Mark Reynolds at PopMatters, "an international magazine of cultural criticism and analysis," just did a long, thoughtful reflection on my book on American views of Africa from a Pan-African perspective. It is entitled "You May Be Black or You May Be White But in Africa You're an American First."

Like many liberal-minded white academics, I wrestle with the question of how to approach African-American history and life in my work. Growing up in rural Clatsop County did not exactly give me a working knowledge of black culture, and I was immersed in the racism, patent and latent, of that time and place. But not addressing the lives of African Americans in one's work hardly seems like a workable or helpful approach, either.

The more I learn about African-American culture, the more I am struck by how ignorant I remain, and how complex the subject often is. Certainly listening--whether it is to friends talking or writers writing--to many different people is a good start.

On Frank Bruni, White Men, and Listening

Frank Bruni's recent column in the New York Times, "I'm a White Man, Hear Me Out," generated a lot of discussion and made me reflect. Bruni takes issue with the point of view that white men are disqualified from participating in discussions on race and that we often receive mixed messages, such as (he is quoting Mark Lilla): "You must understand my experience, and you can't understand my experience."

I think Bruni well captures how many white males feel about the discussion around race these days, and that most white men are apt to vote for the person or party who is not asserting or implying that they are racist.

But I also think that it is perfectly understandable, even logical, for people who have been systematically harmed by systemic racism practiced over centuries to feel both that white people  must and cannot understand them. Moving between hope and despair and feeling both things at once about the current state of race and racism in America should be a common experience.

I have had the good fortune to be in many situations--not just in Africa but in Portland, too--in which I was the only white person in a room, and I have co-facilitated or sat in many multi-racial groups that discussed race and racism. I have found that the capacity to just listen with empathy to someone's experience of racism is very powerful for both the listener and the speaker. One of the more pervasive and often subtle privileges of white masculinity is the privilege of having the floor. All sorts of possibilities open up when that dynamic shifts.

Just listening won't fix the problem, and I believe that there is a time for everyone to be heard. But for white men to just listen might be a powerful and promising beginning.