We cannot have an open and honest dialogue about Black History in America without talking about the issue of the "white savior." The topic is ever present in portrayals of race in the world of arts and entertainment, a recent example being the Oscar winning movie Green Book, which was criticized for telling the true story of the African American pianist Don Shirley, travelling through the south in the early 60s, through the eyes of his white driver. To exacerbate the issue, apparently the details of the story were finessed to support the white hero narrative, a common movie making plot strategy, especially in Hollywood portrayals of our history. I have not seen the movie. Without commenting or passing judgment on the merit or accuracy of any particular movie (I am neither historian nor movie critic), Green Book joins a long history of movies employing the white hero theme in the context of minority struggle, including the classics To Kill a Mockingbird and Lawrence of Arabia and more recent popular selections such as The Blind Side, Gran Torino, The Help, and La La Land.
Potential problems with the white hero narrative include distorting, overshadowing, or replacing other voices from inside of the story. A white audience may come away with a "feel good" outcome rather than actually becoming informed in deeper realities from the perspective of another. Not being qualified to discuss the subject in depth, my purpose here is to acknowledge the significance of the topic insofar as it highlights the type of subjectivity that inevitably informs a white person's efforts (i.e. this blog) to talk about black history. In these articles I am concerned not with movies but with history, but some of the same pitfalls attend. I acknowledge and take ownership of the fact that I am a white guy trying to understand, and retell for contemporary purposes, the American history of human rights and civil rights, which in large part connects with the histories of people and groups that are either not white or not male, as am I. But these stories of men and women and peoples of differing and various backgrounds fighting for equality often intersect with the stories of white men and women, to varying extents in positions of privilege and/or power, who joined with them in that struggle for equality and dignity. In the case at hand I have reflected in depth on the 19th century abolitionist movement, including, in successive articles, William Lloyd Garrison and the Grimke sisters of South Carolina, archetypes of the white hero character, to be sure. And their heroism is essential to the story.
I have an agenda in my storytelling. There is a theme throughout - that of the struggle for the rights expressed in the Declaration of Independence - representative of a larger set of universal human rights that many would affirm. These rights were originally authored largely by white male founders, while making reference to the Creator, and these rights also were enjoyed almost exclusively by those same white male founders and others like them. Gradually, layer by layer, these rights have been extended, albeit to a limited and qualified extent, to groups originally excluded ... black Americans, women, Native Americans, immigrants ... you get the picture.
At every turn in our history, those in the role of power and authority, empowered largely by majority control of government and Christian institutions, have restricted the access of non-privileged groups to rights and freedoms, and by extension, to attending benefits and resources. The struggle has been at times a moral struggle, at times a legal struggle, at times nonviolent resistance, at times an armed conflict. As excluded groups have fought for equality, in many instances, principled and motivated members of the privileged or majority groups have joined them in the fight.
We need to tell and retell these stories as a way to learn, grow, and heal. If my white and Christian ancestors, as well as contemporary fellow citizens, have been party to these oppressions (of course we have) as well as beneficiaries of these privileges (of course we have), then we cannot but be involved in the examination and interpretation of these histories. We cannot engage our history with complete objectivity (I think it would be said that none can do so), but we can do so honestly, and in conversation with those different from ourselves. Further, if I am afraid to speak about the histories of others, then I muzzle my own voice by which I would challenge those like me in the error of our ways, be it historical or contemporary. Black leaders like Douglass and King spoke of the pain of the silence of the white moral leadership (i.e. church). Silence is not an option for me. The retelling of that history will include the white hero William Lloyd Garrison, and many others, and the black hero Frederick Douglass, and many others, and, as it turns out, their conflicts and disagreements, as they happened, and, their reconciliations, as they happened. (Garrison and Douglass parted ways at one point, just like Paul and Barnabas. Thirty years later, Douglass preached a most beautiful tribute at Garrison's funeral.) To the extent that we can learn that history, and learn from it, and work together, it can be for our mutual healing.
Potential problems with the white hero narrative include distorting, overshadowing, or replacing other voices from inside of the story. A white audience may come away with a "feel good" outcome rather than actually becoming informed in deeper realities from the perspective of another. Not being qualified to discuss the subject in depth, my purpose here is to acknowledge the significance of the topic insofar as it highlights the type of subjectivity that inevitably informs a white person's efforts (i.e. this blog) to talk about black history. In these articles I am concerned not with movies but with history, but some of the same pitfalls attend. I acknowledge and take ownership of the fact that I am a white guy trying to understand, and retell for contemporary purposes, the American history of human rights and civil rights, which in large part connects with the histories of people and groups that are either not white or not male, as am I. But these stories of men and women and peoples of differing and various backgrounds fighting for equality often intersect with the stories of white men and women, to varying extents in positions of privilege and/or power, who joined with them in that struggle for equality and dignity. In the case at hand I have reflected in depth on the 19th century abolitionist movement, including, in successive articles, William Lloyd Garrison and the Grimke sisters of South Carolina, archetypes of the white hero character, to be sure. And their heroism is essential to the story.
I have an agenda in my storytelling. There is a theme throughout - that of the struggle for the rights expressed in the Declaration of Independence - representative of a larger set of universal human rights that many would affirm. These rights were originally authored largely by white male founders, while making reference to the Creator, and these rights also were enjoyed almost exclusively by those same white male founders and others like them. Gradually, layer by layer, these rights have been extended, albeit to a limited and qualified extent, to groups originally excluded ... black Americans, women, Native Americans, immigrants ... you get the picture.
At every turn in our history, those in the role of power and authority, empowered largely by majority control of government and Christian institutions, have restricted the access of non-privileged groups to rights and freedoms, and by extension, to attending benefits and resources. The struggle has been at times a moral struggle, at times a legal struggle, at times nonviolent resistance, at times an armed conflict. As excluded groups have fought for equality, in many instances, principled and motivated members of the privileged or majority groups have joined them in the fight.
We need to tell and retell these stories as a way to learn, grow, and heal. If my white and Christian ancestors, as well as contemporary fellow citizens, have been party to these oppressions (of course we have) as well as beneficiaries of these privileges (of course we have), then we cannot but be involved in the examination and interpretation of these histories. We cannot engage our history with complete objectivity (I think it would be said that none can do so), but we can do so honestly, and in conversation with those different from ourselves. Further, if I am afraid to speak about the histories of others, then I muzzle my own voice by which I would challenge those like me in the error of our ways, be it historical or contemporary. Black leaders like Douglass and King spoke of the pain of the silence of the white moral leadership (i.e. church). Silence is not an option for me. The retelling of that history will include the white hero William Lloyd Garrison, and many others, and the black hero Frederick Douglass, and many others, and, as it turns out, their conflicts and disagreements, as they happened, and, their reconciliations, as they happened. (Garrison and Douglass parted ways at one point, just like Paul and Barnabas. Thirty years later, Douglass preached a most beautiful tribute at Garrison's funeral.) To the extent that we can learn that history, and learn from it, and work together, it can be for our mutual healing.