Black Lives Matter: The Three White Men: A Treatise on why Practicing What you Preach Matters
Written by Sagal Arboshe (BA English Literature, MA Global Development)
Like many other second year students, I spent the spring of 2018 preoccupied with selecting the modules I would be studying in my third year. The modules I recall going backwards and forwards on the most were Modern Literature and Postcolonial Literature. While my friends spoke of its intriguing reading list and top quality teaching team as a reason to choose Postcolonial, I struggled to set aside my fears that studying Postcolonial Literature would mean opening myself up to twelve weeks of being spoken to about racism by people who would never experience it as anything other than a trope in fiction. In contrast, Modern Literature and the host of familiar faces on its reading list would provide a space where I could express an opinion without being made an involuntary case study. But, no one asked why I — a black woman — wouldn’t want to study a module full of BAME narratives and I was relieved. No one asking meant that I didn’t have to say ‘because I don’t want to spend twelve weeks reading about slaves and feeling angry — and bored.’ Maybe I should have expressed my hesitation out loud, so that someone could have corrected me for assuming that post-colonialism means slavery, and that everything I’d read would be the same. I failed to consider the fact that studying Postcolonial Literature would be a rare opportunity to read and engage with literature written by people outside of the conventional canon.
Ultimately, I enrolled onto Postcolonial Literature not because of the phenomenal staff or the scope for debate, but because I was curious and the list of books and authors I’d never heard of enticed me. Then, and now, I have felt guilty for my reticence about studying Postcolonial Literature, and for my presumption that I just wouldn’t like it. Progressing through the module exposed me to a wealth of countries, narratives and histories I’d never even considered — or been taught of — before. From aboriginal poetry through to memoirs on a Palestinian man’s diaspora, my view of the world (and the people in it) expanded and my interest in pursuing a master’s degree in development flourished. Retrospectively, I understand that this reluctance came from a fear of studying a module that embodied an ethnic outspokenness; a module literally about dissecting the thoughts and voices of characters of colour, written by authors colour. This was the antithesis of the quiet harmony I’d established. Life has shown me that black women are not rewarded for being outspoken, or even for being silent, and the concept of being on a module about BAME voices was terrifying and unsettled the quiet, agreeable status quo of my life.
If, like me, you passed through the British state-school system then, you’re probably ignorant of the details of the British Empire, because it’s not something that we’re really taught about. British history should be something to take pride in, and the realities of slavery — genocide, oppression and the theft of indigenous lands — aren’t exactly a point of pride (at least I hope that they’re not). The glaring omission of the British Empire during the social history themed Opening Ceremony of the London Olympics is an example of the extent to which the establishment seeks to silence its shameful history. The problem here is two-fold in that white silence facilitates a lack of accountability, and that white omission prevents the victims of colonialism from accessing reparations, or indeed, their cultural and historical legacies.
If you’re somehow exactly like me, then you watched a film about a young, enslaved boy on a ship to America during a Y8 history lesson. In this case, then you’ll remember your teacher crouching down next to you and asking quietly if you’re ok. My attention switched from the screen to the classroom and for the first time, twelve-year-old me properly realised that I was the only person in the room who wasn’t white. I say properly realised, because when you’re the only person of colour in a room, you see it immediately — just like other people do when they look at you. But when you realise that you’re the only person of colour in a room, it’s generally because someone has given you cause to register and reflect on this. That was the first time in my life that I confronted the fact that adults would treat me differently. Sadly, it wasn’t the last. My life has been full of “oh you’re so well spoken”, “my grandma doesn’t like black people, but always comments on how nice your makeup is and how well dressed you are”, “it’s so nice that you’re not one of those sensitive ones and that I can talk to you.” It took me a long time to register the racism behind these ‘compliments’ and for many years I took a lot of pride in my lack of conventional blackness.
The product of an ethnicity that likes to separate itself from Africa in praise of its Arab roots, and a suburban Yorkshire childhood, at home I was frequently told to take pride in my soft hair and to protect my medium brown skin from the sun. At school and amongst friends these opinions were never intentionally reinforced, but it was impossible not to wish I looked like my white friends and to not feel ashamed of the ways I was different. Throughout my A-levels and my undergraduate and postgraduate studies my essays have always been focused on gender, feminism, inequality and discrimination based on factors of birth. I have always been quick to point out how “it’s hard out here for a bitch”, but never felt capable of expressing what it’s like to have that hardship intensified by race — or felt comfortable to talk about race at all. It’s hard to enter modules and discussions and read books about something you try to separate yourself from as a way of gaining acceptance. Over time I realised that I didn’t need to practice self-hatred or denial to gain approval from people I didn’t need in my life. It’s nice that your grandma likes my makeup, but if she doesn’t like the shade of my foundation then I don’t like her or need her backhanded compliments.
Retrospectively, I’ve come to understand that my reluctance to study Postcolonial Literature, and my resentment towards listening to prospective white peers and lecturers engage in conversations about race, stemmed from my own deep-rooted fear of doing so. A lifetime of being a black woman living in white spaces had cautioned me against appearing too invested or interested in discussions of race and racism. Girls who look like me and speak up about racism aren’t ‘woke’ or ‘informed’ — they’re branded angry and inaccurate. They make people uncomfortable and the tainted pride I took in keeping my mouth shut and not being “one of those sensitive ones” was completely oppositional to being a black woman who spoke out about the injustice she and others experience.
I was scared of being on a module that would uproot the quiet status quo of my life and draw me into discussions with people who were allowed to be passionate and play the devil’s advocate, where I would be dismissed as an angry black woman. In some ways, my worries were manifested and the thoughtless, ignorant comments I heard in seminars were numerous. I recall a moment when a white student reprimanded me for underestimating the extent to which western education revolutionises the lives of African women in Tsitsi Dangarembga’s ‘Nervous Conditions.’ I — a black African woman in a British university class — raised an eyebrow in bemusement and she stared back at me in bold ignorance. Despite this, I credit Postcolonial Literature with giving me the most comprehensive and in-depth education on colonialism that I have had during eighteen-years within the British school-system. For the first time I — and many others — were in an environment where everyone had to talk about empire, diaspora, appropriation and colonialism. Far from being stifled and afraid to speak, I felt safe and emboldened enough to share my own interpretations and to debate the readings of others. It was liberating to read about the lives of characters who I imagined looked like me, written by women who may also look like me, sometimes even in a language spoken by me. And it was exhausting to return to a reality where these things were far from true.
In ‘Nervous Conditions’ Dangarembga says that “it’s bad enough […] when a country gets colonised, but when the people do as well! That’s the end, really, that’s the end.” Reflecting on my own struggle to love myself and to not silence and alter my nature to fit a shape approved of by racists makes this quote take on a new resonance. Sometimes, it’s not just about decolonising our curriculums and our institutions, but about decolonising ourselves.
I have no regrets about taking Postcolonial Literature, but by no means do I think that the module was without its flaws. The Postcolonial Literature teaching staff at the University of Leeds comprises three white men, experts in their fields and by all accounts excellent tutors and lecturers. As a literature student, I enjoyed the stimulating contact hours and the diverse, fantastic reading list. As a black student, I became more and more tired of listening to ethnic narratives be told through white voices. Postcolonial Literature taught me that in order to have comprehensive, impactful conversations about race and racism, everyone must participate. We are all responsible for breaking the quiet status quo and establishing a better norm. But this cannot be done if the only voices leading these conversations, educating us about our shared racial histories, come from a white hegemony. As individuals and institutions, we must all do better and strive for our lectures of diversity to be matched by a practical commitment to diverse hiring.
