In all my Daughters of the Dream posts, I comment through my African American lens. That is who I am. That is how I identify. In truth, however, my maternal side of the family is primarily Native; members of the Chickahominy Tribe of Virginia. I have known this all my life, but it mostly went unacknowledged. The federal government did not recognize the tribe until 2018. But more importantly, in many ways, it was also unrecognized by my family.
Using Ancestry.com, I watched the evolution of the racial identity of my maternal grandparents. On early census documents, my grandmother was noted as Indian, full-blooded as the saying goes. My maternal grandfather was noted as Mulatto, which he was by the definition of that term, mixed Indian and white. Then they both become Mulatto, along with their children, of course. Subsequent census documents list them as colored, then Negro, then black.
My mother and her siblings were raised as African American. Perhaps my grandparents had internalized the negativity the white, dominant population associated with being Native. The only time I can remember my mother celebrating her Native heritage was when she casually commented one Thanksgiving that there was no need to observe this holiday (even though she did). “It was just the beginning of white people taking Indians’ land,” she said.
Now, I have started the journey of celebrating all of me.
Just as I would not overlook a racist image of an African American or a racist comment about one, I am becoming more attuned to my Native roots and culture. For years, I have recognized the racism in the names of some sports teams. But when conversations turned to looting following the murder of George Floyd, how many of us thought about the original looters — those who took the land of the Native peoples in this country?
Native and black, they are both a part of who I am.
But what about those identities that are not a part of you or me? Just because it is not our identity, racism cannot be ignored. Racism hurts all of us. As Martin Luther King said, “There comes a time when silence is betrayal.” The racial mosaic of those who continue to march and speak out against police brutality and racism, six weeks after the murder of George Floyd, gives me hope. An increasing number of Americans seem to believe — truly believe — we are our brother’s keeper.
Picture this. The coronavirus is over. Scientists have given the “all clear”. One million white people have gathered on the Mall in Washington, DC with signs that read “Black Lives Matter” “I am marching for Ahmaud Arbery” “I march for Trayvon Martin” “I march for the thousands of black men and women imprisoned who simply can’t pay bail to get out” “I march for clean water in Flint” “I march for quality grocery stores in black and brown neighborhoods.” “I march for the black people who white leaders don’t listen to.”
Can you see it? Can you see one million white people marching for black lives, for black bodies?
I appreciate all my white friends who have posted their outrage on social media about the killing of Ahmaud Arbery. I value your allyship and your sense of humanity. I also value your public statements. Many think the thoughts, but then don’t write the words where one of their friends, or family, or colleagues might see them. “You know,” they say, “I have to pick the right moment.”
White people, as Nikole Hannah-Jones wrote in her 1619 essay, “Our democracy’s founding ideals were false when they were written. Black Americans have fought to make them true.” I’m not saying that white people didn’t participate in the Montgomery Bus Boycott or Selma or the March on Washington or in countless other protests to make America’s promise true. You have. But, I need you to step it up. America needs you to step it up.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Black people’s voices have been, and continue to be, powerful in enabling our own liberation, 400 years ago, 200 years ago and today. But to paraphrase racial justice advocate, Dr. Robin DiAngelo, “Could women have gotten the vote without the leadership of men? No.” Black people can march, and will march, until the soles of our feet are raw. We will protest until our voices are strained to a whisper, but white people, we need you to step it up.
In large measure, your people run Congress … your people lead states … your people run business, the Fortune 500 companies … your people control the media. You run America. Raise your voices. Step it up.
You don’t hear that only from your kids. It comes from adult friends and family, too. We all seem committed to a level of fairness that, well, just isn’t fair… not really.
I write this Daughters of the Dream blog as my way of revealing racial truths, at least racial realities, as I see them. These “truths,” like the myth of fairness, might be overlooked if not pointed out.
The current situation with coronavirus offers many stark examples of these “truths” covered by a veneer of fairness. I will look at just two: health care and economic viability. Just a 4 minute read. Then let me know — any “aha” moments or did reading it prompt a different/expanded perspective?
Many have said that COVID-19 shows no preference for race, gender, or income status. All—any of us—can get it. Well, that’s true, and by that measure, it is fair. However, we now see that susceptibility to the disease and treatment for the disease really is not.
Headlines reveal that race-specific data isn’t always collected. But when it is, it shows more African Americans are dying from the disease. Race-based treatment of African-Americans in the health care system and more deadly outcomes isn’t new. Stories from slavery reveal experimentation on humans that rivals Josef Mengele in Nazi prison camps. In the 1930s, African-American men in Alabama thought they were part of a research project to determine the impact of different treatments for syphilis. But their disease went untreated, and the test continued for decades. Most will know the name of Henrietta Lacks, whose cells, taken without her permission in the 1950s, form the basis of many medical breakthroughs and treatments today. But few will know the name of Sterling Matthews. A 60-year-old diabetic, cancer survivor, told in late March 2020 he had pneumonia and sent home by a suburban hospital in my hometown, Richmond, VA. He died a few days later after finally being diagnosed with coronavirus.
Our pain thresholds are perceived as higher, and the value of our lives seems to be lower. This isn’t just historical. It’s not in the past, it’s ongoing. This is now. Is it fair? No.
The perception is the disease affects all equally, but that isn’t true. African-Americans are more susceptible because of a higher incidence than their white counterparts of asthma, hypertension/heart disease, and diabetes, the main conditions that the World Health Organization state place a person at highest risk for coronavirus.
It’s. Just. Not. Fair.
Stimulus checks. Everyone with an individual income of less than $75,000 will get $1200 in the next few weeks. On the surface, this appears fair, right? Everyone is getting the same amount. No money to the rich. Good. This makes sense.
If you have a regular job with the State of Virginia, your paycheck has continued during this crisis. Now you are also getting $1200. Fair? What if you are a self-employed hairstylist paid based on customers coming into that now-closed shop? Or a restaurant wait-staff employee who must survive from tips no longer coming in? All making less than $75,000/year. Fair?
According to the Economic Policy Institute (EPI), there is a considerable racial distinction in who earns what they call poverty wages, hourly wages that would place a person below the federal poverty line if he/she were the sole wage earner for the family. 2017 data shows that African American workers are 1.5 times more likely to be earning what EPI refers to as poverty wages than their white counterparts. LatinX workers are 1.8 times more likely than whites to be earning poverty wages.
So, is the blanket provision of $1200 to all with incomes under $75,000 fair? No, it is equal.
It’s. Just. Not. Fair.
According to many surveys of American values, equality is second only to individualism as what defines us as Americans. That needs to change. Equity, not equality, must become the new watchword for America. We must realize that we aren’t all starting in the same place. One size does not—and never has—fit all.
We now have the opportunity to reshape our country in so many ways. Coronavirus has placed us on pause. What can we do in the post-COVID-19 America that will help to address some of the inequities that exist?
I wish I had answers and not just some insights and a few questions. I know the individualism that America celebrates, that pull yourself up by your bootstraps mentality, isn’t true. Everyone who has achieved a level of success has had help. Sometimes for a single generation, but it is often multi-generational support that has bolstered a family. America must become more focused on helping those who haven’t had the opportunities or who haven’t been able to avail themselves of those opportunities. The solutions are out there. Probably—hopefully—developing in the minds of those with a much higher pay grade than mine. It will take the collective thinking of economists, educators, social scientists, community organizers, and working folks to define the problems and the barriers fully and then craft a new America. It can be done.
Once again, restaurateur and chef Jose Andres has shown leadership in the face of calamity. Just last week, he was the cover story on Time Magazine.You may recall he set up kitchens in Puerto Rico following Hurricane Maria, in the Bahamas following Hurricane Dorian, and in North and South Carolina following Hurricane Florence. This time his response is to the coronavirus. Closing his multiple restaurants in DC and elsewhere, he will continue to pay his workers at least for the next few weeks and has set up community kitchens to provide take out options. And I hear many other restaurant owners are coming up with creative ways to support their workers and to meet community needs.
Food is one of our first thoughts in a disaster.
Like many of you, when the dimensions of this emergency became apparent, I went to the grocery store. I stocked up on everything I needed should I be unable to get to a store for some time. My initial thought was pure survival.
It wasn’t hard to get the food I needed. I live less than a half-mile from two chain grocery stores and a farmers’ market and within a mile of three additional major grocery stores. Plus, there is a slew of corner stores sprinkled throughout my neighborhood. Food availability is not an issue. Quite a different reality from my neighbors who live in the poorer sections of town, the parts of town with more black and brown people. Getting to the food they need may not have been as easy. For the poorest sections of my city, there are only three major grocers for the approximately 140,000 people who live there.
Food desert has become the term typically used to describe those parts of the city with a dearth of everyday resources, including quality grocery stores. Well, that term fits. A desert is a “barren area where little precipitation occurs, and consequently, living conditions are hostile for plant and animal life.” Plant and animal life… hmmm. Sadly, poorer communities are often devoid of the lush greenery of parks seen in more affluent parts of the city. And, if we connect the “lack of precipitation” reference in the definition to the colloquialism, “make it rain,” few financial resources come into these communities.
Food desert is an apt term, but I have been urged to use the term food apartheid. Yes, that works too, “a policy or system of segregation or discrimination on the grounds of race.” The communities I noted above, with only three grocery stores, are 95% African American. These communities, lacking quality, convenient grocery stores, didn’t just happen naturally like a desert. They were created. Those in power—who own the stores—decided where their stores would… and would not… be placed.
Consider what happened to my neighborhood 15 years ago. I, along with quite a few neighbors, signed a letter to a major grocery chain requesting a store in our area. Surprisingly, the chain responded, and responded quickly, but noted that our community did not meet its desired demographic. No dog whistles here. The chain was clear on their reason. Mega gentrification later, that grocery store is now one within a half-mile of my home.
The food story isn’t just about convenience. It is about sheer availability. As we face this coronavirus emergency and try to prevent community spread, it is good to hear state and local officials acknowledging the need for food for students as they close schools. They know that far too many children rely on school breakfast and lunch programs as their only meal for the day. The most recent data from the US Department of Agriculture noted about 12% of Americans are food insecure, meaning they don’t routinely know where their next meal will come from. But when you disaggregate that data by race, we again see the disparate realities faced by people of color 22.5% of African American, and 18.5% of Latinx households are food insecure.
I find myself cooking comfort foods as I self-quarantine. For me, pot roast is one of those comfort foods, and pot roast just isn’t pot roast without potatoes, carrots and onions. When I peel those onions, I sometimes cry. A chemical in the onions has irritated my tear glands. I can just as easily cry for the inequality so many people face every day. Even more so in times like now.
News stories are highlighting loss of income for minimum wage/hourly workers and gig workers not working due to coronavirus related shutdowns or lessened hours. When was the last time you thought about minimum wage workers? Do you know what the minimum wage is? How far does a minimum wage worker’s paycheck go? As we come to rely more on grocery store workers, think about their salaries, their benefits. So many of the people who hold the fabric of our society together receive little of our attention or our support. As your knowledge grows and you realize the unequal treatment and disparate outcomes, you may experience tears, sadness, or regret.
There’s no time for tears and let’s not look back with regret. Take action. Let’s turn these moments of realization into catalysts for transformation. You have free time now. Google to see where and how you can become an advocate for change.
As I sit down with my pot roast, it’s not just a meal providing sustenance, it’s comfort food. We must work to fix inadequacies in the way things are, so they become as they should be for all people. We must thank and support the stockers in grocery stores, the restaurateurs like Jose Andres, and all who are helping us to get through this situation. It’s not just about survival, it’s about the nourishment of our souls.