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| Rachel then .. |
I can feel my
husband’s questioning glance when this particular topic arises: what to make of
Rachel Dolezal (who has, in another phoenix like move, re-named herself Nkechi
Amare Diallo)? And why am I so angry about it?
She has irked me - as she has irked many progressive people who have intensely disliked the charade of a woman, born white and of European descent, pretending to be black or, at best, permitting others to assume that she is black because she has done a number of things to suggest she is black including: colouring and curling her blonde hair into a dark afro; darkening her skin cosmetically; wearing afro-centric clothing such as dashikis and African-inspired styles. Whether by a sin of commission - she actively lied and distorted her personal history - or omission – she did not correct people when they assumed she was black or bi-racial - it has all just felt wrong.
I don’t object
to the fact that she loves black culture or identifies with black people. Her first
husband was black and her children are bi-racial; her four adopted step-siblings
are also black – three African-American and one of Haitian origin. Nor do I
object to the fact that she has worked with civil rights causes and institutions
to help benefit the black community. Some of us love black culture and feel an affinity
to the black community. Some of us, as allies, have volunteered with similar
organizations.
It’s the
consistent lying. And to what end? Stories that she traveled to South Africa (she
did not). She said that she was born in a teepee. I can’t even begin to explain
that one – not many African Americans would dare claim that very specific circumstance.
Stories that she was abused by her parents – specifically that she was whipped
(what historical parallel does that bring to mind when thinking of the sufferings
of black people?). She has since walked that back although she insists she was
abused physically by her religious parents. Assumed to be black by the
admissions office at her university when she applied - because her portfolio of art was full of African-American
portraiture - she received a scholarship based on her presumed racial identity.
She was also accused of plagiarizing the work of the artist J.M.W. Turner by
closely duplicating his 1840 work The
Slave Ship. The ... slave .. ship.
Lie. Upon. Lie.
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| Rachel when "uncovered" |
My problem with
Rachel is not just the lying. My problem with Rachel is that I know exactly how she feels. As a woman
who presents in a racially ambiguous manner – I have dealt with this issue for
decades. In the town where I was raised, my very curly hair, olive skin and
full lips invited curious remarks about my parentage.
What was my nationality? Was I truly Italian? Was there not something else
mixed in there? Was I Italian on both sides? If you knew anything about the
history of southern Italy (as I was later to learn and educate myself on), my
looks would not have appeared so curious or strange upon reflection.
Why a person of
southern Italian descent might resemble a person of African descent should not
be much of mystery. Sicily – where my parents were from – is closer to Africa
than to Rome and sometimes that was not just a geographic distance.
But then, when I
was seven or ten or fifteen and I faced those questions – in that conservative,
racially homogenous, racist environment where ethnic groups clung together with
a rabidness that amazed and puzzled me – the questions about my parentage were
not merely curious, they were rude, hostile and suspicious.
It made me look
at myself in a new way – as an Other – and to seek out other people who might
mirror my experience, and physically resemble me. In this case, it was other black
people. So, in a sense, I was black like Rachel was black. Not truly black but perceived as black by some.
I, too, was
drawn to people with whom I had been compared – people with afros and braids, people
with café au lait or dark skin, people who may have been outside of the white mainstream.
And there too, sometimes people would assume I was bi-racial. Some of the time.
Some of the time, there was merely hostility as to just why this white girl was
hanging around. I was not particularly welcomed or liked. I was just tolerated,
tolerated at best.
Even in multicultural,
tolerant Toronto where I moved to when I turned nineteen to attend university the
questions were similar – but now I was exotic,
interesting looking. For people that
look like me – this is just politely worded code for “You ain’t from around
here, are ya pardner?”
But during that
time, and afterwards, even though I felt an affinity with black people, loved “black”
music, had black friends, read James Baldwin and Langston Hughes and Eldridge
Cleaver and Toni Morrison voraciously, I never once said yes, I am black, when someone asked me. And I
forbore the intrusive, mildly insulting questions from white people, “You don’t
mind me saying – I thought you were black?” I
don’t mind because I don’t perceive
it as an insult although apparently you
do. That I do perceive as an insult.
I understand Rachel’s
confusion, her desire to escape what appears to be an unhappy family situation,
the desire to identify with her four step-siblings, her black husband and bi-racial
children. I understand her attraction to black culture and history. If you feel
oppressed or victimized by your circumstances, it makes sense that you might
turn to a like-minded group for comfort or strength. I know I have white skin
but I have my sorrows too, you might think. I am like you.
But my husband
also raised an important point during our discussion which got very heated – it’s
only white people who get to claim the privilege that they are of another race
and asked to be treated sympathetically. A black man cannot claim that he
identifies as white and should be treated as such. An Asian woman could not either.
No person of colour could assume this posture and expect sympathy. Because they
would be considered to be delusional as many people consider Rachel to be.
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| Rachel ... now |
