What Racism Means to Me
This is probably hopeless, but the teacher in me won’t seem to allow me to let it go or write it off. In the wake of my posts over the last week on Steph Curry, LeBron James and coaching, and coaching more generally, I’ve gotten some comments and responses that, in various ways, accuse me of injecting racial dynamics into issues where none are in fact in play. Rather than try to respond to each of those individually, I thought it might be helpful if I explained what I mean when I talk about the racism.
First, a few points qualifying what follows. Racism, obviously, takes many, many different forms. I do not consider myself an expert in the history of race in this country or elsewhere. I’m not a sociologist or an anthropologist or a historian. These are all real scholarly disciplines with real methods that require years to master. The study of race, undertaken from whatever disciplinary foundation, requires even more work on top of that. I’ve done some of this work, to be sure, but I want to be careful to make clear that I am here just explaining what racism means to me, with my interdisciplinary training in literary and cultural studies and philosophy. I don’t think of this as the last word, but genuinely as an attempt to clarify my own positions and, perhaps, to move the conversation forward a bit. In other words, I’m still learning and eager to continue to do so. Finally, I’m confining myself to what I feel qualified to talk about: how racism gets sedimented in our language and culture, even or especially when its expression is not overt, and independently of the avowed views on race espoused by a given individual who is using language or adding to our culture.
Let me take the example of Marc Stein’s piece on LeBron James, which more than the others has occasioned the sort of objection to which I want to respond. I should begin by saying (as I did explicitly in my post) that I’m not concerned with whether or not Marc Stein is, as an individual human being, a racist. I’m not concerned, I mean, with whether or not he harbors prejudicial attitudes or feelings towards racial minorities. For one thing, I don’t know him personally. If pressed, I’d guess he probably doesn’t. But I was never talking about Marc Stein. I was talking about the language he was using, the assumptions he was relying upon in making his argument, and the history of that language and assumptions. So that’s the first thing: when I talk about racism as I have this past week (and most of the time), I’m separating out the language and culture an individual is using from the individual him or herself.
I believe that when we speak or write the language we use inevitably means more than what we intend it to mean. Of course, we may be more or less skilled at conveying our intended meaning clearly in language. But even the most crystal clear bit of language always carries an excess of meaning. This is first of all because language (and culture more broadly) has a history and second of all because it is social. We like to think of language as a neutral instrument that we can employ to achieve only our intended effects, without concern for its past or where it came from and so without regard for the unintended effects it might have. But I think, to put this directly, that this is naive at best and misguided and potentially dangerous at worst.
In Philip Pullman’s marvelous trilogy His Dark Materials, there is an instrument called the subtle knife. One edge of the knife is so sharp it can cut through any material. The other edge is sharper still, capable of slashing the molecules separating one universe from another. At a crucial moment in the plot, this powerful tool, in the hands of our heroes, Will and Lyra, shatters, threatening to leave them forever stranded in a world that is not there own. Fortunately, they have a friend who is a master blacksmith, capable of repairing the knife. Only, he is not sure he wants to. When they ask him why, he explains that the point of the knife is so fine that he cannot see it. Though he trusts their good intentions in using the knife, the invisibility of its point tells him that the knife may have intentions and so effects unknown to any of them. The heroes protest that regardless of the knife’s intentions, their intentions, the blacksmith knows, are pure and that, anyway, they have to do something important and they can’t do it without the knife. The blacksmith agrees, reluctantly, but only after receiving assurances that Will and Lyra will be exceptionally mindful in their use of the tool, careful to monitor their own intentions as well as to be aware of the unintended effects of the knife.
Language and culture are like that knife. And the historical and social nature of language is like that very, very fine, potentially dangerous point, harboring meanings and effects possibly unknown to us, and possibly counter to what we might intend. Of course, as the blacksmith would acknowledge, we have no choice but to use the powerful tool of language.
But we have, as he also insists, a serious responsibility to understand the history and social character deposited in the language we use and then to use that language responsibly. I sound preachy. I’m not always so informed or so careful, but I’m almost always regretful when I’m not. And I certainly try to learn from my mistakes in language and culture by studying more about where the language I use comes from and where it is going.
In the case of how the media portrays Steph Curry, or how Marc Stein cast his criticism of LeBron James, I think there has been a lack of care about the history, within the culture of basketball and in our society more broadly, of certain seemingly innocent terms and apparently natural assumptions. Basketball, as probably anyone reading this knows, was once segregated, separate and unequal. Even after integration, quotas remained in place limiting the access of black players to teams, leagues, and playing time. Even after the quotas faded, black players were subject to criticism for their style of play, their clothing and their behavior.
In that history, if admittedly probably not in the heart of Marc Stein or other writers today, these certain seemingly innocent terms and an apparently natural assumptions about how things ought to be in the game have been used directly to discriminate against, to demean, to control and to punish African-American players or else indirectly to justify such practices. This is real history, which I am not making up or “reading into” my objects of study. Anybody can read the newspapers of the past, the histories and biographies and autobiographies that I have read and discover the very same thing, plain as day.
What’s more, these very real practices are themselves linked (much as we sports fans would like to think that the entertaining games we love exist in isolation from the societies in which we enjoy them) to other very real practices in the world whereby, as my friend put it in a recent short essay, “people who are not white die sooner than those who are.” This happens systematically, even though many white people naturally protest that they don’t want any part of it. The system is called white supremacy and it is supported by racism. The system is embedded in social behaviors, public policy, and the acts of individuals. Language and culture may not be the most direct tools in the arsenal by which this system achieves its effects, but both language and culture are nonetheless indispensable to its existence and durability.
We may not have been responsible for using language and culture in this way in the first place, but we are certainly responsible for tossing the same ideas and words out into the world as though, just because we are ourselves have only innocent intentions, they can cause no further harm. I can understand from experience how painful it can feel to realize that one has inadvertently stepped into it, contrary to one’s intentions, but I think we should try to keep that pain from driving us to close our minds to the possibility of growing, let alone our hearts to the pain of others.
And that is why, in my own little corner of the world, filled with basketball players, coaches, owners, fans, and journalists, I care about the language, the images, and the metaphors we use to talk about the game we love. It is why I care about the assumptions that we too often carelessly wield in building arguments. It is why I insist, and will continue to insist, that we can do better by our sports and better by ourselves. We can’t stop using language and we don’t need to become control freaks or language cops. We just need to reflect a bit more deeply on our feelings and intentions before we speak and write and create more culture. We just need to inform ourselves a little better about the history of that language, that culture, and those assumptions. It’s hard for me to understand why, understood in this way, anybody would object to the project of trying (whether by critique or by the creation of new versions of old stories) to use the powerful tool that is language more carefully, so that, as best as we can manage, it doesn’t aid in the perpetuation of a system whereby other human beings die sooner than others.