Hot Topic: Iconography and Memorialization

Hot Topic Talk-26 OCT 17

I want to talk about implicit bias. We all have this. I want to be transparent about my implicit bias and hopefully challenge you to interrogate yours.

“Daddy, why are we the only brown people every around?”

My daughter was six when she asked me this question. We were preparing to depart Phenix City, Alabama and settle in West Point, NY. My immediate reply was to “ask your mother.” I didn’t know how to begin to answer this question and it is one that has lingered in my mind since. I couldn’t tell her about the complicated nature of this question—she wouldn’t understand. Nor could I accurately describe the social complexity that lie at our next destination.

When I arrived at West Point to teach, I can remember having moments of disbelief and enthusiasm; but also, I remember feeling disconnected. Disconnected from the menagerie of city life, from the hot, sweaty, and consistency of rural Alabama life; and surprisingly, disconnected from the chaotic adventure that has largely defined my life in the Army. At West Point, I felt uncomfortable, I felt anger, and I felt Black.

Around September of 2016, following the shooting of Keith Scott in Charlotte, NC, riots and police protests seem to suck up the news cycle. This was only one of the many police shootings that would soon become ubiquitous. And as unfortunate as this may be, my mother prepared me for this realization. “The talk”, if done well, works to inoculate children to the social ills of our society. I expect to be stereotyped; I expect to work twice as hard; I expect to have to represent my race writ large; and I expect to meet some uncertain fate due to the color of my skin. Perhaps these outlooks lend themselves to the disadvantages of “the talk,” however, these outcomes will remain the same.

I reside on post here in the Stony I subdivision, I call it a utopia and if you’ve been up there, you’d know what I mean. If I asked you to define the American Dream, your list might look a lot like that of my cadets: white picket fences, kids playing in the street, mini vans and SUVs, flowers and green grass, a nuclear family with one or two dogs. This exist atop of the hill behind Michie Stadium in Stony I. When I saw it for the first time, I was taken aback. It took me some time to adjust to. Last September, I watched the Charlotte protests and I was not surprised that people reacted the way they did. There is a lot of anger and frustration in the black community and the reaction in Charlotte and Ferguson were nothing new.

I stepped outside of my front door the morning after the protests and witnessed a community where the troubles of Charlotte and other places could not exist. I remember how bright it was that morning: Kids playing in the street with little adult supervision and nice people walking their dogs, I remember many of the dogs wearing little shirts or some type of upper garment. I became immediately frustrated and angry. If that wasn’t enough, as I drove down the hill and passed Michie stadium, struggling to see, I realized that I was literally driving through clouds. I thought, “I live above the clouds, on a military base nestled in the Hudson River Valley.” At that moment I understood how a cultural divide could exist. Just how easy it is to filter the world and live within a Dream.

At that moment I also felt guilty and found myself, for months after, trying to reconcile that guilt by making a decision to take action and thwart the perpetuation of dubious ideology. More specifically, along with teaching cadets to write, I make it my mission here to help cadets confront their implicit bias.

I’m telling you this for a reason. I think the same dream world that exists atop of that hill exists in the minds of many people in this country. Truthfully, we’re afraid of our private selves. To interrogate our subconscious requires a confrontation with the abysmal.

Truthfully, I never thought deeply about race and culture until I arrived here, at West Point. My pre-Army years were spent in an echo chamber. I grew up in a housing project on the west side of Atlanta in the 80s. The crack era definitely influenced my community. I vividly remember witnessing drug deals and overdoses; police raids that resulted in my friends and family going to juvenile and jail; I remember being in the cross fire during many drive-bys. The protocol of my three brothers and I were to spread eagle on the bedroom floor at the sound of random gun fire in the night, the four of us falling from our bunk beds simultaneously like an Army battle drill, this at 10 years of age. And people laugh and smirk when I tell them Ranger school was easy.

I also remember never seeing white people in my community. There was Joseph, so light-skin that he was ostracized by other black boys. And that is a thing too, but I don’t remember any white residence in the almost 460 unit housing complex. There were some white police officers, many of whom we considered friendly; we actually called them “Officer Friendly”—we knew when they were around, we wouldn’t worry about random gun fire or fights where knives would be used. My mom worked two jobs and relied on my then teenage sister to watch my three brothers and I. My aunt would often pick us up and take us on errands she had to run. I remember going to Buckhead a lot. This is a northern suburb in Atlanta, it is also where I witnessed communities of white people for the first time. This was around 1991. Big houses, luxury cars, khakis and collared shirts, boys with their fathers, and girls shopping with their mothers.

I could not understand why Buckhead seemed so far from my home, not by distance, but by cultural activity. I imagined how those little boys lived; what was happening in their communities while I was ditching school to emulate drug dealers, shooting dice, and such in my community.

I’m telling you this because for a lot of people these conditions are still real. Some of our cadets come from places like this, many of our young Soldiers do as well. It seemed to me that the people in Buckhead didn’t care about what was going on in Allen Temple, my housing project. It seemed that they lived in a place where they didn’t have to care, it didn’t affect them and I don’t blame them. But I also think of that day in Stony I in this moment.

I do know that the result of such disparity is partially linked to the reasons we’re here today. We cannot address racial reconciliation without talking about the socio-economic and political variables that make division possible.

I entered JROTC in high school and immediately found an escape from the projects.

For whatever reason, I remember a particular morning, my sophomore year of high school. A West Point cadet entered my JROTC classroom. He was in full dress, I remember only because the uniform top resembled the same one that the monkeys wore in the Wizard of Oz. He said, I’m from the United States Military Academy at West Point. I was floored. I’d never heard of such a thing; he was a black cadet, he walked different, he talked different, and he seemed proud of what he was doing. At that point, I’d never seen that before.

Long story short, my grades were too bad to apply, my test scores even worst, but I knew that this Army thing was bigger than I originally thought. I entered Tuskegee University only because those JROTC instructors saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself. Truthfully, in the 9th grade, I wanted to be like the drug dealers in my neighborhood, after all, their lives looked better than mine. This matters in particular housing projects and ghettos across the country today.

At Tuskegee, I learned about the history of my country. I learned about myself. Tuskegee is one of many HBCUs (Historically Black Colleges and Universities). Their establishment exists in the necessity to educate a people who were historically denied access to knowledge. The iconography of the place communicate the importance of knowledge, leadership, and service. The demographics of Tuskegee were 98% black, only unlike the projects, this echo chamber consists of a variety of blackness that many modern day intellectuals likened to Mecca.

The important aspect regarding my Tuskegee experience was the reinforcement of resilience, ingenuity, and creativity. Lessons of these values were taught through stories of slavery, reconstruction, Jim Crow, and segregation. I’ve recognized that cadets of color here struggle to explore this aspect of their identity.

At Tuskegee, I became comfortable in my own skin and the Buckhead boys didn’t bother me as much. When Black people say Black Pride, or Black Excellence, this is what we mean. Owning our history, despite being on the receiving end of atrocity, learning to prosper from it—this is solidarity, not divisiveness.

On September 11, 2001, a Tuesday morning, our Nation was attacked. I understood the gravity of the moment and that day I chose to branch Infantry. During the remainder of my time at Tuskegee, I realized the trauma of years of racial atrocity, for when I began to publicize my goal of branching Infantry, I was met with negativity and doubt. “Why would you want to fight for a country that had done so much harm to black people? Instead get a trade? Etc.” I understood this sentiment and if you wonder why the combat arms lacks officers of color, look to history for the answer. I branched Infantry anyway and I have loved the branch immensely.

My assimilation into whiteness came at Fort Benning, GA during my time as an Infantry lieutenant. My IOBC class contained only 8 Black officers in a class of approximately 320. Because of the things I learned at Tuskegee, I was confident in my own skin. But unfortunately, because I had not had extensive interactions with white people, I had presumptions about the things they believed. I had implicit bias.

My mind would always go back to the white people in Buckhead, I assumed they were affluent; I assumed they were more knowledgeable, and I assumed that they didn’t care about me or the folks from my community. I developed an inferiority complex. These assumptions was almost validated one morning when a white peer, in uniform, called me a nigger. This wouldn’t be the last time.

This also wasn’t malicious. He assumed that because he’d heard some rap music, it was okay to call me that term. For the record, I do not use the term, but I do respect it. In that word lies a history that many people are afraid to confront.

I wasn’t surprised to learn that cadets use that term as well.

Any case, we had a conversation and that was the first of many times I’d have to play educator on behalf of black culture. It is important to understand that this is an enormous burden and this leads to what W.E.B DuBois calls Double Consciousness. [I can elaborate in the Q and A if necessary].

Alongside the Tuskegee and Fort Benning experience lies another history at play—the Lost Cause myth. An effort to mythologize and romanticize the Civil War and the institution of slavery. Confederate flags and monuments are so ubiquitous in the South that I often pass them unknowingly. Honestly, I never gave them power. There is a confederate monument in the town square of Tuskegee, AL. and the neighbor directly across the street from a house I own in Phenix City, AL flies one on his red pickup truck.

I’d drive from Phenix City, AL to Auburn University, my graduate school, and often to Tuskegee, AL. I’d pass cotton fields and old plantation homes. Confederate flags littered the homes along HWY 80. I never presumed those folks to be overt racists, but I also felt the weight of that southern sun on those fields next to those houses. I understand what happened there and overtime, I began to understand why there was such a disparity between my housing project Allen Temple and homes in Buckhead; between the Predominately White Auburn University and the Historically and predominately Black Tuskegee. I understood that this disparity in thought and cultural affinity is not new, but rather the work of me and the residual effects of our nation’s history.

To be clear, we, here, suffer from the residual effects of what happen in those southern fields; we suffer from the institution of slavery. Somehow, we are afraid to admit this, because in so doing, we all find ourselves implicated. I’d like to think that we have a responsibility to discuss our history so as not to repeat it.

When the events surrounding Charlottesville happened, I don’t believe many black people were surprised. Only this time, the neo-Nazis and white supremacists feel empowered to overtly act, which is to show their face. I was surprised that so many white people took notice; after all, this is not new. My frustration with these issues is not only that they occur; they’ve been occurring since 1619.

My frustration lies in the fact that acts of racism covert and overt are so intertwined with our being, it has become normative. Symbols of what some consider white southern heritage serve as rally points and vestiges to white supremacy. It plays out through implicit bias that promote stereotypes.

Ironically, and as an example, this panel was previously named Stories of Southern Heritage. As problematic as that is, the truth is that the folks who named it probably didn’t think about nor understand the legacy that that label provokes. The title Stories of Southern Heritage is actually a great one because it forces the conversation of Black southern heritage and white southern heritage vis a vis slavery. One seems to be plunder and one is claimed to be the preservation of some gallant history. Truth is, we don’t want to have these conversation…they are uncomfortable. It is easy, and I have done it, to hide behind the uniform; to not acknowledge the trauma that exist from such a tumultuous history.

I see these monuments now and sometimes I feel subordinate…sometimes I feel like I exist in the cliché “White man’s world.” Now, maybe I’m conditioned this way, or maybe this is the purpose behind some of this stuff. The implications of certain iconography.

I know that I take certain precautions when I’m in a space where people don’t look like me. I code switch so much that it has become normal for me to interact with folks without being a different kind of black person; people would say “You’re different Trivius.” or “I like you Trivius because you’ve accepted white culture.”

As ignorant as these statement are, they’re made with such regularity as to only be considered normative. This make me believe that I cannot afford misrepresentation. So I code switch.

The implications of iconography matters.

Talk about being a parent and having a son here.

It contributes to a large portion of cadets who do not see themselves in this place and are content with reminding silent about it.

Returning to the events surrounding Charlottesville, sadly, this affirms what a lot of black people believed to be true all along. I should feel angry, but I do not. It’s just business as usual and this I know is a horrible outlook, but when you’re educated about our history, it’s not surprising.

I’ll close with this sentiment.

People rally behind the idea of starting a conversation and this one is simple a continuation of a larger one, the conversation started a long time ago. Simply, read Frederick Douglass. Empathy and understanding comes as result of dealing with tough issues, much like we are doing today and here’s the pragmatic solution for me.