Thinking about difference

Lately I have been thinking a lot about how human beings perceive difference. This, of course, is an occupational hazard. Much theoretical ink has been spilled on how human societies and individuals deal with difference – psychologically, culturally, historically, linguistically: “I and thou,” “Self and Other,” “sign, signifier, and signified,” the evocative and provocative “free floating signifier.” As scholars, how do we/can we/should we represent people unlike ourselves? What are we to make of physical difference, the most dramatic example being male/female, and the gender constructions based upon those anatomical distinctions? Racial difference which is less physically marked but no less socially important? The less immediately visible categories of religion, ethnicity and class conveyed through verbal and non-verbal forms of communication: dress, gestures, ritual, conversation? Finally, as privileged intellectuals, can we represent those differences without being dismissive, condescending, patronizing, presumptuous, or just plain wrong?

I believe that we can and should speak of difference, if for no other reason than, as an historian, I am required to translate the thoughts and actions of people from the past in ways that make sense to my own time and place. If this can’t be done, I’m out of a job. So I try. Students sometimes challenge my attempts – rarely on epistemological grounds, more frequently on identity-based claims. Every time I teach the history of slavery and race relations, for example, I know that at least one student will wonder what an uppity white girl from NJ could possibly tell them about the history of their own people. On a few occasions, students have said as much to my face. This doesn’t really offend me. I advise them to stick around for a few weeks and if they don’t like what they see, drop the course. No big deal.

Race also comes up because of what I don’t teach. I once had a colleague who told her students that I was a racist due to my failure to include material on Native American history in my undergraduate historiography class. This did offend me – until my sense of humor kicked in. True, Native American history wasn’t in a syllabus that covers the history of history from Herodotus to the present in 16 weeks. It does include material about identity-based history (working class/women/African-American). I cover indigenous history in my Latin American history classes and I also do research on Brazilian Indians, but as she barely knew me, she wouldn’t have known that. Had she, I suspect her ire would have only increased. Not only do I assign books on Native American history written by non-Native Americans, but I am attempting to write Native American history myself. Given my identity, could I hope to do so properly?

Moving beyond academic pettiness, the perception of difference, of course, has huge consequences in everyday life. It typically justifies wars, massacres, genocides, and all sorts of socioeconomic and political discrimination. It should go without saying, however, that although human beings may have an innate propensity to create oppositional categories to make sense of their world, difference need not be the basis of inequality or exclusion. Why can’t difference simply be … different?

When thinking about such heady ideas, I have found it useful to take a step back and observe how children deal with living in the world. This leads me to what got me thinking about all of this in the first place. A few months ago, my kids started taking African dance classes. My eldest daughter was exposed to African drumming and dancing two years ago at a summer camp and has been begging for lessons every since. I finally located a class for children sponsored by the African American Performing Arts Center, a lovely facility that promotes a variety of cultural activities. My youngest daughter tried a few classes and quickly dropped out. Why? She felt self-conscious. Why? Because she was different. “Mommy,” (delivered in an overly loud stage whisper) “I’m the only one that’s white.” Interestingly, despite the fact that her kindergarten class is almost evenly divided among Hispanic, black, Native American, and white kids, and this never seems to have been an issue, being the only one that was different mattered. No problem; she plays with other siblings who are stuck there during dance class.

My older daughter, however, has been all but color blind since she was very small. If anybody thinks it’s strange that this fair blond kid likes African dance, they haven’t said so. The dance community consists of African American kids and their families, some biracial couples and their kids, and some white parents who have adopted African kids. There’s a few African and Haitian families as well. Nice folks.

While going through the whirlwind of rehearsals leading up to the first performance of the “African American Performing Arts Youth Ensemble,” however, one could not escape constructions of difference. I overheard one adult volunteer attempting to herd a bunch of kids running amok into some kind of order, trying to sort out names. She asked Renee, “are you Ruth?” “No, she answered, “Ruth’s the white girl.”

The white girl. Of course, she is. As her mother, this revelation should not have come as a surprise. But in a certain sense, it did. This is probably the first time she’s been identified with reference to her race. Since “white” is the dominant racial signifier in US society, there is rarely cause to specify. Towards the end of the dress rehearsal, the dancers formed a “solo circle” which allowed any child who felt so moved to go into the center and dance while the remainder of the group clapped. The Brazilianist in me instantly recognized this as a “roda” a circle or “wheel” that one sees in Brazilian samba. Sometimes the kids went out alone, sometimes in twos or threes. Ruth went out with two girls but as they hadn’t coordinated what they were going to do, it didn’t work very well. Later she said, “mom, I felt weird being out there with Diandra and Isis.” “Why?” I asked. Whiteness, it turned out, had nothing to do with it. “Because they’re so tall,” she said. “I felt really short.”

The performance, by the way, was great. It had absolutely nothing to do with elitist, intellectual qualms about white people appropriating the cultural forms of the “other.” The drums were loud, the dancing was great, the applause genuine, the occasion heartfelt. My kid was out there having the time of her life, dancing with verve and a huge, radiant smile. She took my breath away.

A final post script: at the dinner following the performance, one of the drummers asked me if I was the parent of the “tall, blond girl.”

I had to laugh.

Voter Challenger Blues

Yesterday, I volunteered to serve as a voter challenger for the Democratic Party.  In layperson’s terms, this amounts to voter protection.  One must ensure that the law is upheld without actually speaking directly to voters.  Rather, one issues gentle and respectful reminders to the precinct board if violations or distortions of the law occur and document irregularities.

I’ve never done anything like this before.  No previous candidate during my voting life has inspired me sufficiently to donate fourteen hours of time I don’t really have.   Like thousands of others, I found myself moved by Obama – his eloquence, his intelligence, his steady demeanor, his organizational genius, and, as he showed last night, a capacity for humility.   As the race progressed, I also was repelled by the alternative – the hate speech, the intolerance, and the character attacks that pandered to the worst impulses and irrational fears of this society.

Nothing I’m saying is new or unique.  However, the impulse to volunteer led to some surprising relevations.

1.  I had assumed that my primary role would be to protect voters from partisan-based shenanigans – intimidation, harassment, deliberately erroneous claims that would discourage or prevent people from voting.  In fact, very little of this occurred.  Also no long lines and frayed nerves.  Due to the availability of early voting in New Mexico, about half of the voters in the precinct had cast ballots prior to election day.  Many more voted absentee.  We processed fewer than 100 ballots over the course of 12 hours.

2. The main impediment was not partisan ill-will, but incompetence.  The precinct board was an interesting mix – a young Hispanic woman who helpfully wiped down the voting booths with antiseptic wipes at regular intervals, a graduate student in Economics, an older woman who runs her own needlework and framing business, another older and very well-preserved woman who was a living testimony to the anti-aging nutritional supplements she sells, and a youthful and very funny lesbian in marketing.  The Republican challenger was knowledgable, decent and a University accountant.  And then there was the presiding judge, an elderly woman about which I know little other than her general cluelessness.

Of the cast of characters, the most knowledgable people in the room were me and the other challenger.  This was alarming as we had no prior experience and had only a crash course and some handouts.  Of the precinct board members, some were complete novices, others were not, all had good will, but few were well informed.  The presiding judge was completely and utterly incompetent, not to mention unpleasant.  She did not know how to set up or turn on the ballot processing machine or the auto-mark machine for the disabled.  When asked about how she would handle the various types of ballots, she seemed confused.  She demonstrated almost no knowledge of electoral law and made frequent mistakes.  The low point of the day probably was when she was told she had to sign an envelope for a provisional ballot.  She was instructed to turn the ballot over to find the signature line.  Instead she rotated it 90 degrees.  Then there was the time when she voided the forms for hand-tallied ballots without reading them first.  She also failed to oversee what the precinct board was doing, for example, when one member repeatedly and incorrectly tried to tell voters that if they voted provisionally their “vote may or may not be counted.”  I could go on.  Little did I expect that much of the day would consist of overseeing the judge and trying to maintain an environment that would inspire voter confidence.  Or that the Republican challenger would be my best and most supportive advocate.

3. Given this experience, my faith in the electoral system was shaken anew.  One expects and anticipates that improperly calibrated machines or ill-intentioned individuals might subvert the system.  But I now have to wonder how much electoral outcomes might be dictated by the fact that people might not know what they were doing.  So while I signed on to support Obama, I am likely to work at the polls in the future because the eleectoral process is too important to be left to people who neither know nor seem to care about voter rights.  I might even train to be a judge (no law degree trequired).

4.  I did not expect to be emotionally touched by the voting process but I often was.  Some moments stand out: a gentleman who assisted his son, who had Down’s Syndrome; a visually-impaired woman who was so moved to be voting that she cried; a guy we dubbed José the plumber; an elderly man covered with Rosary beads who kept blessing us (we later found out that he had to be removed by security for haranguing voters of the opposite party); a hippie couple that were in a hurry to vote because their daughter was about to deliver twins; and a lot of voters that said they had never voted before.   Not all of them were young.

I left home before the sun rose and returned after it had set.  I also had gotten no news during the course of the day.  I would have liked to have gone to a party or something but not something one can do in good conscience after being away from the kids for fourteen hours.  So I watched the returns come in and the speeches.  Kudos to McCain for ending on a high note and showing a glimpse of the McCain he once was.  I can’t say I’ll miss that creepy, insincere smile or Palin’s grating voice and twitchy body language.  But I will miss getting those daily personalized emails from my buddies, Barack, Joe, Michele and Al.

And whoever stole my Obama yard sign last night could you please return it?