labeled the enemy and locked up for years? We call it camp, but what we mean is incarceration. What we mean is that we are just one link in the long American tradition of locking up people of color for no other reason than we are here. The effects of such incarceration linger within us, years and years after the inhabitants are set “free.” 

 

On February 19, 1942, President Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, which commanded the forcible evacuation of Japanese Americans living on the West Coast. As a result, 120,000 Japanese Americans (and some Canadians and Latin Americans of Japanese descent) were incarcerated (National Archives). He passed this order despite a report commissioned by Congress that showed that Japanese Americans posed no threat. The army general in charge of the West Coast summed up the general government feeling when he stated, “They are a dangerous element, whether loyal or not,” (Smithsonian).
 

In school— if you learned about this event at all— you probably learned about it under the name internment. But this is inaccurate, as the Japanese American-led organization Densho explains: “‘Internment’ refers to the legally permissible, though morally questionable, detention of ‘enemy aliens’ in time of war. There were approximately 8,000 Issei (“first generation”) arrested as enemy aliens and subjected to what could be described as “internment” in a separate set of camps… This term becomes a misleading, othering euphemism when applied to American citizens detained by their own government.” Today, we choose to call this event what it was: incarceration. 
 

It was incarceration based (like much mass incarceration) not on facts or danger, but on racism and economics. After Japan’s government bombed Pearl Harbor in 1941, anti-Japanese American rhetoric was pervasive. At the same time, lobbyists representing “competing economic interests or nativist groups” pressured the federal government to remove Japanese Americans from the West Coast (Our Documents/National Archives). Incarceration also functioned as a land grab, as many white farmers were resentful of Japanese American farmers’ increasing presence. The Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians estimated that Japanese Americans lost what in 2020 would be $3.38 billion in property and $7 billion in income as a result of incarceration (Personal Justice Denied via National Archives).
 

After the order was passed, Japanese Americans were given only a few days to evacuate, only allowed to pack what they could carry. “Many of the neighbors came to offer us ridiculously low prices for our possessions,” my grandfather recalls. Their refrigerator went for a dollar; the $700 car all the family had saved up for went for $100. They were taken to Merced, California, where they spent six months in one of fifteen euphemistically titled “assembly centers,” while the Army built permanent incarceration camps (Densho). In September, my grandfather and his family were evacuated again to Amache (Granada), a camp in the middle of the Colorado desert, where they would spend the next three years in a 20x25 barracks (Amache.org). 

 

Not one Japanese American was ever found guilty of espionage or any other war crime. 

In 1980, Congress organized a federal commission to investigate the impact of Executive Order 9066. Its 467-page report (fittingly titled Personal Justice Denied) called the camps a “grave injustice, motivated by racial prejudice, war hysteria, and the failure of political leadership” (Personal Justice Denied via National Archive). Later, the Sanseis (third-generation Japanese Americans) fought for reparations for their parents and grandparents (Densho). This decades-long battle, fraught with dissent even within our community, led to the Civil Liberties Act of 1988, also called H.R. 442 in honor of the highly decorated Japanese American 442nd Regimental Combat Team (Go For Broke). The act stipulated that the $20,000 in compensation would only be paid out to survivors themselves, not descendants of any incarcerees who had died, because the government did not want to set a precedent or framework for reparations for “the descendants of slaves, [Indigenous people] forced onto reservations, Mexicans who lost land, and other historical victims of racism,” (Densho). 
 

Today there are many Japanese American activist groups that utilize our past to work in solidarity with other people of color. We try to use the legacy of Japanese American incarceration as an opening to speak to our elders and our community.  Japanese American-led activist groups are using our history to mobilize our community to protest detention sites (Tsuru for Solidarity), combat anti-Blackness (Japanese Americans Citizens League on Facebook), and fight against mass incarceration (Nikkei Uprising on Facebook). At a recent protest at Cook County Jail, young Japanese Americans lay origami cranes to honor those killed by police and who died in prison now, and our ancestors who died inside the World War II camps (NPR). 
 

Densho’s mission – “to preserve and share history of the WWII incarceration of Japanese Americans to promote equity and justice today” – succinctly summarizes why it’s so important to remember these historical events: because the past links to the present and the future. Today, Japanese Americans as a group are no longer treated the same way we were back then (though anti-Asian sentiment during the coronavirus hearkens back to those tropes, as I write elsewhere). But incarceration and its related trauma have profoundly shaped our community and our culture.
 

Last week, my grandfather turned 92. He still can remember the names of all the people he knew at Amache. He remembers what cell block they lived in, what hometowns they left behind. It happened eighty years ago, and it still affects him — and us, his children and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren — to this day. The racist actions our government is taking today — the border camps, the mass incarceration, the police brutality — are going to reverberate in communities of color for decades to come. 

key takeaways

  • During World War II, over 120,000 Japanese Americans were incarcerated because of the American government’s racist, unfounded fears.

  • President Roosevelt signed this executive order despite Congress finding no evidence to support it.

  • No Japanese American was ever found guilty of espionage or any war crime.

  • After a long battle, Japanese American camp survivors received monetary reparations—yet our government still refuses to discuss reparations for slavery or for Indigenous people.

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Fight for equity in remote learning.

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Happy Monday! My day job is in education (Yoga Foster) so I've been watching the decisions on back-to-school unfold with a blend of anticipation and dread. 

For today's newsletter, Jami wrote a fascinating piece on what's unfolding in education this fall. I would love to hear how you're navigating this upcoming school year if you have children in school – reply to this email with your thoughts.

And thank you to everyone that's contributed money to the newsletter! If you haven't already, you can give on our website, Paypal, Venmo (@nicoleacardoza) or subscribe $5/mo on Patreon. And it's certainly not required, but always appreciated.

Nicole

ps – we've received a few questions about what is happening with the USPS. If you haven't already, we highly recommend reading last week's newsletter on the vote by mail situation and how you can take action.

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TAKE ACTION

  • Read your local schools’ reopening plans. How do they support—or fail to support—low-income families? 

  • Contact your local school board, many of whom are specifically seeking responses from the community right now, with your concerns. 

  • Reflect on how your position and access shapes the choices you and/or your family is making during this pandemic. How can you support other families? 

  • Follow Black educators on social media for their perspectives.

GET EDUCATED

By Jami Nakamura Lin

In the last month, 180,000 have children tested positive for coronavirus (American Academy of Pediatrics). This 90% four-week increase happened to coincide with many students in the South and Midwest returning to school. Parents all over the country are worried about whether it is safe to send their children back to school— and if not, what to do instead.  

 

The situation we’re in is terrible for all parents, all students, and all families. Talk to any parents, and you’ll hear their fear, their worry. But what sometimes gets lost in the social media arguments about school reopening is that, while this affects everyone, it does not affect everyone equally. As all kids return to some form of school by September, it is low-income families that are going to get hit the hardest— families that are often Black and Brown, due to America’s systemic racism and structural barriers (Pew Research Center).

 

The disparity comes to light when we look at what happened in the spring. An in-depth LA Times survey of school districts found that districts serving low-income (predominantly Latinx and Black) students had much worse virtual learning outcomes than districts serving higher-income (predominantly white and Asian) (LA Times). Under-resourced districts struggled to get their students devices and internet connections. (Now, even months later, California officials still say that they need over a million computers and hot spots for their students.) One teacher had less than 10% of his students show up for classes. Beyond the barrier of the digital divide, these students also had bigger things on their minds than school: their parents losing their jobs, paying rent— and of course, coronavirus itself. Because Black people have died of coronavirus at a 2.5x higher rate than white people (and Indigenous and Latinx people at a 1.5x higher rate), non-white students have had much more first-hand experience with coronavirus than white students (COVID Racial Data Tracker).

 

Since the spring, schools have changed their plans, and changed their plans again, due to vacillating instruction from the government and their overly-optimistic ideas about the pandemic’s course (NYTimes). In response, parents are scrambling to find the best option for their own families—choices that are all fraught. I was struck by an article where the interviewer asked teachers what they thought about wealthy parents choosing to “pick the all-distance option, create a home-schooling pod if you need to for a year. Ease the pressure on the system, so the lower-income kids have more access to the resources they need, including if they need in-person learning” (Slate). Black teacher Brandon Hersey’s response was short and to the point: "I think that's racist as f---." The teachers agree: while it seems like a good idea, it just makes in-person school a hot zone for kids with the least options, resources, and access. Because of the inequity in many types of tutoring/homeschooling pods, some schools don’t support them (Fairfax County Public Schools). 

 

Even in areas like mine where everyone is beginning the school year virtually, remote learning exacerbates the differences between the haves and have-nots. In response to working parents’ childcare concerns, my school district partnered with Right at School, a company that will “support students in their remote learning, providing small groups and a quiet space for schoolwork, as well as supplementing with fun activities and group fitness” to the tune of $225 per week (Right at School). In other words: the school will provide a semblance of in-person school, but it’s outsourced, and parents have to pay. There was no information on whether it would be provided for free or at a discount for lower-income households (I contacted my school board and am waiting for a response). In both this case and the one that the Slate teachers were worried about— where the rich stay home and the poor go to school— school is segregated between those who can pay and those who can’t. 

 

Our government has left us with no good options, but some organizations are trying to develop more equitable solutions. Yenda Prado notes that learning pods could be successful if they are available to all who need them most; if this system could be scaled and supported institutionally (Online Learning Research Center). “Learning pods – when done in certain ways and contexts – can be a form of equity work that supports families and schools,” she writes. “When families, particularly those that have been marginalized, come together in times of crisis to address their children’s needs – that becomes equity work. It is incumbent on all us to support their efforts by developing systemic solutions at scale to the current educational challenges.” San Francisco is attempting to do this by creating learning hubs for underserved children (San Francisco Chronicle). 

 

Many parents have important reasons for opting their children out of in-person learning. But opting out of in-person learning doesn’t have to mean opting out of collective action. Whether we have children or not, we can all put pressure on our local organizations to best support the kids in our communities who need it most.

KEY TAKEAWAYS

  • 180,000 children have tested positive for coronavirus in the past month.

    1. Our individual decisions about schooling affect the community.

    2. Virtual learning exacerbates the educational inequities between students of color and white students.

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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

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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

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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.

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