QUARANTINE JOURNAL Day 148, Wednesday, August 5, 2020

Whiteness: my family messages 

The idea of being vanilla, which is white ice cream, is synonymous with being bland. If someone says they have vanilla taste, or vanilla sexual preferences, it is understood they like things tame, predictable, tepid - without strong sensation. Blandness is the reduction of feeling or powerful sensual sensation. It is what the Brits strive for, as when the Queen keeps her emotions in check and “soldiers on” no matter what is happening. It is all those red and white signs that say, "Keep Calm and Carry on." Originally used to help with morale when Britain was threatened by massive air attacks in WWII which eventually came, it has come to be shorthand for British sensibility. 

My family of origin, English and Scottish, admonish their children to keep “a stiff upper lip.” This is a sign that you can withstand pain – emotional or physical – and only your upper lip will quiver. Nothing will show the world how you feel, your inner life, the possible volcano of feelings coursing through you. This, for me, went along with "don't draw attention to yourself." I don't know if that was a particular admonition for girls but I suspect so. Boys, after all, "will be boys," with all the tolerance for high-jinks that allows. 

Conquering, as opposed to expressing, emotions is a high value in WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant) culture. People outside our tribe are criticized for being too emotional – the Irish as different from the British, the Italians if talking of Europe, Black and Latinx and Caribbean people if referencing the world. It is considered unseemly to emote. I can easily conjure up images of the dripping condescension of upper-class Brits who ruthlessly patrol the boundaries of their class privilege to make sure it stays exclusive. 

That the sun never set on the British Empire means these rules/prejudices were exported to the entire globe. It’s not just hysteria about danger from Black people that fuels separateness – it’s a sense of the correctness of things: who is in, who is out, who are the gatekeepers. Here I think of the astonishing amount of cruel racism that met Meghan Markle when she wed Prince Harry. I can remember the same sense of ruthlessness in my grandmothers, how powerfully they cared about what people thought of their every decision, how invasively they monitored their children to be sure they showed correct training. Correct training meant knowing the rules and, as you grew up, becoming the guardian of them. Staying within the white tribe was so foundational as to be unspoken, until I broke this understanding with who I dated and loved. 

My mother’s mother conveyed her sense of rigid boundaries about everything; her corset held her body in check as surely as the rules she’d learned held her mind in a tiny cage. I can laugh at it now, but as a child she made me shrivel when she admonished me. Woe to me if I liked daisies – they were plebian, scornful, and that most dreadful of all things: ordinary. They grew everywhere, without any training, without fuss. Roses, on the other hand, were a thing of pride. They needed special care. I spent hours plucking insects off her roses; pierced my fingers on dozens of harsh thorns to please her. 

Everything had its place, its rank, its English and Latin name, its status in the hierarchies she had adopted even though those same categories hurt her. Like an immigrant who justifies anything in their new country out of a sense of loyalty - and perhaps survival - my grandmother was a newcomer to the world of WASPY Boston blue-bloods, who take many of their cues from the British aristocracy. When she was divorced and humiliated by the husband who brought her into the upper class, she nonetheless kept the strict hierarchies of meaning that had given her privilege as well as pain. 

My grandmother had been a washerwoman before she married up. She would have known how sweaty and unpretty poor people are considered to be by those who don’t want to associate with them. And it is hard to pass: "My Fair Lady" is all about the training it takes to cross class boundaries. A look, a glance, a withering nod of condescension from those who patrol the boundaries and the gig is up. It is as if a small infraction, a tiny gesture of unknowing, a mispronounced word, the ungrammatical sweep of a phrase, an allusion too boisterous, a simile too colorful, a metaphor too over-the-top, and the whole world might break apart, splinter, fracture, disintegrate, explode. 

It might come unhinged, take wing, go off into the wild. "Tarzan, the Ape Man" is the story that fascinated my father so much he made a point to collect as many copies as he could. He was just one generation removed from the Littlewoods of London and combined British and American sensibilities. "Tarzan" tells the story of a child of the rich lost in the wild. He survives and tames his jungle wilderness, only to find he is indeed a prince of the realm. He is no Moses, a prince who liberates his people. No. Once back in his mansion, a Lord by inheritance, he tries to fit into the too-tight shoes of his powerful brethren. 

The story wouldn’t have the same appeal if the boy who came back from the jungle took his place as a car mechanic, pastry cook, pharmacist or mailman. The character of Tarzan carries two fantasies: the jungle represents freedom from rigid rules and confined spaces, whereas the luxury of the upper class is similarly exotic. Tarzan's British heritage evokes a culture heavily influenced by caste and hereditary power. That Viscount Greystoke, Tarzan, cannot stay in the confining strictures of his wealth and returns to the jungle allows the fantasy to be played out in countless sequels. 

The creator of Tarzan was not British. Edgar Rice Burroughs was from Oak Park, Illinois, once a Sundown Town, meaning if you weren't white you better not be caught there after dark or you would be driven out or killed. Though Tarzan is a complex and changing character who, among other things, inspired Jane Goodall to live with and try to communicate with primates, there are broad themes of racial and sexual hierarchy that explain Tarzan's iconic power over decades. The most obvious is his superiority as a white man, dominant over Africans, Arabs, women and nature. 

The modern version is alive and well on ads, our most basic and concise version of storytelling. Every time I turn on the TV there are ads for vacations with the company “Sandals.” In these promotions, it is almost exclusively white couples who go to the Caribbean to be waited on by Black servers: waiters, bartenders, smiling women changing sheets and fluffing pillows. The images perfectly combine the exotic and the safe: colorful street scenes - complete with screechy parrots, slinky cats, and happy looking locals - are posed against the cool order of the hotel and manicured grounds. You will enjoy vibrant, tropical vistas. There will be sweet banana frappes, coconuts with straws and playful umbrellas. You will have endless drinks, with ice cubes clinking in tall tumblers, as you swing in your hammock on well-groomed beaches. Though it is hot enough for you to be lounging in your Tommy Hilfiger shorts, the smiling dark-skinned waiter bringing you a mai-tai is dressed in layers of spotless livery, including a vest. He will carry your luggage, give you fresh towels, clean up your throw-up after beer pong. You deserve this, after all those hours on the freeway, or in a sterile office, or picking up dry-cleaning in horrible snowstorms. 

Welcome to the remnants of colonial power, resort land in the Caribbean, where servitude from not-white people will make you feel the full and pleasant weight of your privilege. It will be a true vacation, away from cities of steel and glass and all those pesky people who want something other than to bring you another Jamaican Smile, the #1 drink requested at Sandals, complete with a cherry on top.