Small stuff

Last week, several of my high school classmates from Nightingale Bamford, Class of `83 came together for a Zoom call to discuss our collective response to a letter that was sent out as a mass acknowledgement and apology from the school. Several other classes expressed “outrage” in the form of beautifully crafted letters that assertively proceeded to include an extensive list of demands such as hiring more faculty of color, implementing an English curriculum that included  50% authors of color, diversity training for the staff and students, the mandatory hiring of an outside agency to facilitate that the demands were being met and last of all, stating that they would withdraw all alumnae donations until these items are firmly in place.  

I gotta admit that it was disappointing to discover that Nightingale Bamford had only managed to amass two Black faculty members in the 37 years since I graduated. Over the 12 years that I was a student, there were none, except the school nurse and one administrator named Shirley. And, of course there were two lunch ladies. 

The class of `83 wholeheartedly agreed with these lofty and some would say obnoxious demands. Perhaps, we even envied the audacity of classes that could threaten to withdraw donations. Those classes were full of heavy-hitting girls with rich hedge fund fathers.

Our class, conversely, was known for being boisterous and extremely vocal. Some would say that I led the charge in that area. Perhaps, but in general many of us were decidedly unconventional. Our class had character which meant many characters. My classmates now live unexpected lives, have made unusual choices in their careers, where they live and whom they would marry.  There were stories of deaths, murders, divorce, cancer, gambling and many single mothers in our class. We were not your ordinary group of pristine private school girls. And so, it turns out that our class according to the books, has low donor numbers and even lower alumnae participation. However, there are still some die-hards, of which I am one. Needless to say, I volunteered to write the first draft.

So why would a group of 50-year old women waste a Saturday afternoon talking about “an old white institution” as one of our classmates called it. Her flippant email declining the invitation made me realize that she is the reason.

As much as it was easy for her to say… “Nightingale no longer applies to me…” the more I understood the crux of white privilege. To not care seems puzzling. I immediately emailed her privately to say that it is not just an old “white” institution. Simply because I was there. She promptly apologized.

I am proud to say that I and my five cohorts still feel a responsibility to make it better for the thousands of girls of color who should not still be experiencing what we experienced. My former classmate clearly has no care for the depth of shame that tainted my formative years. Why would she? White privilege is never having to think about things that are not about you.

So, instead of taking the normal route of demands and financial blackmail, I chose what I consider the high road. I simply gave a rare chance to walk in a little girl of color’s shoes when thrown into a sea of white “elite” faces.  While writing, I realized the realities are actually no different for all people of color living in a “whitewashed” society that systemically dehumanizes the bodies and experiences of non-white people. In my letter I tried to educate about the desperate measures that girls of color take just to be seen. These coping mechanisms range from extreme overachievement, to tragic underachievement. And then, there is always the boisterous route…being loud, bold and just plain outrageous. It is anything just to be seen. I always chose the latter.  

The letter tells two stories of African American students being publicly humiliated. They are the same stories but 35 years apart. One of the stories is about me. I was sitting in 7th grade history class during the one class on slavery for the whole semester. I was (rightfully) distracted as the only girl of color in the room. I was misbehaving to save myself. The teacher (who is STILL there) called me out by saying “You, of all people should be listening to this!” I have never forgotten that.

35 years later, my classmate’s daughter who is biracial was in English class. They were discussing the book, “Passing” by Nella Larsen. Her daughter indubitably had the same reaction to being in the class as the only one…and the teacher called her out. “Are you laughing because YOU are passing?” said her teacher.

Wow.

Cultural competence and decency are required when teaching all children. Should these ridiculous micro-aggressions continue for the next 50 years, because we should feel obligated to hold the shame inside?  Should it continue that a Black student can still be accused of stealing a stray $20 or $50 dollar bill, when it was just the negligence of a white classmate that was really the thief.  Cash is too often found at the bottom of backpacks of “elite” NYC girls. In this particular incident, the accusation was made, a punishment given and when it was found to be false, no apology ever issued.  

I never want to hear that a girl of color has to suffer such indignities at the hands of a system that is oblivious to the lived experience of girls of color. Who better to speak out against it than those who paved the way for girls of color to muster the courage to brave the intensity of wall-to- wall whiteness as a backdrop for their formative years? Yes, we learned the Classics, Latin, French and Spanish but at what cost?

The systems of elitism must be torn down and reframed. The new world demands it.  Our letter is not about money, it is about asking the school to search for its soul. The antiquated sense of propriety and non-confrontation still live within the walls of privilege. The habit of not saying anything when something needs to be said, is built into the very bricks. Arrogance and fear live in the seats and hang in the drapes that shut out the light of truth.

Make no mistake, the love of education for all girls exists there, too. I felt it and credit it for making me who I am today.  But true love is calling out what needs to change. The time is now for Nightingale’s soul to be  pulled up out of the depths and shaken up, just like girls of color who dared to laugh off their shame when it was all they could do.  

This may sound like small stuff but it is big stuff at the same time. This kind of negligence has no place in a school that was built to create women who want to matter. Women who have and will continue to change the world.  Yes, I spent a couple of hours on the phone with my Nightingale sisters speaking our peace, hearing their apologies, understanding that we are not to blame for the times. Apologies accepted. It was just the way it was back then. Luckily, it is not like that anymore. Hence our letter that demands something more than line items checked off. Our demands are much harder to achieve.

We all have the power to stamp out the little stuff which can turn into big stuff. We just need courage and a little outrageousness. We must get over the ancient habit of propriety. It hasn’t helped any of us, only hurt all of us. As humans, we must be responsible for three things: where we are, where we are going and where we have been.

Leaving you to say something. Anything at all.