Teachable Moments in Diversity Part 2

As promised, this talk of diversity while serving in the Peace Corps has to be a two-part discussion (really, it should probably be more).  Not only because the problem of diversity isn’t as simple or straight forward as we would like to believe—the world isn’t separated by racists and people of color after all.  Not only is there just so much to talk about, but the reality is that, as a volunteer serving in a homogenous country of Caucasians, I’m serving with predominately white volunteers.  Volunteers who are loving, hard-working, driven by passion and ambition, and the sheer will to do the right thing.  However, they too are consumed by their own prejudices, their own beliefs that they are also built into that definition of diversity, trying to somehow qualify their own unique individuality as a form of whatever diversity really is.

I know that diversity is more than the racial or ethnic make-up of an individual person—that there’s religious diversity, sexual diversity, and national diversity represented.  Peace Corps has defined diversity as being “a collection of individual attributes that together help the agency pursue organizational objects efficiently and effectively.  These include national origin, language, color, disability, ethnicity, gender, age, religion, sexual orientation, gender identity, socioeconomic status, veteran status, and family structures.  Diversity also encompasses where people are from, where they have lived, and their differences of thought and life experiences.”  For the purposes of this post, we’ll look at racial diversity.

I’ll be honest, I don’t really want to do this blog post.  Talking about racial diversity is just as uncomfortable for me as it is for most people.  I have my own qualms about race, and my own prejudices that I am constantly battling.  I’m still going to lock my car door when I drive down Rip Rap Road, not because I’ve ever felt personally threatened when I’ve driven down there, but because black people are standing on the corner and they might try and steal my car, or sell me drugs, or whatever it is that black people do when they gather in groups[1].  I’m still going to make myself sound as white as possible on the phone with a potential employer (not that it’s really that hard for me to do), because I’m more likely to get a job regardless of my experiences or abilities.  Any conversation on race is just difficult because it brings up all that hurt and misunderstanding; and attempts to make one person see what the other person just can’t see.

But, we’re going to have this conversation, because I can’t talk about the ignorant, sometimes hurtful things Armenians say to me or do, without having a conversation about some of the ignorant, sometimes hurtful things Americans (in this case, PCVs) say to me or do.  Before we begin this challenging conversation that I’m going to try and make as coherent as possible, I think that it’ll be important to look at how I see myself as a black, single woman; some of the things that’ve been said to me by Americans outside of Peace Corps; and how Peace Corps tries to fill the void of diversity in terms of race.  We’re also going to look at some of the things that’ve been said to me by volunteers, just to show how seemingly innocent comments by well-meaning individuals can really just suck sometimes.

Up until my family moved to the States, I never really saw myself as being that different as an American.  I grew up in a military family with a white, British mother, and a Black, American dad.  While I was mostly the only black kid in all of my classes until middle school, and I had never seen more than 10 black people converge outside of family reunions until high school, I never really saw myself as being that different.  When we moved to South Dakota, I discovered that having this gorgeous, permanently brown skin might be more of a hindrance than I ever thought possible.  It wasn’t until South Dakota that I discovered that it could be possible to have white friends, but never be invited to their houses because their parents didn’t really approve.  Never mind that I was a really good student, and never caused any problems.  It wasn’t until South Dakota that I ever saw my dad get on the phone with anyone’s parents and threaten to go through the phone because plans got canceled because it was suddenly discovered I wasn’t white.  Actually, it wasn’t until living in South Dakota that I was made to feel any different from any one else solely because my melatonin is clearly something to behold.  Black History Month suddenly made me special in every class, because “if it wasn’t for the Civil Right’s Movement of the ‘60’s, Alicia wouldn’t be in our class.”

In South Dakota, I learned that it would be more prudent for me to say I was mixed, so that people would know that, no, I’m really much more human than you think, here’s where my white shows.  Also, after 9/11, it became necessary to qualify my brownness so people who didn’t know me or my family wouldn’t assume I was Middle Eastern.  It wasn’t until my dad got stationed in Virginia that I really started to own being biracial and checking the box of more than one race (and before that box existed, I distinctly remember checking both the white and black box).  In Virginia, I wasn’t accepted in with the black students as automatically as I was in South Dakota.  I have brown skin, hair that lacks the usual kinks and fullness of kids with a black gene—oh goodness, my eyes are slanted but I don’t have the porcelain or yellow skin so obviously present in caricatures of Asian people.  Instead of being told that my hair feels like horse hair when it dries out, or I have dirt on my face, I was being asked “What are you?” “Does your family have a rice cooker, because if they do you must be Asian.”  I had even been told that there’s no possible way I’m black by someone who was also black.

So many things that make this topic hard to discuss.  In my friend group, I think it was just me and two other people—and being told by one of my white friends in that group that black people had given him permission to use the N-word because he was an honorary member to the racial group.  Okay, Pastor.  Just so many things that make this conversation rough, upsetting, angry, hurtful.

Despite all of those uncomfortable moments, being relegated to an edible object, or being angry because I’m black and not because I’m allowed to be angry, I grew up feeling every bit as beautiful.  Despite having to have conversations with my mom about how that boy’s mom really wouldn’t want to have a brown girl marrying her only son, I was raised to feel confident in my abilities and to just own it.  I thought that being able to deal with the small-town vibe of people, I would be set to join an organization that does specialize in having the face of the “Great White Hope” by the sheer make up of volunteers.  Based on Peace Corps statistics, out of 7,213 currently serving volunteers only 29% of Peace Corps Volunteers are minorities.  There are only 5 volunteers within my cohort that represent that racial minoirty.  Even though there are volunteers who represent a myriad of other nationalities, the five of us are so visibly un-American.

But, because there’s never been a real complaint by any of us on how insensitive Americans can be, “our group doesn’t have a problem with diversity” according to a cis-white-male volunteer.  Having spoken with other volunteers who represent racial diversity, there is a problem.  There’s a problem when people have to speak about their problems with each other because a HCN staff member wasn’t aware how a comment could be hurtful.  There’s a problem when volunteers of racial diversity have to tell incoming volunteers to decide how they want to handle being asked for pictures, or being touched or yelled at from across the street.  There’s a problem when any volunteer chooses to ignore or not acknowledge that there’s a problem.

As I did in the previous post, here are small snippets of conversations that I’ve had with other volunteers and what they’ve said in situations that I would’ve loved to have experienced more compassion, and less “lets make this conversation about me”:

1. I was having a conversation with a volunteer a couple of weeks after being at permanent site, and by this point I was truly feeling like I was trapped in a zoo. Some people would change the station on their car radios as I’d walk by to rap (largely Ja Rule…not even good rap), and they’d stare at me and the first question they would ask is if I’m from Africa (this was before the popularity of the Indian soap operas), making me feel as though I had to defend my “Americanness.”  I was looking for support from someone I trusted and I got—“but we’re all getting stared at, Alicia. I get stared at all the time and they ask if I’m Russian.”  And my response?  “When you tell them you’re American do they ask you where you’re really from, or do they just accept that response?”
2. “Do you honestly believe that people think you’re black?” Awesome. Not only do I have to defend my American status, but as a mixed person, I also have to defend the black-gene that apparently isn’t clearly present.
3. “Why don’t you just let them take your picture, it’s not like you’re going to see them again?”
4. “I know you didn’t want me to go off on that HCN, but he called you the N-word and I felt like I had to stand up for you?” What? By yelling and going off on him like you’ve been raised by animals when I begged you not to?
5. “But we’re all diverse”—okay, white cis-American male.
6. “I know you’re not [PCV name]. I do have mixed grandchildren you know?  Heck, my son-in-law looks like [prominent athlete]—big, black, and bald.”  This comment was meant to be well-intentioned and is actually something my granddad might find appropriate to say.

Some of those statements are seemingly innocent, and I know that no ill will was necessarily meant when they were said.  As a reminder, I know that diversity is more than just the racial or ethnic make-up of a person but, the unfortunate part of all of this is that as long as you’re white, the first part of your ethnic diversity will never be questioned.  And in a country like Armenia, your ethnic/racial make-up is probably the hardest thing to deal with because it is ever present in your appearance.  It’s not something that you can just hide, or skirt around.  It just is.

Being a black volunteer means representing an entire race of people in a country where there is a sense of racial superiority to Africans and Asians.  I’ve never heard of a white volunteer being told “Ni hoa” repeatedly by one of their students, or having another volunteer get cut-off by a HCN to be told “Namaste.”  And while white volunteers are interesting to look at when they come into a community, I’ve never heard of these volunteers having to vehemently defend their American origins with Armenians (but that’s not to say it doesn’t happen).  Then having any amount of my experience diminished to “I’m getting stared at too” is like an extra slap in the face.

But I’ve also had those moments where I’ve displayed my own ignorance towards other volunteers, and one comment so clearly sticks out because the second I said it I immediately felt ashamed and embarrassed with myself.  I was talking with another PCV and this person mentioned a coming of age ceremony that they were hoping to take part in when they go back home (not to the states).  I really wanted to know what this ceremony was, and I was just so interested, but in typical Alicia fashion I spoke without thinking.  “What type of ceremony is it? Is it primitive?” Talk about a face-in-palm moment.  This just shows that we all have those moments that we need to be taught and corrected on what is acceptable language, and what isn’t.  It is also a lesson in that we really do need to police ourselves and to ask ourselves, “is what I’m about to say going to offend the person in front of me based on their diverse background?”

Peace Corps Armenia tried to address the problems of diversity by adding it on to the responsibilities of the Peer Support Network (PSN), making it PSDN.  However, there always seemed to be contention as to the role of volunteers on the committee as it looked to address the problems of diversity.  Instead of allowing the committee to have safe space discussions, because staff didn’t want volunteers converging in Yerevan for these discussions to take place (despite the fact that volunteers converge in Yerevan on most weekends to do other things).   Don’t get me wrong, staff also wanted a solution, but couldn’t agree on how to solve the problem with those members.  PSDN as we’ve known it is being disbanded and replaced by a PSN and, when the time comes in the Fall, a separate Diversity Committee will be in place.  No one knows what either of those committees are going to look like, and we can only hope that whatever initiatives that are set out to address diversity and to support volunteers of racial, religious, and sexual diversity, are allowed to go forward and be supported by staff.

I recently spoke with another PCV who has told me before that dealing with the racial diversity in Armenia just sucks so much (I promise it was said much more elegantly).  We were talking about how it isn’t really a problem when it comes to volunteers who see there might be a problem or who see that there might be difference in what racially diverse volunteers go through in our services.  It’s the volunteers who don’t think there’s even a problem, that look at our current political climate and aren’t remotely unnerved by what’s happening.  It’s the volunteers who refuse to engage in the conversation, because they don’t have “that” problem and they’re never going to be asked to support their friend who may be having this problem.

I’m reading this book called Radical Hope: Letters of Love and Dissent in Dangerous Times, and one of the essays by Kate Shatz, “What I Mean,” really spoke to me.  There’s a part that reads:

Dear good white people (you know who you are), I have a secret to tell you: There is no such thing.  There are only white people who work to do good, just things.  You are an ally because of your actions, not because you say you are.  You’re an ally when you call out racist comments, when you listen and learn, when you work in solidarity with people of color to dismantle institutional racism, when your efforts and actions are felt by others. Not just when you wear a safety pin.

Dear white people, we are going to get it wrong, but we cannot ever stop trying.  This is a challenge because white people hate being wrong.  We’re raised to believe that we know it all, which is especially easy when we’re reflected in every book, every morality tale, every film, every history lesson.

Here’s the thing.  This post isn’t meant to call out or target any one person.  It’s not meant to put the onus of race talks on solely one race—we all harbor racial biases.  We all look at someone’s outward appearance and make assumptions about everything from socioeconomic situations to what someone’s Myers-Briggs personality type is.  It’s just, while we have the opportunity to have honest, compassionate discussions in a relatively safe space, then we should.  Because the honest truth is that as Peace Corps Volunteers we were given the opportunity to serve in a place much different than we’re used to, we’re meant to be a reflection of every good American ideal, and to acknowledge those ideals which were built on foundations of hate or fear.  In order to accurately represent each other, we need to be open to having these uncomfortable conversations with one another, so that we can answer questions and correct assumptions in the communities in which we serve.

I’ll forever be grateful to the volunteer who called me right after Philando Castile was shot and murdered killed by a police officer and asked questions that were so difficult for her to ask.  She felt that as a white woman from just right of the mid-west, she might harbor some misunderstanding stemming from not being around a lot of black people.  She asked questions and we had an honest, and hard conversation about what race looks like, and what all of these deaths by officers mean and feel like.

Have these difficult conversations with people, have your opinions but talk about them with someone whose opinion on race differs from your own.  Try and find understanding of how your Peace Corps experience, as difficult as it may be, is harder for volunteers of color.  And be there for those people.  It’s going to be hard, but it’s something that has to be done.

[1] For the record, I lock my door whenever I get into my car door, because I’ve been conditioned as an independent woman who enjoys doing things solo to protect myself by first locking my door.  I do double check my locks at red lights, but more often than not those checks are done in neighborhoods that are predominantly black.

Teachable Moments in Diversity Part 1

My friends and family ask me all the time about what it’s like to serve in Armenia.  They ask me the basic questions about what I’m doing here, whether it’s as worthwhile as I thought it was going to be, what I’m planning on doing afterwards, etc.  But no one really asks about what challenges are present for me outside of my inability to get Reese’s Cups, Chick-fil-a, a Wawa Sandwich at midnight, or not having an A/C unit in my apartment in 100 degree heat.  There are difficulties in being here that have nothing to do with the physical hardships that I come up against.  The biggest challenge that I constantly have to deal with has to do with the fact that I’m so clearly not white.

As a volunteer, I am constantly being changed and my own thoughts about how things should be also change a lot.  But me being here and being different from what’s expected gives me the opportunity to challenge preconceived notions on the part of HCNs on what American diversity looks like.In the words of Wendy Lee, RPCV Cameroon, “Peace Corps is less a development organization and more a training ground for cultural sensitivity…[my Peace Corps service] equipped me with the important ability to approach a different culture with humility and respect, and to listen, and to understand.”

But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t suck sometimes, and more often than not, it can sometimes feel more like a hardship rather than an opportunity to engage in teachable moments.

Before we start diving into this difficult and unique hardship, I think it’s important to say that this is going to be a two-part post.  I have a lot to say about racial diversity and how it relates to how I view my Peace Corps service, and I feel like it’s not really fair to talk about ignorant things that have been said to me by HCN’s without talking about some of the ignorance that I have gotten from PCVs, and some ignorance that I have also imparted.  It’s not fair to point the finger and judge the ignorance of people that get the vast majority of their opinions from TV shows and state sponsored news that often reflects the worst of society (black people are drug dealers, gang bangers, only athletes, exceptionally good singers, African, etc.), or that perpetuate the (sometimes true) stereotypes of people.  It’s hard to only judge on the ignorance of a community whose text books reflect the ignorance perpetuated by some of these preconceived notions.

When I came to Armenia, I knew that I would face challenges as a person of color.  I had read in the cultural handbook about some of the difficult things that volunteers of color, or of other ethnicities, have had to deal with while serving—more than being stared at.  And while I expected this to be difficult, I really felt like those challenges were non-existent for me during PST.  There were a few minor things during PST that were tilt-of-the-head worthy, but for the most part, I felt really insulated from any of the “zoo” feeling some of the other volunteers would get.  I would hang out with one person in particular who would have people converge on them like that PCV was part of an exhibit on rare and beautiful things.  I was more often-than-not shunted to the side, because this other volunteer looked much more ethnic than I did, and therefore, more interesting.  At the time, I would think to myself, “I’m so glad this doesn’t happen to me.”

But a year later, I almost wish that it did happen to me more during PST, because I would’ve been able to practice dealing with the unwanted attention and the questions of my parentage, nationality, and heritage in a “safe space.”  I never learned how to deal with these moments with the grace and understanding that other volunteers of color seem to deal with it.  When I moved to my village, my host family had enough sense to not delve right into the uncomfortable questions that I will sometimes get from taxi drivers or community members.  My counterpart and director also held back from asking me questions I knew had to be burning inside of them.  Granted, both my counterpart and my director had spent time in the U.S., and knew that Americans come in all shades.  My host family too, had experienced four other volunteers before me, and I’m sure they had met other volunteers who looked more like me through them.  But the questions and comments did come, and still come today.

Some of these questions and comments have been:

“Can I take a picture?”

“Are you Indian?”

“Where in Africa are you from?”
“…yeah, but where are you really from?”

“But, you must have a passport other than American?  You’re clearly Indian or African or Asian.”

“Who’s the negro in your family?”

“How’d you get your lips to get that big?”
“HEYYYY sevi chocolat come over here”

“I really want to have a black baby.”

“Hold my baby so I can take a picture.”

“Why can’t I have your picture?  I want your picture.”

“You’re from America, and I’m from Zimbabwe.”

“Ni hoa”

“Namaste”

At first glance, not all of these questions and comments look as bad as they sometimes feel, but part of that is because I’ve left out all context.  While the selfie culture is a real thing here, and I do get asked by my students and friends to be in pictures, it’s the people that I don’t know that are bold enough to make me feel like I’m an oddity.  There have been so many times where I’ve been traveling, or in the bigger town near my village where complete strangers will come up to me and ask for my picture.  They’ll stop me and insist upon it, and when I say no (and am firm in my no), they have the nerve to be offended and hurt. Like, “why won’t this girl who is clearly something take a picture with me so I can show all my Facebook friends?!”  Sometimes, I’m not even asked to have my picture taken, people will try to do it sneakily.  Just the other week, I went to help my host family harvest apricots when some of the migrant workers that were working for my host family started asking questions.  My host mom explained who I was and why I was there, and when asked if I understood what was being said, allowed me to show off.  However, when I was helping my host brother’s wife clean up lunch, I noticed a woman trying to sneakily take my picture (after we all decided no pictures would be taken because we all looked like crap).  At least she had the decency to look ashamed when I caught her.

Other questions about my ethnicity come from cab drivers, and people I’m just meeting.  But it isn’t the question that’s bothersome, it’s what will sometimes happen after I say that I’m from America.  Some of the drivers just nod their heads, while others like my friend’s landlady will ask other probing questions as sensitively as they can, like “oh, so you’re African American?” or “Ok, but your ancestors came from Africa, right?”  But more often then not you have the ones that are so insistent that I’m not telling the full story, or that I’m lying, which makes these moments some of the worst.

Also, because I don’t look like the stereotypical black or mixed woman, and I have features that could easily belong to other ethnicities, I get some of the mocking comments of “ni hao” or “namaste.”  With the popularity of the Indian soap operas that everyone is so obsessed with (myself included—but only The Rejected) I do get stopped more often.  My host mom thought it was hilarious when I told her about a recent trip to Yerevan where a boy around 11 years-old cut my friend off to stop me to bow and say, “namaste” because he and his mother were convinced I was Indian.

In retrospect, some of these situations can be amusing, but in the moment, I can feel myself become uncomfortable, because suddenly there’s so much pressure to say and do the right thing in representing what feels like the entirety of my race, instead of just representing myself.  I mean, what if I say the wrong thing?  How can I represent a whole race when I don’t fit into the boxes of most of the stereotypes?  Why didn’t I take African studies in college so I can better represent “my people?!”

So, how do I deal with this?

Well, that really depends on the day, and it also depends on the rules I’ve given myself to follow.  Some of those rules include not posing for pictures with strangers.  While I know some volunteers who will take pictures whenever someone asks, I’m just not one of those people.  I personally feel like doing so normalizes this idea that whenever someone who looks different enters my community that it’s okay to demand pictures from them.  I don’t mind taking pictures with people whom I have some type of relationship, and on the rare occasion I might take a picture with a stranger for someone who has been really good to me.  An example of that was one of the cleaning ladies at our PST training school who went above and beyond.

Other rules I have is answering questions for people who are generally interested about my background, but not engaging with people who become rude or just want to be ignorant.  And I definitely won’t engage with anyone who shouts at me from across the street.  An example of what that might look like would be when a teacher at my school began to ask me questions about whether I’d see my family that went into a “where did you get your dark skin from?”  When I didn’t understand her question, she used the word negro, which literally means black in Russian rather than using the Armenian word for black sev.  I wasn’t offended and I knew that she was asking in a way that wouldn’t make me feel awkward.  An example of a get-up-and-walk-away moment was at a bar when some Syrian Armenian guy was trying to pick up anyone asked me my background and insisted on calling me Africa.  Instead of saying what I wanted to say (“and you’re not really Armenian, Syria.”) I got up and left.

Finally, if I can, I’ll try and look at these moments as “teachable” moments by answering questions and engaging in the awkward.  How will people know what’s correct and what’s not if you never have these moments with people, especially HCNs?  I was encouraged to listen to this really amazing podcast on Posh Corps called Teachable Moments.  This particular podcast is a discussion by Black Peace Corps Volunteers and what their experience was like, and I was struck by a comment made by Adrienne Hall where she says “it wasn’t that people were trying to deny me of being an American because I’m black…but it feels that you’re denying your roots when you say you’re only American…it feels like you’re setting yourself apart.”  Although Adrienne’s experience was elsewhere, she embodies this idea for me that I’m more defensive about “where I’m from,” because I can’t answer that question.  And if I had had more sense, I would’ve thought about this question before coming into Peace Corps, rather than winging it like I so often do.  I think I would’ve prepared myself to better handle these teachable moments that so often happen in a Peace Corps country.