American Studies Leaves the Classroom

Tonight I introduced the concept of racial politics to a group of white, upper middle class men and women in their mid- forties.
It wasn't that fun.
It was over seasoned sweet potatoes, apple and cabbage coleslaw and pork loin.
It was a conversation that didn't have to take the direction it did but did anyway because I am who I am, majoring in what I am, caring about what I do.

"There should be more teachers of color because it's important for students of color to have teachers who look like them." *from one end of table*

"Once a parent told me that I couldn't understand their child because I'm white. It made me think..." *from other end of table*

"And I cant teach women because I'm a man." *scoff*

"So what should be done to recruit more teachers of color?" *defensively(?)*

*please please please don't turn into affirmative action debate*

And I felt it. I was the angry [political] black women who brings race [her blackness] into everything. And that made me feel tired. Here I had singlehandedly made these people acknowledge their whiteness and it didn't feel good.
I felt like I had burst a bubble.
Been the barer of bad news.
Brought up a heavy issue with no solution.
And as unresolved as the entire conversation was, there was some hustle and bustle. Plates were taken to the sink. The retractable table was retracted and they continued their game of bridge.
Me the Debbie Downer, left to awkwardly hang around before returning upstairs.
Having American Studies conversations with people who aren't American Studies majors is...hard. Really fucking hard. Introducing moderndayracismwhitepriviledgeindustrialcomplexesetc.etc. to adults [white] over hummus is HARD and yet there's still something inside me that wants to do it.
Because they should know.

Bimbola