Race? What Race?
Race Relations at Hampshire College

he Lebrón Wiggins Pran Cultural Center is a small white building, at the perimeter of the Hampshire College campus.  A white student could easily live on the Campus for four years, never notice the Center, never set foot in it.  Many have…

Malia walked slowly towards the building, watching her step up the wooden ramp.  She swallowed, shook off her anxiety and poked her head in the door.  There was no one there.  As she walked towards an office on the second floor, Malia laughed softly at herself.  ‘This is silly,’ she thought.  Another part of her argued  ‘What am I doing here?  I don’t belong.’

The Center had once been the residence of the Master of Dakin House. In February, 1988, fifty Black, Latino, and Asian students had occupied the residence; they refused to leave until their twelve demands--- made “in an effort to increase institutional support towards students of color and issues of diversity” ---were met by the Administration. A group of more than one hundred, non-white and white students--they called themselves ‘sympathizers’--- marched from the occupied building to the Library.  They chanted, “Meet the demands, Meet the demands, Meet the demands.” For two nights, the sympathizers held a vigil outside the occupied building.  After eight days, the 1988 Dakin Agreement was drafted and signed.  The Dakin Master’s house became The Cultural Center.  A Racial Harassment Policy was instituted on campus.  A "Third World Perspective",(later replaced by a "Multicultural Expectation"), became a part of the College's core curriculum. Funds for the Cultural Center, its staff and its programming, were made a part of the College's budget

“It’s good to see you again,” Melissa Scheid Frantz said, as she toyed with the cuff of her crisp blue sleeve.

Malia eased into a chair across from Melissa.  This was their second meeting.  Malia popped her knuckles and smiled timidly.  “It’s good to see you, too,” she said.  “I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

            “That’s fine,” said Melissa.  “You’re a student; it’s understandable.”  Melissa had been the Cultural Center's Director for two years-- since the Spring of 2002.  She was the third Director, hired by the Center, in the past five years.  She watched Malia nervously, darting her eyes back and forth in appraisal.  “How’s the article coming?” she asked.

            “I’m starting over.”  Malia spoke carefully, taking slow breaths.  “I had to take a break from it for a while.  I’ve been rethinking my approach.”

            “Oh?” Melissa raised an eyebrow.  She swiveled her desk chair towards Malia.  They smiled at each other. Awkwardly.

 Melissa had peppered Malia with questions during their first interview. Two months had passed, but her questions looped through Malia’s mind.  Why are you writing this article?  What are you trying to get at?

Why indeed, Malia thought.  Oh fuck it.

 “When I first met you, I wasn’t being open.” Malia said.  “I was feeling resentful of the Cultural Center… for many reasons. That got in the way of my ability to listen.  I realized this. That's why I stopped working on the article for a while.  I’ve been thinking about it more since then, and… I think I can approach the topic , now , more honestly.  The way race relations are viewed on Campus is a problem. That's why I want to get as many perspectives as I can.  There are reasons behind people’s views, and I’d like to try to understand them—because communication isn’t happening on this campus."  Melissa nodded--and kept listening.

                                  *          *            *

            Antonius and Malia met at the Tavern, a social hole facing the Prescott quad. 

The Tavern was usually quiet on Wednesdays, but a band was playing some sort of Jazz/Heavy Metal fusion that night.  Malia and Antonius sat on a couch on the third floor, overlooking the kitchen below.  This was the first time Malia had ever interviewed Antonius

            “So,” said Malia.  She stopped flipping through her notebook and leaned a little closer to Antonius.  She looked past him, though ; he turned around to see what had distracted her.  “Sorry,” she said.  “I was just looking at that cursive writing on the wall.”  She let out a nervous laugh.

            “Oh,” he said, furrowing his brows.  “Yeah.  That’s cool.”

            They sat quietly for a moment.  She tried to read his poker face.  He didn’t move a muscle.

            “Go ahead.”

            “Is there racism on campus?” Malia asked.  Her voice trailed off near the end.  She was trying to speak over the music, but not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

            Antonius’s jaw dropped. No one had asked him that in quite some time.  After a moment, he sucked in some air and--- shut his mouth.  If racism existed everywhere, then why wouldn’t it exist at Hampshire College?  Isn’t it obvious? he thought.  Why else isshe writing about it?

            “Well…” Antonius began. He shrugged and wiped his palms on his jeans.  “You have to realize that, when I first learned English, I was told a specific definition of that word.  I was taking ESL.  I said ‘prejudism’ in one of my classes and… the teacher said that word didn’t exist… he said I should use the word 'racism' instead.  I asked him what that meant. He told me 'racism' was the idea that one race was superior to other races ; it also referred to the actions one took due to this belief.”  Antonius smiled and leaned back in his seat.

            Malia smiled too, not showing any teeth.  She scribbled a few notes, then looked up again.  “So your answer is?” she asked.

                                                *          *            *

Antonius walked down a wet gravel path in the dark.  The closest building was the Cole Science Center, a nondescript brick rectangle, with a three-story greenhouse attached to it.  Through the line of pine trees, he could see light shining out of the windows of the Cultural Center.  An "OPEN" sign hung behind the window next to the door.  He walked up to the side entrance, but it was locked.

              A dark maroon sign stood next to the ramp that led to the Center. “Lebrón-Wiggins-Pran Cultural Center,” it said.  The Center's three names belonged to individuals chosen by students, to represent the cultures, concerns, and politics in which they believed. "Dith Pran" had been a Cambodian Holocaust survivor; "Ronald Wiggins", had been a Black music professor whom the College had refused to reappoint; Lolita Lebrón, had been an activist, Puerto Rican Nationalist

            As Antonius walked up the ramp, the Center's floodlights shut off.  Two bells, tied to the front doorknob, clanged together, sounding his entrance.  This is it, Antonius thought.  This is what it’s like for a student of color in the Cultural Center.  He walked through the door next to the kitchen, into the Center’s common space.  The place was empty.

            The television was tuned to MTV, blaring hip-hop to an empty, faux velvet couch.    Coming from upstairs were the sounds of someone typing on a computer.  Tashal Brown was the typist. She was a First-year, James Baldwin Scholar from New York.

“Hey,” Antonius said.  “I didn’t know you work here, too.”  He and Tashal had worked together at the Airport Lounge the previous semester.

“I don’t,” she said.  “I wish I work here.  I’m trying to, next year.”  She picked up a stack of paper and carried it downstairs.

Antonius followed her.  “Then what are you doing here?” he asked.

“To do work,” she said.  “I’m hungry.  There ain’t nothing to eat here?”  Tashal flung the papers onto a purple couch and walked over to the kitchen.

“What kind of work?”

“Schoolwork,” she said.  She sniffed into a box of milk.  “What the – two percent?  They ain’t even got real milk.”

“Well, why are you doing it here?”

Tashal shrugged.  “Free printing.  There ain’t no Copico here.”  As she shut the refrigerator, the front door squeaked open, accompanied by the clanging bells. It was Jullet.

“Antonius,” said Jullet. “What are you doing here?  You’re never here". She took off her overcoat, but kept-on her scarf.

“That’s true,” Antonius said.  “Doing work too, I guess.”

“Still writing?” Jullet asked.  He nodded and went to the couch.  Jullet followed with a canister of cookies.

“Writing what?” Tashal yelled from the kitchen.  “Damn this place is dirty.  This milk is nasty.”  She poured some into a cup, took a sip and walked over.

“This girl--Malia--- and I are in a class,” Antonius said, “and she wanted to write about race in Hampshire.”

“She white?” asked Tashal.  She stretched out on the couch next to him.   Antonius nodded slowly, eyes closed.  “Damn,” she said.  “White people be taking my ideas.  Jullet, pass me a cookie.”

“What?” He opened his eyes.

“Here,” Tashal handed him a copy of her latest piece for a literary journalism class.  He read the first line.  People laugh at me when I tell them Hampshire made me blacker. 

“You got a lot of interviews in here.”  Antonius said . He tried to explain what he was doing.  “Like I said, this girl, Malia, asked me to write this with her.  When she first came here, she was all mad about the Cultural Center.  It’s like she wanted to burn it down.”  He said this jokingly.

Tashal’s eyes widened.  “Say what?” she asked.  “Burn down the Cultural Center?” 

“Well, let me go on.  She wants to know why people do or don’t talk about race on Campus.  Things like using words like ‘us’ and ‘they’.  Why do we separate people?”

“Us and they?” Tashal was staring at him in disbelief.  “Well what am I supposed to call them?”

“Niggers and non-niggers,” said Jullet playfully, tugging at her scarf.

“What I’m trying to get at is sometimes people think the things SOURCE does is self-segregating – things like "Designated Mods", or closed meetings.”

“Self-segregating?” Tashal raised an eyebrow.  “Please.  It’s like my friend said:    ' I can be on one end of this campus, and if I walk really, really fast, I’ll get to the other end without seeing a non-white person'.  Now that’s segregation.  And why are they so interested in SOURCE meetings?  There ain’t nothing there for them.”

“Well,” Antonius said.  “Some people do want to help, and think maybe going to meetings would.  But they can’t, since some meetings are just for SOURCE members.”

Tashal sighed and put her milk on the coffee table. She turned her small frame to face Antonius.  “Look,” she said.  “I don’t hate on white people.  Like my girl D - she’s white, and she’s my girl.  She can dance hip hop like the rest of us.  But SOURCE meetings aren’t for her.”

“Besides,” said Jullet.  “We let non-niggers in here.  They’re called 'International students.’”  She made quotation marks with her fingers.  

“What I feel is sometimes people don’t mean to offend,” Antonius said.  “I don’t think this girl – the one I’m working with that is– means to.”

“Sometimes I do think they mean it,” said Jullet.  “Like this one time, me and Sleek were just walking.  This guy walked past us, and you know what he did?  He kept looking at me and gave me this smirk.”  Jullet scrunched up her face.  “Then he said ‘Hi Gina’ and walked away.”

“You don’t look anything like Gina,” Tashal rolled her eyes.

“I can relate,” Antonius said.  “I get mixed up with other Asian guys all the time – tall guys, First years, Republicans, you name it.” 

“Yeah, but this felt different,” said Jullet.  “The way he looked at me, and just the way he did it – felt like he knew who I was.”

“Just like that time,” Tashal said, waving her fingers excitedly at Jullet.  “Remember?  Lucy and I were just chilling, and this girl came up and called her Patty.”  She rose to her feet and stomped the ground.  “What’s up with that? Lucy and Patty don’t look anything alike.  Then she asked me what Lucy’s name was.  She didn’t even ask Lucy.  Jullet, give me another cookie.”

“That’s stupid,” Antonius said.

“And why do they got to front?” asked Tashal.  “In public, with other people, or in parties, they act like we’re friends.  But when it’s just me and them,” she crossed her arms and cocked her head, “it’s like they don’t know me.”

“And here we still talking about black folks,” said Jullet.

“You mean,” Antonius stopped mid-bite.  “That girl wasn’t white?”

“I don’t think so,” said Tashal.  “She’s mixed, I think.”

Antonius shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair.  “Maybe Hampshire kids just have bad eyesight,” he said.

                                                 * * * *

Danny was already half finished with his salad.  He slid his thick-rimmed, hipster glasses up the bridge of his nose, and glanced over at Malia.

            “You should know that I’m sick of all this shit.  I mean, I want to help you with it, but if I sound a little cynical----- it’s just because I’ve been dealing with this kind of thing ever since I came to Hampshire.”

Malia had asked him about race-relations and racism at Hampshire.  She could hear the bass rhythms vibrating through the earphones around his neck.  “That’s fine, Danny,” she said.  Many of the students of color Malia had interviewed said very similar things to her:

“You can’t really understand.  I’m not saying this to offend you, but you don’t have to deal with it every day; you’re white.  No one expects you to speak in class for an entire ethnicity.  Strangers approach me and demand to know ‘what’ I am.  People I’ve never met.  What gives them that right?”

Malia didn’t have to deal with it, and perhaps she couldn’t understand, but she was trying.

            “All this stuff is part of the reason I moved off campus,” Danny said as he took a sip of iced tea.  “It just gets old.  It’s frustrating having to rehash the same issues over and over, you know?  And it’s not like the Administration listens.  Like the stuff with the Students- of-Color Mods—why do we have to work so hard to keep them every single year?  I’m a student.  I have work to do, you know?  I don’t want to have to deal with that shit.  But if no one else is going to step up to the plate, then someone has to, and sometimes that meant me.”

Malia didn’t tell him about all the white students she'd interviewed who resented the idea of designated Mods-- Mods reserved for people of the same race or ethnicity.   “Why do they need their own mod?” a white student had  complained. “Isn’t that like segregation? Kind of counter productive.  It’s not like this campus is really racist…”

“Of course there’s racism on campus,” another white student had  said.  “The Student of Color Mods are there because-- sometimes--- people feel more comfortable around people they can relate to.  There’s a need because this is basically a white campus.  There’s a need because there is racism. Designated Mods don’t bother me at all.  I don’t get why people get so pissy about it.  It’s not like it’s hurting anyone to give the Mods to them. If they feel like they need it, who am I to say otherwise?”

            “Do you feel like there’s racism on campus?”  Malia asked Danny.  He gave her an odd look.

            “Of course,” he said.  “There’s racism everywhere.”

Malia felt impossibly dense.  She wondered how he would have replied if he had heard the many, many white students who'd answered ‘No, I don’t think racism exists here,” to that same question. Almost invariably, it was the white students who answered,"No", and the students of color who answered, "Yes".

            “Have you ever experienced racism here?" Malia asked Danny. " Would you be willing to tell me about it?”  Malia hated asking that question, but she never figured out a better way not to ask it.  No matter how I phrase it, she thought, it always soundsinsensitive coming from me, like a challenge.  Like I'm saying,‘Ok, buddy.  Let’s seesome proof’.

            “Did you ever get a chance to see the OMEN'S Cum On Eileen article?”  Danny asked, raising an eyebrow.

            “Yeah.  Antonius showed it to me.  I read your response to it, actually.”

            “That article really pissed me off.  Not as much as other people, though.  There’s one other ethnic guy like me on campus.  Apparently the guy really gave the author a lot of shit.  Maybe threatened him.  I don’t know exactly what went down  , but I ended up working with a friend of his [a friend of the student who wrote the article], and after all the fallout from the article she started being really cold to me.  Plain rude.  I didn’t understand it…I had never had anyone be that mean to me before--- without any reason, you know? At the end of the year, we had to write little comments about the other people we worked with.  She wrote one about me; it said something like, ‘I was really pissed off about how you treated my friend who wrote that OMEN article, but after working with you---I found out you were a pretty cool guy’.  That really pissed me off.  I mean--the guy who wrote the article wasn't me---- we’re totally different people.  She just assumed we were the same person because apparently we’re both ethnic.  We don’t even look alike.  It just made me really mad.”

Malia nodded.  But I don’t really get it, she thought.  Is mistaking someone for someone else, racist?  It's definitely another case of a white student on campus being careless and ignorant.  I would have been pissed too, Malia thought.  But was being stupid, racist?

“We don’t even look alike,” Danny repeated.

What’s important is that it was racism to him, Malia thought.  Do I have any rightto judge? Who gets to decide what’s racist and what’s not?

                                           * * * *

Yanina’s office was tucked away above the Merrill House Office, far removed from the foot traffic of Student Life.  As a Housing Intern, Malia had met Yanina during mandatory training sessions for ‘Community Development’. Community Development was a "Student Life Program", started seven years ago. It briefed Interns about  the Cultural Center, the Community Health Collaborative, the Women’s Center, the Queer Community Alliance, and the Leadership Center.  The mission of all these organizations was "to further a sense of safety for marginalized groups--- as well as to strengthen a general sense of ‘community’ at Hampshire College". Malia paid close attention to the briefings--- but she never quite understood why would these "marginalized groups" felt "unsafe" at Hampshire College in the first place.

Recently, Yanina had started a new project: a panel of students, administrators, and faculty specially trained to mediate and address issues of racism in the classroom.

“Students don’t always feel comfortable talking to professors about issues like this,” Yanina explained.  “Especially if the professor is the one who’s going to be evaluating them.  This panel exists to help with mediation.  Hopefully everything can be worked out informally, but-- if not---the panel can decide on these issues-- more formally--- as well.”

Yanina's official title is "Senior Associate Dean of Student Affairs". She's known to be a straightforward but tactful administrator, impassioned but articulate, well educated but down to earth. Antonius knew her much better than Malia did.  He strode into her office and pulled up a chair, while Malia waited at the doorway. Yanina waved her in and welcomed her.

“I’m privileged” said Yanina.  “I come from a middle class family in Puerto Rico, I have an advanced degree, and I have pale skin.”

Malia had never thought of Yanina as “white”.  Would I have treated herdifferently had I assumed she were white? Malia asked herself.

“I ‘pass’,” Yanina said.  “So--- as long as I don’t open my mouth, and they don’t hear my accent, people assume I’m white.  But as a soon as I open my mouth--and people hear I have an accent--- I’m immediately treated differently.”  Yanina paused; Malia scribbled furiously; Antonius nodded in agreement. Malia looked at Yanina quizzically.

            “But your English is perfect," she said

            “I think it’s fine too, Yanina said. " But it doesn’t matter.  People treat me differently.”  Yanina spoke each word with a metered rhythm for emphasis.  “My partner doesn’t have an accent.  I have her handle all the business over the phone because things happen much, much quicker when she does it.

“I remember one time, not so long ago, that I needed to buy a ticket over the phone.  The woman was having trouble for some reason—not because she couldn’t understand my accent—but because she couldn’t figure out how to do what I was requesting her to do.  She offered to switch me to the Spanish operator.  It was really insulting.  There was no call for that; it wasn’t a problem of comprehension so much as communication.  She was just trying to get rid of me.”  She spat her words out angrily.

            Antonius kept nodding. Before Malia could open her mouth, he asked Yanina    “What do you have to say about allegations of ‘reverse racism’?”

            “Reverse discrimination is a form of white supremacy, "said Yanina. "Pure and simple.  People who complain about it are upset because they no longer have access to 100% of what they had before.  If white people complain that they can only have access to 95% of the jobs now, rather than 100%--- I have no sympathy.”

Malia was startled.  She thought about it for a moment, then scribbled into her notebook.  Got it, she thought. Yanina's talking about Affirmative Action.

            “I think that’s reasonable,” said Malia.  “But I was thinking more…what about…if, for example, I were to say something to a student of color, and they get upset at me out of hand, tell me ‘Oh--- that’s just your privileged white opinion.  You can’tpossibly understand’ or  ‘You’re just saying that because you’re white.’”  Malia had her pen poised above her pad.  Yanina looked at her patiently, tapping the surface of the table absently with a finger.  Antonius looked down at the floor and yawned.

            “Malia," Yanina said, "Truthfully, I get tired of explaining all this to people all the time.  I might even have said something like that to someone at some point—I probably have, actually.  Not always, but sometimes you get tired of having to deal with the same issues over and over.  You get tired of having to correct people, to explain it.  If I’m at a bar on a Friday night, and I’m having a beer, and I've had a long week, I might just say something like that. I don’t want to get into another involved conversation about racism.  I just want a break.”

                                                             * * * *

Produced by Real College Girl! We can’t make Video like this.  You can’t move any moment…Incredible Huge Boob and Big Nipples Like a CD!?..Clit: 5mm at usual./7mm when elected…

“Have you seen these yet?”  Antonius asked. He slid a manila folder across the table to Maia.  Inside were two OMEN articles.  Malia flipped to the first one. It was Cum on Eileen--the article Danny had talked about.

It consisted, entirely, of poorly translated--offensively translated-- Japanese porn.  It was illustrated with a photo of a Japanese woman, sitting cross-legged, surrounded by naked me.  The woman stared out of the photograph with a seductive smile.

            “Yeah.  I can see why people were pissed.”  Malia said.  “Hell.  I was kind of pissed.  What was the guy who wrote this, thinking?”  

            “You know," Antonius said, " the guy who wrote it had to leave Hampshire a semester later.”

            “What?  Why?  Did he get expelled?”  Malia asked. She was surprised. The article was inappropriate, insensitive, and in poor taste, but expulsion seemed a bit extreme. 

            “Some of the people who read it were so angry that they got some people from off campus to go to the guy's room and threaten to beat him up.”  Antonius talked rapidly.  Malia looked at him oddly.

Reader "reaction pieces" were stapled to the article; some were restrained, pointedly addressing "issues of representation in a country with a history oppression against women and minorities”.  What does that mean? Malia thought.  They were pissedbecause there were negative images of Asians in the United States, and--- by publishing the article--- he was contributing to those negative images, thereby contributing to racism.  Other reader reactions were simply enraged.  “I feel no sympathy for you," one reader had written. " That shit is dead.  Suffer.  Women are being raped and you’re there, perpetuating chauvinistic, masculine attitudes…”

            “This was a big deal,” Antonius said.  “I wasn’t even here, but the students of color who came before me – they were real pissed.  They wouldn’t shut up about it.  One time, they told me they had this art gallery opening in the Cultural Center, and taped copies of  the Cum on Eileen article down on the floor so people would step on them.  You want to know the best part?  The guy who wrote the article – he was there.  No one recognized him.”

Malia flipped through more reader responses.  There was a lot of swearing, a lot of genuine hurt.  The person who wrote it, had no clue that it would offend anyone.  He had written it because he thought that bad translations were funny.  Malia thought it was naive, insensitive, and stupid to write what he did; it was even stupider to publish it at such a politically sensitive institution as Hampshire.  Did the writer's ignorance justify people  physically threatening him?

            Antonius and Malia made eye contact briefly. Antoius fiddled with a napkin and looked out the window.  “You want to know the real reason I agreed to do this article with you?”  He spoke so softly that Malia had to lean forward to hear him over the rumble of voices.

            “Yeah.”  Malia said.

            “To protect you.”  Antonius looked over at her, and gave her a half smile.

Malia’s lips began to curve into a grin, then faltered.  She couldn’t tell if Antonius was being serious.  Protect me, she thought.  From what? She glanced down at Cum on Eileen .

“Oh.”  Malia said.  Eileen smiled back at her seductively.  “Thanks, I guess.”

*          *            *

            “I hate the Cultural Center.”  Fred spoke with a half-smile.  Malia looked over at him mildly.  Malia, Fred, Julia, Alice and Anja were sitting together on a stoop in Greenwich. 

“Oh?  Why is that?”

            “It’s counter-productive.” Fred said, scratching his belly.  “I went there once and it was, like, two hours of white bashing.  That’s it.  Why do we need a Center for that?  It’s just perpetuating all of these issues.  People need to stop whining about shit and get a life.  Do something productive about it.”  Fred's girlfriend looked shocked. She smacked him on the arm.

 He rubbed it, scowling mildly.  “Ow.  What was that for?”

            “You’re so insensitive," she said " We have, like no people of color here.  If they need a space to feel supported I think that’s perfectly understandable.”  She hesitated.  “Although as a woman in a bi-racial relationship, I do feel really excluded when I’m there.”

            “See?  You didn’t have to hit me.”  He looked at Malia “Are you writing all this down?”  

 Julia rolled her eyes.  “ You’re such a baby.”

Fred's expression shifted, and he scratched his chin.  “Seriously though.  I don’t like going there.  Everyone’s trying to out-ethnicize or out-oppress each other.  It’s like 'Oh! I’m more oppressed then you because I’m Puerto Rican and a woman and queer…’.  It’s ridiculous.  My entire life I’ve been dealing with not being white enough, and now I’m not Latino enough.  You shouldn’t be trying to alienate yourself from people with similar experiences.  So the man’s got you down.  Do something about it.” 

Julia nodded.  “I keep comparing it to the QCA.  They have no problems letting in people who aren’t queer as allies.  Why can’t the Cultural Center?  I feel like the Campus in general would feel a lot less resentful if it was more inclusive, and then more changes would happen because there’d be more general support.  If you alienate most of the Campus, how can you then expect things to change?”  

“I agree with Julia.”  Alice said.  Her hands fluttered as she spoke.  “It offends me.  I mean, why is it called the ‘Cultural Center’?  Do I not have any culture because I’m white?  I’m not allowed to use the kitchen because my skin isn’t dark?  Or the printers? That’s racism too.  Why do students of color need printers?  The're printers for everyone in the Library.”

            “What if,” Malia said, searching for the right words, " someone were to tell you that you can’t understand the need for a separate space because you’ve never had to deal with racism on a regular basis.”

            “That makes me angry.”  Anja, Alice’s roommate, said from her spot on the stoop.  She had been standing quietly listening, during the entire conversation.  Everyone turned to look at her. “Why would someone say that?  How is that possibly going to help anything?  If you just say ‘Oh--- you can’t possibly understand’ and leave it at that. How is anything ever going to change?”

 Alice nodded.  “It puts so much emphasis on race.  It seems like we need to look forward and stop dwelling on the past.  Make it a Center for International Students.  That’s where culture comes into play.  It can be a resource for helping them figure out paper work—how to get a passport, or something.  And offer support for culture shock.  Even then, it shouldn’t be only for international students—it should be a resource for everyone on campus to share about their culture, and learn about other people’s.  Not just for people who aren’t white.”  Her voice rose as she spoke.

“They do have All Community events,” Malia said, watching Alice carefully to see how she’d respond.

“Please.”  Alice rolled her eyes.  “And how many people go there?  If I’m not welcome any other part of the day, why would I go there for a ‘Special Event’?”  Anja nodded.  “And it isn’t as though they’re well advertised.  You need to know someone to be able to know about the event anyway.  Whatever.  Until I know I’m welcome, I’m not going there.”

*          *            *

“Don’t write about where I’m from,” said Elle, a friend of Antonius’. She was a transfer student from the West Coast. “Like, there are only four or five of us around the Valley.  It’s pretty easy to figure out who I am.  It’s a no-brainer.” Elle and Antonius and Malia were sitting at a wooden table at the Bridge Café.

“What do you identify as?” Antonius asked.  “A woman of color?”

“Oh, no,” she said.  “No.  I guess you can say I’m ethnic Chinese.”  She clasped her hands together.  “I identify as a woman, but I don’t want to identify as a person of color.”

“Why not?”

“Just because,” she said.  “I don’t want to be thrown into a label that groups me to a bunch of different people.  Other people may see me as that, but I don’t identify as one.”

Antonius nodded, adjusting his swim bag higher up on his shoulder.  “I was wondering,” he asked,  “Do you think there’s racism on campus?”

“Yes!” Her eyes widened and she nodded emphatically.  “Absolutely!”

“Where?” Antonius asked, mildly surprised.  “How?”

“Well,” she looked around furtively and lowered her voice.  Antonius leaned forward.  “I was just hanging out at the lounge in Merrill the other day.  There was this bunch of girls, you know.  We were just hanging out, then suddenly this one girl started talking about how she can tell Asians apart.  It was just stupid, she went on about how Koreans have slant foreheads, and Japanese people have round faces, or something like that.  Maybe I mixed that up.  I don’t know.”  She stared off over his shoulder for a few seconds, shifting her weight in her seat.

“Was this girl Asian?” Antonius asked.

“No.”  She glanced back at him, smiling brightly.  “At least, I don’t think so.  I doubt it.  Anyway, then she went up to me and asked me where I’m from.  So I told her.  Then you know what she said?  ‘Oh, no wonder I couldn’t figure out where you’re from.  You’re mixed.’”

“No!” Antonius said, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, I swear!”

“Then what did you say?” 

“Nothing.” She shrugged.  “I got so angry I left.”

“Don’t you think that’s counter productive?”  he asked.

“Like, whatever dude.” Elle dismissively flicked a strand of hair over her shoulder.  “I’m here in college to learn, not to teach.  We’re only here for what, four years?  Well---maybe more.  But I’m not here to make or break relationships.  Except for the ones I have with some friends here, but I don’t plan on staying in touch with them.  Then there’s also my boyfriend.  But--whatever.  Once I graduate, I am so getting out of New England.” 

“All right, I guess.” Antonius said.  “Why do you think people don’t talk about it?”

“Well, It’s not like I’m going to tell my friends I’m not going to stay in touch.  Then there’s my boyfriend, we talked last night, but we didn’t really talk about that.”

“No, no.”  Antonius grinned.  “I mean about racism.”

Her lips pursed briefly in an ‘Oh’.  “Well, like I said.  I’m here for my education.  Like, if they have their own issues about race, forget it.  I won’t go out of my way to tell them what’s up.  When I get out of here, I’ll talk about it.  It’ll be good for conversation.  It’s something to tell your grandkids, Yeah-- it was fucked up there.”  She played absently with the cuff of her shirt.

*            *            *

Mindy is white.  She sat comfortably in a wooden chair, her legs sprawled out in front of her.  She toyed with her fork, and made a crooked grin.  “It’s because everyone’s afraid of being called racist,” she said.

Malia sat across from her. They were eating ginger cake.

 “Hell,” Mindy said.  “I’m from Oklahoma.  I’m used to being up front, you know?  I tried taking this Ethnic Literature class once, first semester.”  She took a big bite of her cake, tapping the plate with her other hand.  “I hadn’t really figured out the whole Hampshire dynamic yet, so I just said what I had to say.  I got so attacked just because I was being candid.  Someone actually told me That’s just your privileged white opinion’.  I didn’t want to go back after that.  I shouldn’t have to be put in the position of having to defend myself every time I speak.  I dropped the class the next day.”

Malia nodded. Mindy didn't know it--but she was part of a chorus of white students. They'd all sung verses from the same song to Malia:

“People are so sensitive here that conversations can’t happen.”

“It’s like people expect me to know all the right words, and I don’t.  It’s so fucking PC here.  It keeps productive conversations from happening.   I’ve never had to deal with this until I came here.”

“I make one wrong move, and I get jumped all over.  It makes me not want to talk at all.”

“I sometimes feel like I’m automatically being judged as racist just because I’m white.  It just makes me so mad.”

Malia wondered about this as she interviewed more and more students.  Did anyone who complained about being criticized or being silenced bother to ask, ‘Why’? Why the "language rules"? Why the sensitivity?

            “Would you feel comfortable talking about these issues with students of color or international students on campus?” Malia asked

            “Absolutely not,” Mindy said.  “I remember seeing a poster for an event last year, hosted by the Cultural Center.  It was some kind of food event for international students-- and students of color,” she added. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees.  “I called to find out why it was only for students of color.  Why should it be so exclusive?  The student who took my call wouldn’t answer me.  She told me to wait a second. She talked to someone for a couple minutes, then came back and said I should call her Supervisor the next day.

            “It’s really frustrating.  No one really wants to talk about it.  It’s like, people are so wanting to be not racist that they just close up.”  

*          *            *

The line for dinner at SAGA wound its way out the door. It grew longer as a girl tried to argue with Roberta about getting into the dining hall without her ID.  Good luckwith that, Antoius thought, amused.  Roberta was notoriously difficult to persuade, unless, of course, you asked her about her dog, Apple.

“What the hell,” someone muttered in line behind Antonius.  A tall boy in a hooded sweatshirt and dirty Old Navy jeans had pulled the door back.  “Did you see this?” he said, pointing angrily.

Under the red entrance sign, someone had pasted a black sticker with white letters on it.  It said ‘Do you know about the White Club?  You are the White Club.’ 

“Oh.”  Antonius turned back around.  The girl-without-ID was leaning over the counter, smiling at Roberta as sweetly as she could.  It won’t work, Antonius thought.  Roberta was shaking her head.  

“Well,” the guy said.  “Don’t you think that’s offensive?”

“Of course,” Antonius had his hand in his pocket, fingering his ID card.  “But I’m not offended.” 

“That doesn’t make sense,” the guy said, tugging irritably at the cord to his sweatshirt,   “Why not?”

 Antonius shrugged.  “I’m not white.”

The no-ID-girl had finally left. Antonius handed his card to Roberta.

“You need to give your card some loving,” Roberta said, gesturing towards the Fall 2001 sticker that was peeling off his ID.  She favored him with a broad wink.

“Okay.”  Antonius smiled back, and walked quickly down the stairs towards the trays.  He grabbed a hamburger and sat down at an empty table in the back room.  Someone set a plate down, next to his.  It was the guy in the sweatshirt.

“I don’t understand what you said,” he said.

“What?” Antonius asked through a mouth full of fries.

“I just don’t know what you’re saying.  Why aren’t you offended?”  He was staring at Antonius intently.

“Like I said, I’m not white.  The sticker’s meant to tell people that this College is like a white club.”

“And you agree with that?”

“I didn’t make the sticker,” Antonius turned his body away from the guy, and took a bite of his burger.

“Look,” the guy said.  “I’m just trying to figure things out here.  What are you saying?  That there’s racism here?”

He watched Antonius expectantly through wide blue eyes, tucking a clump of dirty blonde hair behind his ear.  Antonius ignored him, and reached for the salt.  Why ishe talking to me? he asked himself.

*          *            *

“I could probably go to the Cultural Center if I wanted to, but I’m not going to.  They think I’m ‘whitewashed’.  I think I’d be really uncomfortable.”  Ann was black.  “I don’t like the term African American,” she explained.  “I’m not African, I’m black.  I feel bad for white kids sometimes.  They have to keep all this stuff straight or people get really offended…”

Fifteens years ago, the Cultural Center’s inception had been welcomed with celebration.  Now, like many Centers on Hampshire Campus, many students ignored the place.

            “Whitewashed?” Malia asked.  “I’m not really familiar with that term.”

            “Acting white.  It’s viewed like it’s some big betrayal.  Part of it’s probably because I’m dating Ted.  Sometimes I feel like black women see themselves as the protectors of the race.  I feel like it’s considered our job to keep Black men from dating non-black women—to break down the stereotypes that all black women are unfeminine, or loud—you know, the work-horse stereotype.  So dating a white guy is a big no-no.  I get the dirtiest looks sometimes from other black women on campus, and it bothers me.”

            “Does it really bother you so much that you want to transfer from Hampshire?”

“It’s not just that.” Ann saMaria Politzer and Antonius Wiriadjajaid.  “It’s not really that at all, really.  It’s a lot of things.  It’s the pressure—Hampshire’s such a politically charged environment.  I feel like I can’t relate to people.  You have to be so careful of what you say here…

            "It’s like: If you’re black, you’re whitewashed if you don’t wear urban clothing, or listen to hip-hop, or if you talk like a white person….It’s really dumb.”

*          *            *

            “Didn’t it bother you,” Malia asked.  Malia and Antonius were sitting at a table in Atkins. The place was filled with senior citizens.

“Not really,” Antonius said.  “I was trying to get some wording in that said ‘White Students Welcome’ or something---- and this girl called me whitewashed, just as a joke.  In context, it was funny.  It was during a SOURCE meeting at a time when we were being attacked for having closed meetings. So--- we had all these little insider jokes.”

            “See, that really bugs me,” Malia said.  “The whole idea of closed meetings, I mean.  I understand if the Cultural Center isn’t entirely inclusive.  That’s fine—I can respect the need for closed meetings.  But this whole idea of ‘safe-space’—even the wording itself—really dichotomizes campus.  It’s militant sounding.  It implies that everywhereelse is unsafe, that those who are not ‘of color’ or ‘allies’ are out to get the ‘students of color’.  The terms make an ‘Us’ and a ‘Them’—Students of Color vs Whites.”

            Antonius stared at Malia with an odd expression she couldn’t quite read.  Her stream of words came puttering to a stop, and she looked at him questioningly.  He shook his head as though to clear it.

            “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.” he said, and took a bite of cheese pastry.  Malia leaned forward.

            “What was that?”

            “I don’t know where you’re coming from.  I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t understand your perspective.”  Antonius wiped the crumbs off his fingers with a napkin.

                Malia shut up for a moment. “Huh.”  Her head bobbed up and down like a dashboard toy.  “That’s interesting.”