How to NEVER be Suckered by Statistics on Race Again!

If you don't understand how statistics work, it is easy to be manipulated by intentionally misleading data. Since the races are not evenly represented in our population (64% White, 16% Hispanic, 12% Black, 4% Asian, 2% two or more races), a direct comparison between races in America on any phenomenon will be racially biased and lead to a false conclusion.

Hypothetically, suppose .1% of all Americans have been falsely arrested. Half of them were white and half were black. Saying that 50% of Americans who were falsely arrested were white and 50% were black is true, but it is a racially biased statistic because it doesn’t account for the fact that 64% of Americans are white and only 12% are black.

To factor out this bias, comparisons must be made per 100 black people and per 100 white people (or per 10,000, or per 100,000, or per 1,000,000). By calculating per 100 black Americans, these same data would show that 64% of the people who were falsely arrested were black. And, per 100 white people, only 12% of people who were falsely arrested were white. Now the data lead to an informed conclusion rather than a biased one.

So, the next time you see statistics on race that fail to show the data per 100,000 (or some other round number), you will know that someone is trying to sucker you!

Nostalgia, Blackberry Picking, and the Confederate Flag

I grew up with the Confederate flag, “Dixie,” shrimp and grits, antebellum homes, Civil War artifacts, and all of the things that fuel the sweet nostalgic sense of what it means to be Southern. My family descended from plantation folks, so my childhood was steeped in the romance of Old South life. I grew up on property that was once a plantation. The “Big House” and the old cotton gin house, still occupied by family members, represent historic monuments to our heritage.  I drank deeply of rhetoric about a more tranquil time when society was not plagued by minority issues.

Years ago, I was riding with an African-American co-worker down Folly Road on James Island. As we approached the Wappoo Cut Bridge, we were treated to a beautiful view of the estate of Mr. Willie Mcleod, an ancient Southern gentleman who resided at his family’s plantation for well over 100 years. The backyard of his antique home opened to a huge field. The scene was framed with live oaks and six tiny buildings that once functioned as slave quarters. My friend looked as if she were going to be ill. She said, “Why do they leave those horrible slave houses up? My stomach hurts every time I see them.” At the time, I was truly shocked that a sight so pleasant to my eyes could cause such a visceral adverse reaction in another.

I have memories of a perfect, Tom Sawyeresque childhood on the sea islands of South Carolina. However, the recollections have been cherry-picked, censored, and sanitized to such a degree as to no longer resemble actual experiences. Old fellas like myself will often reflect on the idyllic experiences of youth. But, ask young people who are currently in the midst of actual youthful experiences, and their descriptions of these will be anything but idyllic.  This is because the stories we tell “about” life are different from what we experience when we are in the process of living life. The trouble with nostalgia is that it is rooted in fantasy. Many of my stories about getting into trouble as a kid are hysterically funny. However, the reality of these experiences was often painful and sometimes scarring. Nostalgia about the Old South is no different. 

My wife and I went blackberry picking last weekend. It was humid and over 90 degrees outside. Insects feasted on us as briers tore at our arms and legs. Sweat poured into our eyes and soaked our clothes. After less than an hour in this oppressive environment, we called it quits. While picking, my wife, who is biracial, commented, “Can you imagine what it must have been like to pick cotton?" I responded, "Like this, except someone would probably be standing over us with a whip, and we would be working as long as there was enough light to see!” 

I imagine most white, Southern people don’t spend much time thinking about such things. We rarely allow ourselves to consider the realities of slavery. A subsection of the American populous was systematically tortured, degraded, raped, and murdered. The modern family dog enjoys more protection from harm under the law than did a slave prior to the Civil War.  There is nothing romantic about the atrocities inflicted on living, non-fictitious human beings under the Southern plantation system. Rationalizations about loyal slaves and kindly masters only work when one imagines oneself as the master and when one denies objective reality. In a country so grounded in the knowledge that life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are fundamental human needs, the enslavement of sentient beings was a clear and obvious abomination. Slaves were real people whose life experiences were vivid, and valid, and relevant. 

I am proud of my Southern manners, my accent, and my Lowcountry culture. I am proud of my family’s accomplishments. But, as a moral person, the only response I could possibly have to symbols of a regime that supported the institution of slavery is revulsion and shame.

For Germans in the early 20th century, the swastika was a symbol of German pride. The dialogue that captured German hearts and minds at that time revolved around embracing German culture and heritage. The horrors visited on Jews by the Nazi regime should overshadow any nostalgic sense a modern German might experience from the display of a swastika. What kind of person would be so insensitive as to suggest that the swastika be displayed anywhere other than a museum?

Likewise, the horrors visited on African Americans by the plantation system in the American South should overshadow any nostalgic sense a modern Southerner might experience from displaying a Confederate flag. What kind of person would be so insensitive as to suggest that the Confederate flag be displayed anywhere other than a museum?

He is Playing the Race Card

The first college course I taught was a section on General Psychology in Charleston, SC. The demographics of my class was about half white kids and half black kids. We were covering the chapter on Abnormal Psychology, so I gave what I thought would be a fun weekend assignment. Over the weekend, each student was to engage in "abnormal" behavior in a public place, then record peoples' responses. Students were given safety instructions NOT to break any laws or institutional rules (example: talking in the library) and they were NOT to engage in any behaviors that might be considered threatening to people or dangerous in any way. I gave a few examples of "safe" abnormal behaviors like talking to one's self, standing backward in an elevator, invading personal space in a conversation, etc.

Monday morning I was shocked at the outcome of this assignment. Despite following my safety instructions, almost all of the black kids got into trouble with law enforcement, store managers, and other authority figures in the community. Apparently, if you are a black kid in Charleston, behaving abnormally results in trouble. Conversely, white kids who behaved abnormally received the expected responses of laughing, pointing, ignoring, gossiping, and avoiding.

Later, when I recounted this story to subsequent classes, white students were typically surprised (as I was) at the differences in public responses to black versus white kids. However, black students hearing the story for the first time knew what the outcome would be before I ever said it. One middle-aged, African American student who had children of her own, reported that she raised her kids to keep their hands in full view at all times whenever they were in a store or mall. As a white parent of white children, having my kids keep their hands in full view is something that never would have crossed my mind.

A few years later, an African-American colleague of mine, Anna, requested my help with her son who had recently gotten into trouble at school. Her son, John, was an honor roll high school student with no history of school behavior problems. However, he got into a conflict with another student and became defiant when the principal intervened. His punishment for defiance was expulsion for the remainder of the year. John subsequently apologized to the principal for talking back, but a hearing was set to confirm expulsion.

Anna had me and several other professionals who were familiar with John speak on his behalf at the hearing. The Discipline Board consisted of three white, male, principals and one white, female principal. I felt the hearing went very much in John's favor, so I was shocked when the panel ruled to go through with the expulsion. I approached the Chair of the Discipline Board and made the comment that an all-white, all principal, and nearly all-male panel was inappropriate. The Chair dramatically raised both hands in the air and yelled out, "I knew it! I knew someone just had to play the race card!" Anna was embarrassed that I brought it up. It is very bad form for victims of racism to complain about mistreatment.

Three months later, I was back before the same Discipline Board in support of another high school kid. On this occasion, another honor roll student with no history of behavior problems had gotten in big trouble. This second troublemaker was Suzie, a cute, white, female who broke federal law by distributing marijuana brownies to her classmates. The legal penalty for this act is up to 5 years in prison and up to a $250,000 fine. Again, the hearing seemed to go well for the student. The ruling? She was told never to do that again and was allowed to return to school the next day.

The Race Card: A term invented by bigots used to quiet victims of bigotry.