by Hope Mohr
This writing emerges out of my ongoing work and conversations with a community of thought partners that includes Safi Jiroh of LeaderSpring, HMD Co-Directors Cherie Hill and Karla Quintero, the HMD Board, the HMD Equity Committee, and many artists, including Chibueze Crouch, Belinda He, Yayoi Kambara, Julie Tolentino, Jarrel Phillips, Zoe Donellycolt, Hannah Ayasse, and David Herrera. I am deeply grateful to all of you for your generosity, wisdom, and friendship.
Earlier posts in this series can be found here (value-driven re-structuring) and here (notes on moving/stepping back).
“There is an intimate link between the mastery enacted through colonization and other forms of mastery that we often believe today to be harmless, worthwhile, even virtuous.”
–Julietta Singh, from Unthinking Mastery
“Every single mistake moves us forward.”
-Shira Hassan, from Beyond Survival
“Go before you are ready.”
-Jeanine Durning, choreographer
As a white ally of racial justice working in the arts, I write this out of a curiosity about how narratives about anti-racism have the potential to replicate the very harms that white allies claim to be fighting. How do white allies speak up without re-centering whiteness? Where is the line between amplifying a voice and becoming the voice?
It’s been many months since I last posted about the work of distributed leadership inside HMD. Although I’ve wanted to respond to calls to share our learning about this work, I’ve also been holding the words of Safi Jiroh, the consultant at LeaderSpring who has been supporting HMD in this transition. Safi cautioned me, as HMD’s white founder, not to control the narrative about the work. “You author something, you own the story,” she said. Other people have also cautioned me against trying to “own” racial justice work because, ideally, the entire community should own it. Also, I’m aware of the primacy of the written word in white supremacist organizational culture (i.e., unless it’s written down, it doesn’t exist).
For these reasons, over the past six months, I’ve resisted writing about distributed leadership work. HMD’s three co-directors—Cherie Hill, Karla Quintero, and I—have been sharing the work through non-written forums: on panels, at conferences, with press, and in ongoing conversations with colleagues, Board, advisors, artists, and each other.
The written word has been, and continues to be, a big part of HMD’s distributed leadership work. Language can be the outward manifestation of a shared learning process in which a group of people moves toward shared understanding and trust. HMD staff and Board are in the process of co-authoring many documents, including a new statement of values and operating principles; a new mission statement; new by-laws; and a new racial equity statement.
This wordsmithing is an important part of articulating intention and value-aligning an organization.
Equity narratives are also increasingly part of applying for funding. The California Arts Council has begun asking applicant organizations to submit a racial equity statement in order to be eligible for funding. Arguably, this requirement is a way to assess an organization’s commitment. Arguably, it will catalyze overdue conversations. Yet some see this requirement as problematic because it is unavoidably performative.
Is it naïve to hope that language can move us forward?
Can language move us into spaces where bodies cannot go? Mixed groups engaging in anti-racism work often re-traumatize BIPOC artists. In anti-racism work, whiteness often ends up the focus, even if white allies sincerely want the focus to be on POC artists and their needs. For these reasons, white people are being called upon to do our work in separate spaces as BIPOC people gather on their own terms. Is writing one way we can move toward each other?
Language is not innocent. It overwrites nuance. It elides source material.
Slick press releases and funder-friendly statements will not build trust between white-led arts organizations and artists of color. Organizations wait until they have a clean, well-edited solidarity statement to share with the public. What is the language for the messy, fumbling mistakes that are a central part of this work? Dare we share that?
Writing solidarity statements and racial equity statements is of course the right thing to do. But when everyone has one, what do these statements actually mean? “We’re woke, so give us money?” Are white people using cultural equity narratives to secure our existing positions, rather than change them?
Arts organizations, through their public-facing language, often metabolize demands for social justice. But of course, language is not enough. Armed with only language, many progressive whites have disengaged. Commitment rooted only in aspirational language will not support sustained anti-racism work, which calls for ongoing action in the form of personal, structural, and organizational culture change.
I often hear BIPOC colleagues talk about how white people need to do their own work. That means something different for everyone, but below are some current areas of learning for me as a white person involved in anti-racism work in the arts. I pose related prompts for reflection that I hope are useful. I also indicate artists and activists who have been my teachers, lest their labor and wisdom go unacknowledged.
· Notice habits of initiation. How can I collaborate without controlling outcome, keeping in mind that process determines outcome? (thank you Safi Jiroh)
· In both artistic and organizational spaces, make time and space for people stepping into power to envision the future they desire. How can I let go of the narrative? (thank you Safi Jiroh)
· Don’t expect or wait for BIPOC people to call you out or be responsible for your learning. How can I see my own blindspots? (thank you Cherie Hill)
· Before you rush to build “woke” public programs, take the time to build community trust. If the work isn’t anchored in authentic relationships, the work isn’t liberatory for anyone. How can my focus be not on organizational or career advancement, but on furthering the movement of which an organization is a part? (thank you Ruth Wilson Gilmore and Mina Morita).
· Don’t try to own or take credit for anti-racism work. How can white allyship be impactful without being extractive? How can white people co-lead from the back? (thank you Abby Reyes)
· Take accountability, but don’t take so much accountability that it becomes all about you. How can I take responsibility for harm without centering myself and adding to the harm? (thank you Daria Garina and Bhumi Patel).
· Process this work through the body. How can I move through uncomfortable feelings? How can I breathe into stillness and silence? (thank you Karla Quintero)
· Examine private narratives. I hear some white choreographers draw the line on equity work at the studio door because making dances the way they’ve always made them is “how I am in the world” or “it’s what I do.” How can I revise my own narratives?
If we dig behind white solidarity, we often find sticky discomfort. What is the language of discomfort? Is it silence?
Awareness follows language. Language follows awareness.
It’s useful to have aspirational language to guide and inspire us. It’s also useful to find the language for where we are now--the not yet, the partial, the becoming.