By Na’im Madyun, associate dean for undergraduate, diversity, and international programs
I recently returned from a leadership training where a distinguished law professor used our cohort as a case study for demonstrating the importance of academic freedom. As part of his demonstration, he integrated the N-word (the actual word) into a series of hypothetical, teachable leadership moments. His position was that if the N-word was directly relevant to educational materials (in court documents or an assigned piece of literature, etc) or the space, the fullness of the word should be expressed. To limit the fullness of the word to students is not only limit free speech, but it places unfair restrictions on the educational space.
One professor expressed that she does not allow her students to use the actual N-word regardless of its relevance. His reply was, “you’re not preparing them for the real world. You’re lucky I’m not your Provost.” Each time I heard the word, I had an involuntary physical and psychological reaction. I was bothered by what seemed to be his comfort and willingness to exercise his “right”(and of course privilege) to freely deliver the word to future higher education leaders. I silently resisted the experience. I walked several steps to the back of the room and stood up for the remainder of his talk. I chose not to applaud at the end and casually walked back to my seat. I vowed to find a way to intellectually unfollow him on twitter. The moment is still rather raw, but it ironically intersects with the anniversary of another moment.
Fifty years ago, there was a pivotal moment in the movement for Civil Rights. One prominent leader who emerged during that time has been considered by some to be the most influential African American in history. He spoke of unity, voting rights, spiritual well-being, access to education and the importance of love. History has shown us his imperfections. Time has shown us his impact. Towards the end of his life, many of his followers felt that he began to stray from the very principles that effectively moved the Nation. He was assassinated before he turned 40. At his funeral, portions of his eulogy included the following:
On February 21st, 1965, Malcom X was assassinated in front of his wife and children and 50 years later we more comfortably attache to the 50th anniversary of Bloody Sunday and Selma from January to March.
What is intriguing to me is not that Malcolm is seen as less positive than Martin, but that history seems resistant to seeing Malcolm as positive at all.
Maybe it’s because Malcom X once said, “Be peaceful, be courteous, obey the law, respect everyone; but if someone puts his hand on you, send him to the cemetery.” But he also said, “we need more light about each other. Light creates understanding, understanding creates love, love creates patience, and patience creates unity.”
Yet, Malcom X is remembered easiest as a threat – or the anti-Martin. The leader filled with unnecessary and misplaced provocation. Dr. King is Professor X and Malcolm X is Magneto.
Consequently, too much of what is connected to Malcom X might automatically get sorted into a place that is beneath our support. This might explain why some elementary students were not allowed to even write about his life. Researchers once said that when we feel threatened by a situation or person, we embrace our in-groups even more and dismiss our “others.”
Malcom X once said, “If you’re not careful, the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed, and loving the people who are doing the oppressing.”
Issues of diversity and equity are too complex to view the work in binaries or as having one, immutable right side. If we want our students and ourselves to truly appreciate differences and use it as a source for complex thought, competency building and excellence , we must sometimes be at least willing to separate the message from the messenger, the passion from the protest and perhaps even the N-word from the “pompous.”
