Is This OK for a White Person to Say? Getting Beyond Political Correctness to Find Political Solidarity

Image credit: https://www.123rf.com/profile_millaf

I’ve been getting a lot of questions about the shifting terms of the Diversity, Equity & Inclusion (DEI) landscape, often accompanied by a sense of frustration or anxiety. People tell me, “Just when I learned to say this, now I’m expected to say that!” and “I get so nervous about picking the right word that my tongue ties itself in knots and what comes out isn't even what I mean!” This of course ties in with the US dominant cultural norm of perfectionism, which makes us recoil from making mistakes in public. 

“Language changes, just like cloud patterns change. It has never not changed, and you just can’t stop it.” — John McWhorter

It also ties in with the constant evolution of language. Columbia University Professor of Linguistics, John McWhorter puts it this way: “Language changes, just like cloud patterns change. It has never not changed, and you just can’t stop it.” So, while it would feel great to have a set of approved terminology and be done with it, in reality nobody—myself included —can tell you definitively which words to use.  What I can do in this post is give you enough history and context that you can make an informed choice.

Because if you have some context you can make choices that mean what you actually want to say. 

Here are four common questions:

“As a White person I get so nervous when talking with a Black colleague - should I say Black or African American?”

Clearly nobody’s saying “Negro” anymore. . .

I used to feel this same way—the terms seemed interchangeable, yet my gut told me they weren’t. Then one evening in a School Law course, our Afro-descendent professor set us all straight on this one. Someone referred to her as an African American and she stopped them. “I prefer Black—I’m not African American.” The reply was an incredulous “You’re not?” It turned out she’s not American at all, but an African Canadian. Yet, when she’s in the US, she is treated just like African Americans, and finds solidarity with them. So, to her, the common denominator is racial: being Black. 

And, while black-skinned folks In the US share a common racial experience, the term, “African American” also erases the distinct cultural experiences of Black African immigrants and Black citizens whose families have been in the US for generations. Also, Africa is a continent encompassing many countries and various tribal groups within each region. Saying “African” is like saying “Celtic” or “Slavic,” a broad swath of related cultures. When you want to speak of culture, the more specific you can get, the better. 

“I just got used to POC, then BIPOC. Now I’m hearing 'Racialized.' What’s the difference?”

All three of these are solidarity terms, forged to acknowledge common cause across related groups. “People of Color” or POC gained traction as “Women of Color” or WOC at the 1977 National Women’s conference. Women of many races saw it as a positive definition, in contrast to being defined as what you’re not, as in, “non-white.” Reproductive Justice organizer and current MacArthur Fellow, Loretta Ross was present at the conference when Black delegates came up with a “Black women’s plank” to the platform. Other women who were not White identified with it and wanted to be included. Hence the term WOC was born, soon generalized to POC. As Ross put it, “When you choose to work with other people who are minoritized by oppression, you’ve lifted yourself out of that basic identity into another political being and another political space.” To her, the solidarity was what mattered most.

“When you choose to work with other people who are minoritized by oppression, you’ve lifted yourself out of that basic identity into another political being and another political space.” — Loretta Ross

But as with other solidarity terms, it has the side effect of erasing the unique experiences of each sub-group. In particular, Black activists have expressed that their experience felt watered down by being lumped in the larger group; Indigenous activists pointed out that they are not “People of Color” but citizens of colonized nations within the US borders. 

Solidarity or Umbrella terms are constantly evolving.

“BIPOC” puts first these two groups that have experienced the earliest and deepest oppression: “Black, Indigenous,” and then includes others who have experienced varying levels of racial marginalization: “and People of Color.” The idea was to remind ourselves of the distinctions by stating the names. But in practice it gets shortened to BIPOC which still lumps everyone together. While it’s still a positive definition, it relies on external characteristics to define its categories. 

The phrase “Black, Indigenous and racialized people” is a recent import from our Canadian colleagues. Why “racialized?” According to advice on inclusive and antiracist writing from Simon Fraser University, “racialized” gets away from static categories and "recognizes that race is not an inherent quality of an individual, but rather a complex socio-cultural process." This points to a shared experience across a range of cultures and colors—not some abstract census group—and processes are things we can shift and change—unlike skin colors and other markers of being “non-white.” As a White person, using this term helps me own my part in this process.

“I have a hard time saying ‘Queer’ because it was such an insult when I was growing up. Why is it OK now?”

This is an example of a marginalized group taking back a derogatory term. I, too, have the visceral memory of "queer" as an intensely hurtful word meaning a person who was out of the ordinary in terms of gender or sexuality and didn't belong. Now many people self-identify as queer, reappropriating the slur as a means of saying that they are in fact extraordinary and have no wish to contort themselves in order to "belong."

“Queer” presents an umbrella for many identities.

The people I know who identify as queer appreciate the solidarity it provides, precisely by NOT specifying what’s “different” about them. This has led to using queer as a verb that means to locate the gray areas between the black-or-white, male-or-female, gay-or-straight ends of a binary. This in itself pushes back on the dominant culture’s tendency to rigidly categorize things and people, allowing us all a bit more space to be ourselves, whoever we may be. 

Of course, just as there are times when Black, Indigenous and racialized people need to identify within their specific cultural group, there are times when queer folk will identify as specifically gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered, etc. Since these nuanced identities aren’t external traits, no one can be expected to know them without being told. But—they are part of a person’s personal identity and it is their choice to keep that information private, particularly until they are sure it won’t be used against them in any way. Think of specific identity names as being on a “need to know” basis. If someone wants you to know their deeper identity, they’ll tell you. Otherwise it’s rude to pry.

“How do you say ‘Latinx’ and what exactly does it mean?” 

The term “Latinx” is a more inclusive response to the gendered nature of the words, Latino or Latina. These two terms find solidarity across many cultures and countries, but they structure a gender binary that not everybody fits. Also, as with many gendered languages, the default norm has been the masculine, effectively erasing everyone else. This has further ramifications in the specific ways that gender is constructed. In Spanish, problems are masculine, while crises are feminine; ideas are feminine, but designs are masculine. These associations may or may not have developed with intent to restrict people to a set of gender norms. What matters is that all of these associations work their subtle tentacles into the way children learn to frame their world. 

The search for a more inclusive term for peoples colonized by Iberia (Spain & Portugal)

The word, “Latinx,” does provide a non-gendered alternative. Its use of the -x harkens back to Malcom X, who famously refused to use his oppressor’s surname. In this case, it’s a pushback to European colonization and language. The problem that arises is that the -x is difficult to say at the ends of words, particularly in Spanish. Using this term means that many listeners will find it cumbersome, and many older Latin folks find multiple barriers to identifying with it. Ditto for Latin@. Does one say “Latinat?” Latin at where? Or is it said “Latina” which gets us back to the original gender binary. 

A Peruvian colleague who works for LGBTQ rights in Lima introduced me to the term “Latine.” The -e at the end conforms to the rhythm of the language. It’s softer and easier to say than the -x, yet it clearly queers the gender binary as well as the overall colonizer categorization mind frame.

". . .recognize that every iteration of the terms is an imperfect but earnest attempt to represent solidarity between the many groups under the broader umbrella." — Lily Zheng

And—as a reminder that we can’t rest on the word choice we make today—an Instagram follower commented that, the all these terms with the “Latin-” stem are culturally associated with the heritage of European Romans. In a post about various Asian solidarity terms, Lily Zheng urges us to “recognize that every iteration of the terms is an imperfect but earnest attempt to represent solidarity between the many groups under the broader umbrella.”

So when we find ourselves impatient or anxious about the continuing evolution of these words, let’s take a breath and imagine them written on clouds, forming, morphing and dissipating on the winds of human experience. That way we’ll have enough mental bandwidth to allow a conscious choice of our next words. 

Are there other racial and social equity terms that get you tongue-tied?

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