1 semester, 4 years, 1 summer, 8 years, 2.5 years ... and now

1 semester: Oberlin High School. Two black students walk by and we say hello. I am waiting to tutor Jocelyn, or Carl, and people recognize me from the weeks gone past. This place feels pretty comfortable to me. I am glad that I have decided to tutor here.

4 years: Garfield High School in Seattle, WA. The honors classes have mainly white students in them, even though the school is fifty percent black. All of us here in honors (black and white) have either been tracked since elementary to arrive in honors, or we have been pushed by our parents and have succeeded in breaking free of the tracking system. Race relations are pretty good, considering the segregation enforced by class composition. I do notice however, that I am more free to roam the halls than the black boys, whether that be because I have a cleaner slate, or because the security is race and sex biased. (The security guards are two black men and a black woman). Every once in a while a kid is hassled because of their race, by some other kid, but almost never. Everyone I meet is pretty cool.

1 summer: Andre Lamont Chapman. We played tennis, walked, biked, talked. But I didn't want to kiss him. I was too young. Some of his friends thought he shouldn't be seeing a white girl, but he never seemed to care. I don't know what ever happened to him. I moved out of my parent's house. We went to different high-schools. Every time I go to my dad's, I want to stop by where he used to live and see if he's still there. Maybe someday I will get up the nerve...

8 years: Mount Baker neighborhood in Seattle, the poorer half. Not the waterfront or hilltop houses, but down along near where Rainer Ave. intersects with M.L.K. Blvd. A couple drug busts every so often, either up the street or around the corner. Once someone walked right up in my house while my dad was in the bathroom, and walked out with our stereo and my mom's briefcase. My parents tell me they hear gunshots at night, but I sleep like a log and never hear a thing except loud M80's during the day. My mom leads a group of campfire kids for about four years, almost all of them my friends from around the neighborhood. Almost all of the kids are black except for me and Leda, and once we had some Native American kids, but they dropped out. We go camping, which is new for everyone but me. We go swimming, and a lot of the girls where a T-shirt and shorts because they don't have a suit. I'm on the swim team and I have one. Emily lives around the block and Carmel lives across the street. Sometimes two of us team up against the third because we have a fight. Or Monique, from the next block, joins in and it is two against two. Sometimes I get teased because I can't dance as well, or double-dutch hardly at all; but I am the youngest in the group so I am use to it. (Plus, I am cocky and need a little putting into place.) Emily's oldest sister, Margie, has a new baby. When he gets older he is called Nuk Nuk, even though his real name is Isiah Ramone. I remember dancing over at Margie's house once, at a party. I remember having some good times as a kid, but I never liked to watch the Young and the Restless and everyone else did. I also remember being real glad that I did not have to have corn rows put in my hair, since it took so long and hurt so much for everyone else.

2.5 years: Oberlin College. There's a small campus, but not much community. Racism. Oh, boy, I never thought I would find so much racial tension and prejudice here. I guess, if anything, I thought there might be racism towards black kids, since they are a minority at Oberlin. And maybe there might be racist white kids coming from some communities where only white people live, or something. I do realize that there is probably some of this white to black racism on campus that I don't experience. But I definitely did not expect the silent currents of hostility against white me. Not that I feel this from all the black students. Quite the opposite, from only a few. But the weird thing is, that everyone seems to accept this racism here, as though it is just a permanent part of life. Everyone. (do not misunderstand me to mean black folks or any other color of folks). It is as though we let the wrongs of the past excuse wrongs of the present. And even I don't hardly ever speak up for myself, because I don't really know what to say. I do not get harassed. I am not sworn at, or beaten up. My rights are not really ever broken, but I do not feel like Liz Churchill sometimes. I feel white. And the other times, I feel thankful, when I am finally free to be me.

But even then, I don't think I should have to feel thankful, to find a fellow human being who is willing to judge me on my personality first. And neither should anyone else, of any race, although people of all races here probably feel this way sometimes. I think we as a student body have come to accept as the inevitable, what is completely changeable. I go to class, say it is a AAST literature class, and I feel funny vibes from some of the black kids. So I think to myself, maybe it's just me? Maybe I'm rude, or obnoxious, or snotty, or maybe I act in some white way that they find annoying. (Hmmm... Which one of those does not belong?) Then I go talk to someone I know from back in my dorm, and they're black, but they still like me; so then I think "it must be the way I talk in class." So then I try to act more polite, or talk less, or I don't raise my hand in class to read aloud because I am afraid that they (the kids that give me a funny feeling) are thinking that I should participate less because I'm white and this is an AAST class. And I never really understand what's going on, or how to change it. I think it's time to try something new.

I do not think that we as a student body need to accept racism, or any other closed-mindedness, in order to have a functional campus. Non-confrontational habits keep the peace, or the silence, but the silence is hardly helping any of us grow and learn. Not that I am advocating angry confrontation, but even if we talk about these problems to those that we trust, it is a step in the right direction. What is the point of accepting bigotry, when we come to college to challenge ourselves and our ideas? All of us come to this school with some sort of problems that we are trying to work out. Nobody here is perfect, even friends of the same sex and race and class and sexual preference have differences to resolve. Silence is not going to get us anywhere. Maybe this is too touchy to even approach in this century, but I am not convinced. I know other students, of other races, feel the same way as I do; and maybe if we start talking, then something, someday, might change. Maybe then we can begin to understand people as people. And then maybe we can build a nation and community and our individual selves based on the people we are on the inside, instead of labels pinned to our skin.

"We must live together as Sisters and Brothers, or perish together as fools." -Rev. MLK

"An eye for an eye, and the world goes blind." -Mahatma Gandhi

--A couple weeks later. Done some thinking. Talked about the piece.--

Maybe it's not just racial problems, maybe there is a general lack of respect for other students on campus? It seems to me that more people smile at me downtown, in the grocery store, at work, and on the Greyhound, then here on campus. Is it my race? If it is my race, then I wonder why my white skin doesn't bother people everywhere else I go? I know some kids here that are of black skin who get treated badly by some of their fellow black skinned people. Because of their sexuality. Maybe it has nothing to do with race, and there is just a higher standard of rudeness?

And yet, who am I to say that someone is rude, because they are looking down, unless I ask? How do I know that the rudeness is racism? Do I ask? No. In fact, for all I know, the people at Oberlin that strike me as rude might actually be treating me the way they treat everyone else. Maybe I am accustomed to smiles and eye contact being the normal greeting, and these people who are confusing me are from somewhere different. I just interpret what I do not really understand, trying to guess what seems like the most plausible reason to me. And sometimes, I am probably wrong. But sometimes, I bet I'm right. It's hard to know what to do. Staying quiet about the problem does not seem like the answer. So I write.

-Liz Churchill is a college junior

Ullmann pulled her own card by writing Of Milk and Chocolate

(The following is a response to a piece entitled Of Milk and Chocolate, written by Rhoda Ulmann)

According to what you have written, according to the fact that you don't know who you are and the very essences of what you are, I'm here to let you know according to what you wrote who you seem to be.

Who are you?

Oh, I don't have to know you.

I'm just a concerned female.

Letting you know that you're not the only light face in the group of black and browns. I don't know you. But I do know that you won't "be running your fingers through any naps", "suckin' on any African essence", or touching any "glistening tan body" of mine. My man is mine so get your own shit. Guys in this world are free game, but there is a line that a person just doesn't cross. Go for what you know and get what you like, but don't be upset if you find yourself in the same situation. I'm not denying that this sort of thing isn't going on. Everyone has preferences.

Oh, I don't have to know you.

Now you know that I'm prepared to stand up and fight for what's mine. I'm not sure "what you're good for", but maybe you should reread your poem and think twice as to whether what you are is something that anyone would want.

Who are you?

I don't need to and don't want to know you.

I never saw "you floatin' in", but the reason I paid you no mind was because you can't take shit from me. I really don't need to know you. You think that you be stealin' my man or someone else's man, but guess what..... You're wrong! I wish we could have had a conversation before you went and embarrassed yourself like that. From what I read you're a.... "toy", "temporary", "a little plaything", "just a notch on a guys belt", and "the queen bee" of what? And this is okay with you? I guess this would have to be okay with you considering the fact that these were your own words.

If the point of your poem was to call someone out, well, you have succeeded. I just wanted to give you a pat on the back. Do you know who you called out? Do you know who's card you just pulled? YOUR OWN!! And you make it sound like something to be proud of. Instead of becoming part of the solution you become part of the problem. The problem begins with you because, just like the beginning of your poem, you need complete strangers to tell you who you are. Why don't you try to spend some time in order to find out who you deem yourself to be? The very definition of your existence is determined by yourself and your own actions. Don't you have a sense of worth?

Maybe you didn't get a chance to really read your poem because this phrase doesn't sound like a good thing to me. "Like a disease my whiteness infects you." It doesn't even sound like what any good man would want. Guys out there.. all guys.. I have a question for you. Do you really want a disease infecting you? This statement sounds like a generalization about white people coming from a white person. What sense does that make? Girlfriend, you need to be defending or portraying your people in a positive light. You may like black men and that's fine. There's nothing wrong with that because I like black men myself. As a matter of fact I love men, period. Their very essence is appealing in a sensual kind of way, but what you need to do is re-think why you like them. It seems to me that all you want is a good fuck by a black man. You seem to not be able to appreciate them for who they are, what they are, and what they stand for. All you seem to see is what they can do for you. But when a guy steps to a female in this respect they get upset. It seems that you look at guys in a way that makes you feel important instead of looking at what's reality.

You may think that "you swim through the crowd" like a shark. You may think that you "feel chocolate eyes melting you". You may pucker up your thin lips. You may think that "all the doors are open for you".

But little do you know... You have a lot to learn about....

If you think that you have been called a "white ho" and didn't take the time to figure out why, maybe you should have a look at your own words and see if you have proved or disproved their theory.

Who are you?
No one of consequence.....
I don't know you.....
I don't need to know you.....
You haven't been where I've been.....
And you never will.....
Thinking the way you do.....
So don't worry about that because.....
You won't get the chance!!

-Miranda Morton is a college first-year

Of Milk and Chocolate was not intended to hurt communities

Since the recent publication of The Voice, many people have approached me and asked me about my article, "Of Milk and Chocolate." I have been talking to Prof. Hernton about one of his books, Sex and Racism in America and I am well aware that the topic we both address is quite volatile. Although Prof. Hernton thinks that there's not much more I can write about my poem, I would like to try and answer a few questions people have asked me about the article. Let this not be the end to the questions so much as a starting point for more discussion.

First, I understand that I've hurt people. But what strikes me in the conversations I've had with individuals, is that each person has focused on the effect the poem has had on his/her community and has found that the poem is most hurtful to the community with which they identify.

The poem was intended to question many people's roles. A superfluous reading will lead to an interpretation of the poem as an attack on the Black community or of Black women. But if the poem is read from a broader perspective, as I had intended, it may be seen as a satire. (Some may also perceive it as attacking or exacerbating certain sexual stereotypes of white women.) The fact that I am a white woman does not mean I cannot examine critically the activities of other white women.

Many students have failed to distinguish between the voice of the poem and the voice of the author. I imagine that this is only to be expected given that the narrator and the author are both white women. But this poem could have written by anyone. Thinking that the narrator's voice is my voice does not give any credit to the author's imagination and the author's awareness of power dynamics, and the tensions between races and sexes. I write what I see.

"Why then did you not attach some kind of note or disclaimer explaining that you were removed from the poem and that it was a satire?" people have asked me. I feel that attaching a disclaimer to the poem would be too easy, too safe, and dishonest. I do not feel the sense of empowerment or lust that I, as the author, instilled in the narrator. But I nonetheless think that I must continue to question the extent to which I've internalized popular stereotypes pervasive in the media and society at large. In writing a disclaimer, I would not only let myself off the hook too easily; I would also enable readers to identify with the author's note and thus give readers the opportunity to place themselves beyond question. The last line of the poem: "You been here?" is intended to question all our involvement, be it active or passive. To what extent does every one of us perpetuate these sexual, racial stereotypes?

I understand that the poem does not resolve anything. It only scratches the scab off a painful topic that people would rather leave alone. I don't consider this fact a criticism of the poem. I don't have any solutions to offer, nor am I quite sure what to solve. That answer has to come from all of us. The only thing I can do is write something and hope that if I have addressed a topic that effects us and the we care about, then we will talk about it.

-Rhoda Ullmann is a college sophomore