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REASON TO HOPE: Making Theatre Antiracist – Contributed by Gwendolyn Walker

November 30, 2020November 30, 2020 Tara Caimi2 Comments

by Gwendolyn Walker
Assistant Professor of Voice for Musical Theatre

headshot of Gwendolyn Walker

The Day Theatre Stopped

On March 12, 2020, the Broadway League made the unprecedented announcement that Broadway shows would shutter their doors for a month. One month turned into three, then six. Currently, Broadway will stay closed until at least May 30, 2021, and most officials believe it will be even longer.

On May 25, George Floyd, a 46-year-old Black man, was killed in Minneapolis, Minnesota by police officers while in their custody after a store clerk alleged that Floyd had passed a counterfeit $20 bill. The murder was videotaped and went viral. Soon, U.S. citizens and people around the world had watched Floyd die while pleading with the arresting officers that he could not breathe. This produced an immediate and enormous social justice movement in the United States and around the world.

These are stressful times. One way that I handle stress is to think proactively. The whole theatre world in this country is currently paused. This pause gives us an opportunity to plan for what sort of theatrical world we hope to return to when theatres once again open their doors. What of the pre-Covid “normal” is worth keeping and what is worth changing, for example?

As much as I love American musical theatre, considerable change must occur for it to be an art form for all people.

Musical theatre is currently dominated by white, heteronormative, neurotypical stories, whereas BIPOC, queer, and neurodiverse stories are the extreme exception. Too often, we tell stories that require artists to conform to a default and distorted vision of “normal.” The consequence is an industry that is fundamentally patriarchal, misogynistic, heteronormative, neurotypical, and racist. By not addressing this distortion, we perpetuate the idea that straight, white, cis-gendered, neurotypical cultural identities are—and should be—the default, and in doing so we continue the suppression of all other people.

Dr. Ibram X. Kendi

A few weeks ago, as part of my work on Penn State’s College of Arts and Architecture’s Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion Committee, I co-hosted a pre-talk discussion about the work of Dr. Ibram X. Kendi, an antiracist activist, scholar, and author of the book, How to Be an Antiracist. Kendi was interviewed in a live, virtual event for Penn State, and to prepare for our discussion, I read his books and watched every interview and speech of his that I could find. I was shook. His ideas are daring, and he made me think about racism, my activism, and theatre in a new and hopeful way. Additionally, in his book, he extends his ideas of racism to include gender-racism and queer-racism, which I found empowering.

According to Dr. Kendi, “racist” is such a pejorative word that most people equate it with being a bad person. Because most people consider themselves to be good people, they also consider themselves to be “not racist.” The problem is that “not racist” isn’t something you do, it is something you say—a moniker you hang on yourself or a passive comment. Typically, we say it in response to someone calling us out for being racist in the first place. “I’m not a racist!” we reply.

But to be truly “not racist”, Dr. Kendi suggests we must be active: we must be antiracist. When you label yourself ‘not racist’ there is no action implied there. Nothing to do. Additionally, Kendi says we must recognize that the same person can be racist one moment and antiracist the next because being antiracist is something that we DO, not someone who we ARE. For example, a person might agree with a racist political policy in one moment, and an antiracist environmental policy in the next – so in juxtaposing moments, that person could be described as racist and antiracist.

Further, Dr. Kendi challenges the idea that ignorant and hateful people propagate and are responsible for racism. Kendi shows how people in power, acting in their own self-interest, often create racist policies that make these powerful people more powerful, but the original intent is not to be racist – it’s self-interest. These racist policies, in turn, govern the majority of people and so these racist policies eventually lead to racist ideas to justify them. Those racist ideas eventually lead to ignorance and hate, but the ignorance and hate were not why the racist policy was created in the first place: self-interest is the culprit.

“One either believes problems are rooted in groups of people, as a racist, or locates the roots of problems in power and policies, as an antiracist.” – Ibram X. Kendi

In other words,
The words We think it goes this way with an arrow pointing to the right over four boxes that read, left to right, Ignorance and hate, Racist ideas, Racist policies, Self-Interest above the words It actually goes this way with an arrow pointing right to left

Applying Kendi’s Theory to Theatre

Understanding this chain of causation helps us understand why racist, misogynistic, heteronormative, neurotypical theatre perpetuates itself. Applying Dr. Kendi’s idea to the theatrical industry, powerful people, acting in their own self-interest, believe they will make more money by not challenging theatre-goer’s ideas. If straight, white, male, cis-gendered theatre constitutes “normal” by default, powerful people will continue to create theatre that conforms to that idea because doing so will make them more money. The result is that theatre goers routinely ingest straight, white, male, cis-gendered theatre, further reinforcing and confirming whatever racist cultural ideas they may have. These racist ideas are then put into practice as daily thoughts, actions, and belief systems, and those ideas lead to exclusion, ignorance, and hate.

In other words,
The words We think it goes this way with an arrow pointing to the right over four boxes that read, left to right, Ignorance and hate, Racist ideas, Racist Theatre, Self-Interest above the words It actually goes this way with an arrow pointing right to left

I am explicitly saying that when we create racist, misogynistic, neurotypical, and heteronormative theatre, we are creating theatre that perpetuates exclusion, ignorance, and hate.

The time is long overdue that we, as an industry, actively fight against that. It is not enough to say that we don’t do these things. We must passionately and actively do the opposite.

People instinctively turn to artists following catastrophic events. People are buying books again! They are binge-watching shows on Netflix and buying music streaming services. All of this content is created by artists, and we are more powerful now than ever. We shape consciences with the art we choose to make, and we must be conscious about the message contained in the art that we choose.

The shutdown combined with the biggest antiracist movement in our country in 70 years offers us a unique opportunity to create an enormous, positive change in the way we create theatre; to challenge ourselves to be radically inclusive and equitable. I would go even further and say that this is our responsibility. We must help lead the world out of this humanitarian crisis.

How can we do that? What ACTIONS can we take? Here are a few ideas:

Give money to BIPOC, LGBTQIA+, neurodiverse, and female-identifying writers, lyricists, playwrights, theatre companies, theatre creatives, and activist organizations. Money is power and it takes power to create change. If you can’t give money; give opportunities. If you can’t give opportunities; give your time.
Get on the board for a theatre company and make your voice heard. Run for office in one of the theatre unions with the specific goal to create antiracist policy change. When you are on the board, you help create policy, and policy is power.
Hire non-white and neurodiverse theatre makers, women, and transgender artists for your team and listen to them.
Eliminate tokenism. Diverse people need opportunities to portray fully realized characters rather than harmful, racist stereotypes.
Theatre creators can ask themselves if the roles they are creating and casting need to be played by a specific gender, physical ability, or skin color, and if not, to leave the character description open. For example, instead of a character breakdown that reads, “Strong leading man, baritone to A4,” it could instead read, “Strong, grounded character with a good sense of humor about themselves who’s been kicked around by life but still believes in love.”
Participate in antiracist theatre groups and encourage colleagues to do the same. The Asian-American Performers’ Action Coalition and the African-American Artists’ Alliance are a couple of great ones.
Create an antiracist theatre action committee at your institution or if you can, create a position for a person who is the director of diversity, equity, and inclusion. Invite them to be part of your casting and season selection processes.
Read antiracist literature and follow antiracist activists on social media.

What actions can you think of that we can take as a community? What changes can you make to become more antiracist? How can we overcome the obvious obstacles? For example, to produce more antiracist theatre that is successful, we will need people willing to see theatre that is different. That will not be easy. I recognize that this idea is fraught with seemingly insurmountable problems.

But I believe we can do it. I believe that we are capable of bringing about an equitable, diverse, and inclusive new normal where the theatre that we make represents our entire community. Will it be perfect? No. Will it be easy? No. Will we correct all the harm that has been perpetrated against our beautiful and diverse community? No. But we must try. This unique moment in time makes this a perfect time to begin to be the change we want to see in the world. I believe, like Dr. Kendi, that change is possible. I believe in the power of theatre-makers to change hearts and minds. I believe in my community. I believe that there are so many reasons to hope.

*Original Graphic idea from Toby Sinclari’s “Book Summary: How To Be an Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi – The 3 Big Ideas.” 21 June 2020.

Gwendolyn Walker is an Assistant Professor of Voice and Alexander Technique at Penn State’s BFA Musical Theatre program. She is certified by the Contemporary Alexander School and she maintains a busy New York City studio. Her students can be seen in most shows on Broadway today.

Teaching Tap Through Two Pandemics: How Empathy Illuminated My Path Forward – Contributed by Michele Dunleavy

November 10, 2020November 10, 2020 Tara Caimi7 Comments

By Michele Dunleavy
Professor of Dance, Penn State School of Theatre

Michele Dunleavy: Performance of 5/4 Ever,
A Tribute to the Life and Music of Dave Brubeck
at the Southern Theatre in MInneapolis, MN.
Photo by Aleutian Calabay

How do we prepare our students to enter into a system that is inherently racist while simultaneously decolonizing our curriculum?

How do we lead with empathy and still maintain rigor in an educational setting disrupted by Covid-19?

These are questions I have considered for months now, in part because of the pandemic and the reigniting of the Black Lives Matter movement, but also because they are valid questions under any circumstances, only now they seem more urgent.

SPRING 2020

Class preparation in Pavilion Theatre at Penn State,
University Park Campus: Stage set up with tap boards
physically distanced in accordance with Covid-19 guidelines.
Photo by Michele Dunleavy

Like so many of the educators I know, switching to remote learning was neither easy nor satisfactory from a pedagogical standpoint. We ended up doubling or tripling our work load with little to no idea if anything we were doing was even making an impact. I planned, changed plans, created assignments, canceled assignments, then added new assignments, as I tried again and again to polish the turd known as Zoom tap dance.

Most of us are aware that Zoom is not ideal because of latency in both sound and video, and that the technology is only as good as your internet service. As a delivery method for percussive dance, which utilizes both sound and movement, it couldn’t be worse, or so I thought. I’m not going to give you some sugar-coated story about how everything turned out well in the end and we all tap danced happily ever after into zoomtopia, but I will share with you some of what I learned about leading with empathy.

I changed my settings to help with the latency, then changed them back. I bought a webcam and proceeded to leave it in the box for weeks. I made instructional videos in advance of class meetings so that students could follow along if their internet was spotty or if they had to miss class. I watched body parts suspended in an on-screen grid execute tap steps while muted, dancing a full one to two beats behind the music playing in my basement ‘studio’. This is where I would insert the wide-eyed emoji that looks like it hasn’t blinked in a century to emphasize the absurdity of the situation.

While I haven’t asked any students directly what they took away from that experience, I know what they wrote in their assignments, emails, and SRTE’s. They were grateful for the days that I gave them space to talk; to speak their concerns, fears, and frustrations into the confines of that ever-shifting grid. They responded to assignments that demanded they walk away from the computer and listen to the rhythm of their surroundings and then to write and dance what they heard. For their final project we created a video where they got to vent their frustrations at Zoom University through tap dance.

I let go, begrudgingly at first and then later with more grace, to long held ideas about what I believed it meant to be a good teacher, a good student. Words like discipline and rigor that had been more guide than mantra, but ever present in my pedagogy ceased to hold sway over my ‘classroom’. It was liberating in ways I could never have imagined.

SUMMER 2020

Black Lives Matter march, downtown State College, PA.
Photo by Michele Dunleavy

Even before the death of George Floyd there were conversations in the dance community about equity, and representation. Conversations that proposed a new paradigm based on models of abundance not scarcity, security not precarity, collaboration not competition. After the death of George Floyd these conversations accelerated, and in the tap community the topic of history and attribution rose to the forefront. Black dancers began a movement to “reclaim the narrative of tap history”, defining tap dance as a Black art form and challenging the prevailing notion of tap dance as a product of “Afro-Irish fusion”. Current tap history texts were defended and contested daily on social media threads that tore at the fabric of my dance community. As I read and listened to the dialogue I began to interrogate my own beliefs, course content, delivery, and sources of knowledge. I began asking Black dancers what current history book they would recommend and their answers were revealing. One suggested I read the Negro Act of 1740; a collection of Colonial laws governing slave behavior, one of which made owning or playing a drum illegal. Another suggested Sammy Davis Jr’s autobiography, while others had no response. That shook me. I had prided myself on teaching the history of tap dance with an emphasis on its African American roots but I was quickly realizing the limitations of current literature and my own experience as a white woman.

Fortunately there have been many opportunities to listen and to learn. Webinars, discussions, and forums led by BIPOC dancers, educators, and theatre makers have populated my inbox and newsfeed. Two Black women who are making an impact in dance and theatre respectively are Karida Griffith, tap dancer and educator based in Portland and Nicole Brewer, freelance director, actor, educator and facilitator, currently on faculty at Yale.

FALL 2020

Michele Dunleavy performing in
Steel Valley Rhythms at the State
Theatre in State College, PA.
Photo by TM Grey Photo

By the time I landed in Karida’s online course Roots, Rhythm, Race and Dance I had already determined to step up my tap history game and had begun doing some alternative research based on queries made to BIPOC colleagues and friends. Karida has an extraordinary gift for metaphor. She expertly weaves anecdotal stories with hard facts drawing on current research in the social sciences, history, and her own personal experience. Her weekly ‘lessons’ provided multiple models for including the history of race in any dance class, at any age, skill level, or setting. Weekly Q+A sessions allowed participants from all over the globe to come together for discussion and develop and share lesson plans. While much of the course content wasn’t new it certainly filled in some gaps. More importantly, it helped me to organize my own work in a way that felt manageable. Previously, I had been so overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information, coupled with a false notion that I had to cover everything, that I often felt paralyzed. Completing this course was empowering, and I have enjoyed success applying what I learned in my current classes.

If Karida’s course was all about the nuts and bolts of doing, Nicole’s was the philosophical counterpoint. In her Anti-racist Theatre training, participants were tasked with completing worksheets that demanded more introspection and personal accountability. I was asked to state my own anti-racist theater ethos, describe my practice, identify ways to reduce, prevent, and when it invariably occurs, repair harm. Reflecting back on that workshop I remember Nicole stating that ‘the theater industrial complex is inherently racist’, and I thought yeah, but now what?

Early in the two-day workshop Nicole introduced the concept of ‘access needs’. I had no idea what that term meant, but others in the room were familiar. My working definition goes like this: access needs are what a person needs to participate fully and for learning to occur.

THIS. This speaks directly to my longtime conflict between rigor/empathy but it is also at the heart of an anti-racist practice. To consider access needs forces equity, not equality. Instead of everyone being given the same tools to succeed, each individual is given the specific tools that they need to succeed. To do this requires that we as teachers see all our students as exactly who they are and that we consider their lived experiences. This is where empathy and rigor can combine to provide a rich educational experience for all students. By ensuring that all have what is needed to succeed, standards can be set and met by everyone with expectations matched to the individual.

I still don’t have the answers to my opening questions but the common denominator seems to be to empathy. If I see and celebrate my students as they are, and continue to meet them where they’re at while simultaneously arming them with information about the history of race in dance, perhaps they will emerge from their time with me strong enough to say no to projects and roles that dehumanize and trivialize BIPOC stories. Perhaps they will shift the industry paradigm by telling their own stories. I cannot predict what path the world will take or how my students will shape our future. In the meantime, I hold these words by Maya Angelou close to my heart as I continue to evolve as a human, artist and educator:

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”

Reflection: A Legacy of Dreamers – Contributed by Kikora Franklin

July 17, 2020July 17, 2020 Tara Caimi2 Comments

By Kikora Franklin
Associate Director of Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion; Associate Professor, Penn State School of Theatre

~
“Dream Variations”
By Langston Hughes¹

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me-
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening…
A tall slim tree…
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.
~

Langston Hughes’s Dream Variations speaks of a freedom and purpose that I long and strive for each day I am blessed with life. I am privileged and honored to have the opportunity to do what I do for a living, share my experiences, and give voice and inspiration to others. Here, I tell a story of my past, in order to appreciate the present, and envision and create a lasting future.

Legacy – Variations of a Dream

1935, Daytona Beach, Florida, USA — A little brown girl, about 5 years old, makes her way to the Boardwalk overlooking the blue water. With the Atlantic Ocean as her backdrop, she straightens her ruffled dress, takes a deep breath, and prepares for a grand performance. She smiles as wide as the Atlantic… taps as loud as the roar of its waves, and sings “On the Good Ship Lollipop,” by Shirley Temple…the crowd applauds. The little brown girl, in this precious moment, is full of hope. Her dreams of moving to New York City one day and becoming a performer are as real and present as the waves that beat the coast behind her.

1959, Atlanta, GA, USA — An eight-year-old girl intently watches another girl, much like herself; in a black leotard, black tights, and ballet shoes, the young girl dances across a stage. She contracts her torso, spreads her arms, and stretches to the sky. The girl watching is entranced, captivated, and inspired by the dancer’s emotion and power. She daydreams and sees herself… dancing, whirling, the same way as the little girl in front of her on the stage. She is full of hope and dreams of becoming a dancer and performer.

Terrie Axam at age 8 wearing a tutu, sitting on a hard wood floor and facing the camera — Terrie Axam (my mother) age 8, Atlanta, Georgia
Photo courtesy of Total Dance Archives

1998, Gorée Island, Senegal, West Africa — The sounds of drums fill the hot yet comforting summer air. A young woman, newly graduated from college, dances barefoot on the dirt, atop a mountain overlooking the Atlantic. She finishes her dance and is now prepared to enter the old structures, dirt floors, and empty cells that were the last image of home for her ancestors centuries before. She weaves in and out of now empty spaces, imagining what it was like when the same rooms were filled with human beings…people who would be forever separated from all they had known and loved. They would now be led through the “Door of No Return.” This young, free, future-ancestor looks out of the door, across the Atlantic. She is inspired and determined to share the story of this place, La Maison des Esclaves, and the dances and culture she’s lived and learned, with her yet unborn children. As she stares across the vast waters, perhaps her eyes are focused in the direction of Atlanta, Georgia or even Daytona Beach; her heart certainly is.

View images of “The Door of No Return,” Gorée Island, Senegal, West Africa

That girl on the Daytona Beach Boardwalk in 1935, dreaming of her future, was my mother’s mother, Dorimell Axam. As fate would have it, her dreams do not come true in the way she thought. For reasons out of her control, she never made it to New York City to become a performer. She eventually moved to Atlanta, GA, fell in love, married, and started a family. In addition to being a wife and mother, she was a visual artist, seamstress, beautician, homemaker, and philanthropist; she was beauty and strength personified. All those who knew my grandmother or even met her briefly, were moved by her presence, energy, and warmth. She poured everything she had into her children and eventually her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. My grandmother’s dreams of performing never died; they transformed, into a vision and reality for her children and her children’s children.

A black woman and two young children, a boy and a girl, portrait shot with people facing camera — Dorimell Axam (my grandmother) 1951, with her children Tony Axam and Terrie Axam
Photo courtesy of Terrie Axam

The eight-year-old girl watching the young dancer in 1959 was my mother, Terrie Ajile Axam, the second oldest of my grandparents’ six children. She grew up in the south during the 50s and 60s, when water fountains, public swimming pools, and restaurants were still segregated. Surprisingly, my mother’s memories of this time of her life don’t include feelings of intimidation or fear – rather, she wondered if the water in the “Colored” fountain would come out in actual colors. Ever defiant and courageous, my Grandma Dorimell allowed my mother and her siblings to drink from whichever fountain they preferred. She raised them to respect themselves and others, despite laws to the contrary.

My mother, like her mother, had dreams of dancing and performing. She danced as a young girl and made her way to Princeton University as an undergraduate student. While at Princeton, she started an African dance company, the “Ajile Dancers,” which provided much needed support to black students at that time. My mother’s dreams of dancing were realized in a myriad of ways. She studied all forms of dance and created her own movement technique, Mojah. She has taught and influenced hundreds (if not thousands) of students over her career. She traveled the world teaching and performing and planted the seed of dance in me.

Four female dancers in 1974, wearing full body leotards, facing up and to the right with arms raised diagonally — The Ajile Dancers circa 1974, front to back, Terrie Axam, Melba Lee, Marossa Dixon, Yvonne Williams
Photograph from Total Dance Archives

Black and white image of woman dancing, legs apart, knees bent, toes pointed, arms raised and facing upward — Terrie Ajile Axam, 1992
Photograph from Total Dance Archives

Who I Am – A Dream Realized

I am the young lady who looked across the ocean in Senegal, the same water that my ancestors were forced to cross, and that my grandmother danced in front of in 1935. It is in Senegal, where I found my authentic voice as an artist and performer and deepened my understanding of dance and movement as vital in the lifeline of African people and people of African descent.

The music, rhythms, and dance of African people are the foundation of much of America’s contemporary popular culture (a fact that is not always acknowledged). This culture helped Africans in America maintain community and connection to one another- historically and presently. I, like my mother, have been privileged to travel the world, teaching, performing, and learning.

From my classes in African Dance, Hip Hop Theatre, and Mojah Dance, to working in the community, I draw upon my artistic inheritance for my work as an artist/educator.

Teaching and performing my mother’s original technique, Mojah, is a core part of my creative work. Mojah combines elements from other dance styles including modern, jazz, and West African. It is a dance technique, and much more. Mojah is a reclaiming of identity, culture, and spirit expressed in and through the body. It connects me to my heritage and a familial artistic legacy. In Hip Hop Theatre, students explore Hip Hop culture, their personal stories, and their own lived experiences. They learn to embrace their own voice to create and perform original pieces.

Through my work with Roots of Life Performing Arts Ensemble, a community-based arts-education program I co-founded, young students learn through engaging in lessons in West African dance, drumming, history, and literature. Through arts, young people have the opportunity to relate to each other and the world with a sense of curiosity, an appreciation for a plurality of perspectives, and respect for our common humanity.

Woman standing, speaking in gymnasium with students sitting in a circle around her — Kikora Franklin and Debra Daggs with students from Roots of Life Performing Arts Ensemble
Photo from Laurel Martin

Inspiring Other Dreamers

In an increasingly uncertain world, I find myself reflecting more and more upon my history, my purpose, and my place in it. I am a wife and a mother of three black humans. For me, black lives matter everyday, they always have. I am a teacher who works to inspire and advocate for my students’ lives and their right to self-expression and self-determination. I believe that we should not underestimate our children’s (and our own) capacity to learn the broader truth of our nation and world, our ability to critique it, whilst continuing to work toward its ideals.

My dreams have been and continue to be my own, yet I believe my familial and cultural legacy makes me responsible to my children, my students, and community. For my part, I will continue to share my story. In so doing, I hope to inspire others to fling their arms wide in some place of the sun, to whirl and to dance, till the quick is done, then rest at cool evening, beneath a tall tree, so that they too, may find and follow their dreams.

Two women in brightly colored dresses and head scarves dancing on the corner outside of a white brick building — “Charity Begins at Home” – Kikora Franklin and Terrie Ajile Axam sharing the gift of Mojah dance in the Southwest Atlanta community where Kikora grew up and where Ajile still lives
Photo from Shocphoto Photography

^{1 “Dream Variations” was published in The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes (Alfred A. Knopf, 1994). – https://poets.org/poem/dream-variations}

Additional links:

Mojah Dance Legacy, short doc, produced by Penn State alum, Rasha Gurriere

Roots of Life Performing Arts Ensemble

Anti-Racism Public Engagement in the Time of COVID – Contributed by Tyler Sperrazza

June 23, 2020June 23, 2020 Tara CaimiLeave a comment

by Tyler Sperrazza
Ph.D., History & African American and Diaspora Studies

The United States has been rocked by two simultaneous crises: COVID-19 and the rash of racist murders of black citizens at the hands of our cities’ police forces. In moments of crisis, we are often told to “look for the helpers.” As both a historian and theater practitioner, I have always responded with “look for the storytellers.” They are the ones who can offer us perspectives on the crisis and provide paths forward. So, in the midst of a viral outbreak that has forced us to remain in our homes, coupled with a nationwide white reckoning with racism and white supremacy, I looked to the storytellers: the historians and black artists who can help us make sense of the moment. I put out a call for participants to join me in an “Antiracism Working Group.” The response was overwhelming.

I have often bemoaned the insular nature of history as an academic field. A common refrain of mine, familiar to my colleagues and friends goes something like, “the election of Donald Trump proves that the historical profession has failed the American people.” Now, that may be an exaggeration or over-simplification, but I believe that the heart of the statement is true: historians have accepted their lack of “public influence” as a failing of the populace, rather than looking inwardly at the ways in which the academic field more broadly fails to effectively engage that populace. I remember sitting and fuming at an academic conference in the wake of Trump’s election listening to historians debate about political minutiae during the antebellum era and thought: this is where we choose to put our energy and skills as researchers and storytellers? Really?

With this animus of disappointment and disengagement with my scholarly field driving me, I decided to finally put my time and resources where my complaint-filled mouth was: I would dedicate one night a week to hosting a Zoom meeting to discuss antiracist readings. The backdrop of the pandemic made this an easy response: we had all gotten used to Zoom meetings after three months of quarantine, so asking folks to sit on Zoom for two hours per week was an easy request.

The advertising was quick and simple: I slapped together a couple of Facebook and Instagram posts and shared them out to my meager lists of friends and followers. I am not a social media person—if that is something one can actually be. I was hoping to get the posts circulating and added a disclaimer: if we get more than twenty people signed up, we’ll probably need to break up into two sessions so the discussion group isn’t too large.

The next morning, I woke up to a list of over fifty people signed up. I took a deep breath, looked at my scheduled, and figured, “I can run this like a college course.” So I sent out an email welcoming the group members and proposing a schedule: three weekly sessions for folks to choose from, one in the morning and two in the evenings. That way, hopefully the fifty people would more or less spread themselves evenly across the three meetings. I told myself that I would cap the group at sixty participants.

But the signups kept coming, and I didn’t want to turn anyone away because they were clearly desperate for any chance to engage with this material. There have been plenty of critiques of this exact type of behavior by white people in the wake of events that force them to reckon with white supremacy. Reading groups and book clubs pop up, and white folks are desperate to read a recommended book or two and then return to normalcy. But this was different—I had advertised that this was a ten-week commitment, and we would be reading a book a week. This was not a once-a-month book club, but a crash ten-week course on whiteness, antiracism, structural inequities, and the paths forward offered by black artists and intellectuals. And people still wanted in.

Four days after the initial post, over ninety people had signed up, and I increased to four sessions per week. I announced that I would close the sign up form in twenty-four hours, and almost immediately received another forty participants. That was the first moment of panic. I made a decision that there was no way I could handle this many participants with only four weekly sessions—so I added two more. And to calm myself, I did the basic math: I was committing twelve hours a week to meet with people from around the country who were desperate for this information. They wanted to process these readings in a group, rather than simply doing the work in isolation with no one to reflect with, challenge their interpretations, or provide useful contexts or paths forward. Twelve hours a week for ten weeks. The math made it plain—less than two-percent of the total hours in the year. A week after sending out the initial ad, the adrenaline and endorphins that came with pressing send on the first advertisement had begun to wear off. But seeing the numbers laid bare, “less than two-percent of my year,” renewed my faith in why I had decided to do this in the first place: because my profession had failed the people of this country, and to take two-percent of my year to try and help rectify that failure in some small way was the absolute least I could do.

I believe in this model for this moment. I truly believe that at any other point in time, even if the protestors were just as full-throated and the cause just as righteous, I would not have gotten over one hundred people to sign up for this group. Coronavirus has interrupted our patterns of normalcy, so it is impossible to simply return to that normalcy in these moments where we are forced to confront systemic inequities. Instead, we are seeking connection with others, and if it comes via a two-hour antiracism Zoom meeting once a week, so be it.

We are in the third week of this experiment, and have understandably seen participation wane. We began with one hundred and thirty people across nineteen states signed up. Week one saw eighty-seven participate in one of the meetings. Week two saw that number dip to seventy-one. Drop-off is to be expected, especially as states begin to loosen quarantine restrictions, but seventy-one people per week is far more than the zero people I was reaching sitting at home reading these books by myself.

And therein lies the point of the work. I believe it is our duty as academics to understand the roles in which our scholarship can be shared with the general public. We have a responsibility to the knowledge and wisdom we gain through our scholarly pursuits. For me to sit idly by, as a graduate of Penn State’s African American Studies Department, would have turned my back on the legacy of activism that department was built on and continues to uphold. And who better for me to bring that wisdom and knowledge to than fellow white Americans who are potentially in the same place I was before I began to engage with African American history during my graduate studies.

To someone in the field, my reading list might seem like a basic, ten-week introduction to African American history. But it is important to remember that these histories are not taught to the majority of white Americans. I was in graduate school in an African American Studies program before I read any of the books that I included. I was twenty-four before I “unlearned” the civil rights movement for the first time. I was twenty-five when I first read Audre Lorde. Doing this work seems like the bare minimum, because it is—white Americans are often starting from zero when engaging with antiracist work, so even what seems like a basic re-telling of history can be completely paradigm shifting.

Academics know how to research, and we know how to create syllabi and reading lists. Many of us may struggle with the pedagogy of how to engage with our students in productive ways, but that is not what this group demands. A group like this demands a facilitator to guide the discussions and hold participants accountable for the things they say in the group. Your job is to be a graduate seminar instructor—letting the discussants drive the conversation and come to revelations and conclusions, while being on hand to offer expertise and pose thought-provoking questions.

We can and should do this work. I believe deeply that this work is vital to the health of our citizenry and democracy. We cannot cling to the belief that our arguments are distilling down from academic presses, journals, and conferences to influence the popular conceptions of history. Most of us laugh in the face of trickle-down economics…well, trickle-down historiography doesn’t work either. Think of it as a community service. Use models from public historical societies or arts engagement organizations who make a living on interfacing with the public to craft a five or ten-week short course to engage with individuals who are desperate to re-learn what they were taught in school but have never known where to turn for the information.

For my group, I designed the reading list like I would any course syllabus—we all know how to do this! I broke the weeks down into three “units”—Antiracism and Whiteness, Structural Inequities, and Paths Forward. The first three weeks focus on books and articles centered on understanding whiteness as a racial category, the middle weeks each take a deep dive into one aspect of structural racism: housing inequities, mass incarceration, and voter suppression. Then the final three weeks center on models for moving forward: dismantling the white myths of the civil rights movement, black feminist thought, and the importance of black artists within the freedom struggle.

I am still in the midst of this experiment, and I remind my participants each week that it is just that, an experiment. I have never done anything like this before and neither have most of my participants—save for the two women who are veterans of the 1960s movements. And many of my friends and family have asked me not only, “what is the point” but, “what is this actually accomplishing?” Those are fair questions.

I was intentional to name this a “working” group rather than a “reading” group. I toyed with the idea of carving out the first half hour of each meeting to sitting together on Zoom while we all drafted emails to our local representatives or wrote letters to our Senators. But I shied away from that model and decided on one that embraced the individuality of my participants. Half of the members of the group were complete strangers to me before the first week, so to assume that they would be interested in that work, or that they were not already doing that work, would be presumptuous. Instead, I modeled a norm of “monitoring your own participation” that includes setting goals for oneself in the group. And I consistently remind them every session that this ten-week interruption to get them thinking about white supremacy and inequity is just one lane on a highway of activism we all need to be engaging in. The readings and discussions provide us with context and tools needed to go out and support antiracism efforts in whichever ways we feel most useful. Two of my members have said that their “cause” has always been climate change, but they are seeing how they can use the tools learned in the working group to engage in antiracist activism within their roles as climate justice advocates.

We are learning that racism is the glue that holds many of these inequitable systems together, and by breaking those bonds we might help dismantle the entire structure.

Below, I’ve included resources for readers interested in the practical development of the Antiracism Working Group, or for those interested in starting their own. I believe that this is a moment where educators and scholars can look outside of the typical institutional models of education in order to reach a public that is desperate to learn. The mechanics of the group are very simple and straightforward. The group uses three primary platforms: Zoom for our weekly meetings, Google Drive to host readings and group materials, and WordPress as our asynchronous discussion forum. If any readers would like more information about developing their own group, they can feel free to contact me at txs392@psu.edu.

Readings List & Weekly Themes

Week One: “Allyship”

David Campt, “Message to White Allies from A Black Anti-Racism Expert: You’re Doing it Wrong”
Marlon James Video “Are you racist? ‘No’ isn’t a good enough answer”
Antiracism Spectrum
Calderon & Wise, “Code of Ethics for Antiracist White Allies”
Michael & Conger, “Becoming an Anti-Racist White Ally: How a White Affinity Group Can Help”

Week Two: “Whiteness, or, Why There’s No Such Thing as ‘Reverse Racism’”

Robin DiAngelo, White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk about Racism (Beacon Press, 2018)
Vann R. Newkirk, II, “Affirmative Action and the Myth of Reverse Racism”
Curtis Stokes, et al, “The Language of Affirmative Action: History, Public Policy, and Liberalism”
Michael I. Norton and Samuel Sommers, “Racism as a Zero-Sum Game”

Week Three: “Why ‘Anti’ Racism”

Ibram X. Kendi, How to Be an Antiracist (Random House, 2019)

Week Four: “Structural Systems 1: Neighborhoods & Housing”

Richard Rothstein, The Color of the Law: A Forgotten History of How Our Government Segregated America (W. W. Norton, 2017)

Week Five: “Structural Systems 2: Policing and the Carceral State”

Michelle Alexander, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness (The New Press, 2010)
Felice Blake, et al, “Interview with Diana Zuñiga”

Week Six: “Structural Systems 3: Electoral Politics”

Carol Anderson, One Person, No Vote: How Voter Suppression is Destroying Our Democracy (Bloomsbury, 2018)

Week Seven: “Deconstructing the White Myths of the Civil Rights Movement”

Martin Luther King, Jr. The Trumpet of Conscience (Beacon Press, 2011)
Danielle McGuire, At the Dark End of the Street: Black Women, Rape, and Resistance-A New History of the Civil Rights Movement from Rosa Parks to the Rise of Black Power (Vintage Books, 2010)
Jeanne Theoharis, “Introduction,” A More Beautiful and Terrible History
Jacqueline Dowd Hall, “The Long Civil Rights Movement and the Political Uses of the Past”

Week Eight: “Paths Forward 1: Black Feminism”

Audre Lorde, Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches (Crossing Press Feminist Series, 2007)
Naomi Schiller, “A Short History of Black Feminist of Scholars”
Kimberlé Crenshaw, “Mapping the Margins-Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence Against Women of Color”
Jennifer C. Nash, “re-thinking intersectionality”

Week Nine: “Paths Forward 2: Educational Equity”

Beverly D. Tatum, Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? And Other Conversations About Race (Basic Books, 2017)

Week Ten: “Paths Forward 3: Black Arts Movements”

Dominique Morrisseau, The Detroit Project: Three Plays (TCG, 2018)
Jackie Sibblies Drury, Fairview (TCG, 2019)
Nikky Finney, Head Off & Split (Triquarterly, 2011)

The Sounds of Silence – Contributed by Darrin Thornton

June 17, 2020July 2, 2020 Tara Caimi5 Comments

by Darrin Thornton
Assistant Director, Penn State School of Music
Professor of Music Education

I am a Black man born and raised here in America. Growing up on the edge of the civil rights movement I witnessed the turmoil of growth from a very front row seat if not from within the mix as a guinea pig of psycho-social theory to practice in public policy.

I think of intersections when I consider the two pandemics of Covid-19 and Systemic Racism, particularly in America. The confluence of these two pandemics provides a pointed illustration of what long-standing systemically racist policy can lead to ultimately – disproportionate loss of life and socio-political unrest.

I am moved deeply by sound and spend a great deal of time exploring how musical sound affects our human condition. The craft of ultimately expressing something outside of myself provides deep meaning and fulfillment. Part of that craft requires the ability to listen deeply and critically, and to discern my particular role in the sound creation in any given moment. Listening plays such a large role in that process.

Balance is a concept common to most art forms. There are moments of musical sound that involve the absence of sound. This void without sound is a powerful space between moments of sound. We consider how we entered the silence as musicians. During the “rest” we consider the character and purpose of the sounds we will make when we re-enter the sound tapestry.

This concept of silence is a lens through which I have made sense of this moment in time where these two pandemics have collided – in quarantine, physically-distanced. It is difficult and honestly painful to describe how it feels to witness and be an active participant in these moments.

The Traumatizing Sounds of Silence. With Covid-19, there is a historical understanding that people have been pushing against racist policies that hinder access and equity. This is especially true for health care and the ancillary spaces that enhance the conditions of “bad health”. When risk factors for Covid-19 are viewed demographically, those bodies that resemble my own are most “at-risk”. As if the Covid-19 virus is targeting me and those like me most. The numbers are telling the story in ways that are undeniable.

These racist policies are so embedded within our nation’s fabric that it requires excavation to uncover and unpack them. It may be hard to see for people who are not as directly affected by the oppressive ramifications of these policies and practices. Nonetheless, they are still there. They have been there for a long time. People have used their voices, and their votes, and their actions to express these concerns for years – yet the policies persist.

If you are the targeted demographic, over time the persistence of these policies that oppress you disproportionately erodes your sense of belonging. You begin to feel your voice doesn’t matter. That often leads to silence as you stop using your voice feeling it won’t be heard so what is the point. It feels like you are pushing against a tidal wave of counter story that floods the scene in high gloss white lights. You and your concerns are erased. A colorblind filter is then applied that drowns you out despite the historical and ongoing evidence of your oppression.

Choked out voices via the oppressive strictures “on our neck” do make it hard to breathe let alone speak. Then to have the common trope tossed in your face – why didn’t you say something? Or, be in situations within white spaces where you the oppressed are to “report wrongdoing” in order to start the process of exploring said wrongdoing. That is a lot to ask of someone within the cycle of oppression who finds it hard to breathe. They aren’t even being seen, and certainly aren’t being heard.

These pandemics collide in ways that illustrate this phenomenon nicely. Racist policies affecting black bodies disproportionately at the intersections is an all too familiar theme. This theme runs through most aspects of our society when we are willing to look, listen, and hear.

I am further disheartened when those like me are not-seen, not-heard, silenced, erased and dismissed because the underlying issues are so hard to see and prove; or even harder for some to deal with once they are seen. Why does it take a medical pandemic to show the racial disparity? Especially with many witnessed accounts reported by those experiencing the oppression for hundreds of years in American history.

Those who have the option to not see, not hear, not act are the very ones with the power to enact the changes we all need. However, not until things reach pandemic levels, or until the accounts can be witnessed in living color, do the issues causing the racial pandemics become visible.

Silence during this collision of pandemics actively upholds the racist strictures that pin many bodies down making it hard to breathe. Being erased from a space you call home is dehumanizing. The fact that it continues to happen, and some opt to be mute creates traumatizing sounds of silence.

The Healing Sounds of Silence. The silence resulting from the lack of anti-racist action in both pandemics is felt very strongly. Yet, this moment in time provides a chance to heal as we take it all in.

Anti-racist battle fatigue, the anger and frustrations of discovering Whiteness, the attempts to reach out, the questions regarding what can be done, the outrage for the growing list of names and captured videos, the #hashtag expressions, the media coverage and spin, the newfound spaces allowing expression and asking for perspective – a lot to take in, process and hear.

Meanwhile, black bodies are dying in the same fashion every day. Those bodies not caught on camera, and the body count of those MOST “at-risk” by Covid-19. It is a lot to take in, process and hear.

We have entered into moments of silence as we have been forced into quarantine and social distance. That distance has its effect on us as we consider how interconnected we are as humans – this unnatural distance accentuates that reality.

Like in music, this pause in the ongoing sound provides an opportunity for us to consider how we have entered this silence and how we will emerge from this silence when we begin to engage together more fully again. The degree we are active during this silence gives me hope in ways I have not felt hope in some time. These sounds of silence are a healing balm.

Though I don’t have answers, I do have hope that humankind will find ways to ACT from each of our individual positionalities to make real changes that lead to healthy outcomes for all of us.

How am I coping? When asked that question I point to the goodness and kindness I do feel surrounding this moment in time. I point to those who are becoming more aware, and to those who are struggling yet reaching out to do all they can to be well.

I count my many blessings for the privileges I am afforded and endeavor to do my part to erase racism and to assist those most affected by Covid-19. I pray and am mindful of my surroundings and my particular place within these spaces. I listen, music is a comfort for me always but especially during these times.

The meanings within musical expression have always moved me deepest. I have leaned into musical expressions and shared those when possible. I’ve been reading and revisiting great expressions of Black people both from the past and the present.

I’ve been engaging with those who have questions and concerns and wish to know how they can help. Not engaging with answers as much as holding space to walk with people through these phases of awakening as they walk with me through phases of pain, healing, and further awakening.

Sharing and learning all at once in this process of making sense and meaning from this particular moment in history is healing. I consider how we will emerge from this “grand pause”. I remember the swirling sounds that existed before the pause and imagine the sounds that will return as we re-enter what is to come.

I grew up hearing Lift Every Voice and Sing. It was first written as a poem and later set to music. I encourage you to read the lyrics of the poem/song and consider the relevance and meaning of those words today: NAACP | NAACP History: Lift Every Voice and Sing and offer one of my favorite arrangements for orchestra and choir arranged by Roland Carter.

During this time of Covid-19 and heightened awareness of Systemic Racism, I have reflected on the many position statements and our Nation’s history. I have landed on these three take-away C’s as a hopeful way toward healing:

Call – call out racism and break down the policies that bind us to its ugliness,
Claim – claim our individual role in the racist structure (own it),
Commit – commit to ACTION, doing our part to break the silence with purpose.

It is my hope that enacting these three C’s will provide pathways for ALL of us to erase and silence systemic racism.

The strength of our nation is the degree to which we can Lift Every Voice – and Sing – Together!

Resources that have caused me great comfort and deep reflection during this time:

Music:

Breathe
Inspired by the death of Eric Garner and in solidarity with the Movement for Black Lives, India.Arie presents BREATHE. India sings this song to grieve those we have lost while powerfully affirming life. The song was co-written and co-produced by India.Arie and Aaron Lindsey.

Lift Every Voice and Sing – James Weldon Johnson arr. Orchestral Winds

History and original lyrics: NAACP | NAACP History: Lift Every Voice and Sing

A month ago, we decided to record Lift Every Voice and Sing to inspire young black musicians who don’t often see representation of themselves in orchestral music. Instead, here we are again mourning senseless loss of lives and fighting for justice. This recording is for every protester, every freedom fighter, everyone who needs to be lifted up and to honor George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and the numerous others whose lives have been stolen by police violence.

Seven Last Words of the Unarmed – Joel Thompson
On March 31, 2019, the Tallahassee Symphony Orchestra (TSO) partnered with the Morehouse College Glee Club and Florida A&M University Concert Choir for this powerful performance of Joel Thompson’s “Seven Last Words of the Unarmed.” Dr. David Morrow of Morehouse College conducts this piece that laments the untimely deaths of 7 unarmed black men. Following the performance is a panel discussion about the work, led by Leon County (FL) Sheriff Walt McNeil, which includes composer Joel Thompson and two TSO board members—Byron Greene and Patrick Slevin.

Word: Spoken and Written

Always Clean the Light – Dr. Bertice Berry

Analysis: George Floyd, Coronavirus and Inequality Stealing Black Lives
This analysis was originally published by the Center for Public Integrity:

Brene Brown with Austin Channing Brown: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness

Brené with Ibram X. Kendi on How to Be an Antiracist

Sterling K. Brown – Speaks on the Pandemic
“Did this live, and wasn’t gonna post. A friend convinced me otherwise. So here it is. #irunwithmaud …”

What I Want To Tell White Professors When They Ask, “How I’m Doing Today?”

Your Black Colleagues May Look Like They’re Okay — Chances Are They’re Not

This piece has been reprinted with accompanying images on the National Association for Music Education website: https://nafme.org/sounds-silence/

Statement from Cheryl McLean as ADRI Advisory Committee Member

June 8, 2020 Tara CaimiLeave a comment

By Cheryl McLean
Independent Scholar, Writer, Ethnodramatist

Today all of us are experiencing the once in a century impacts of a world-wide pandemic, Black Lives Matter and national and international protests are beginning to lead the way toward real systemic change. Elder Lives Matter has yet to find its momentum or its movement but desperately needs new voices and visibility considering the isolation and marginalization of the aged, discrimination, the desperate state of elder care issues around quality of life/human rights and dignity, unresolved family grief and loss. And today the effects of stress, fear, illness, chaos and societal instability on mental health have been overwhelming and there are critical needs for education and programming as well as greater understanding about the importance of mental health today and on into the future.

I believe in the talent you have brought together at ADRI and it’s inspiring for me to know everyone I met at that first [advisory committee] meeting brings something vital and important to the table at this historic time when the needs are so great. What incredible collaborative creative potential there is in this group for the arts in action, for education and for profiling new research as well as for awareness raising and fostering hope through arts in many forms leading to social change.

Read more from Cheryl at her Art in Pandemic blog:
http://www.artinpandemic.com/blog

Michele Dunleavy: Performance of 5/4 Ever, A Tribute to the Life and Music of Dave Brubeck at the Southern Theatre in MInneapolis, MN. Photo by Aleutian Calabay