Protesting Is Educational Too

The ongoing news about pro-Palestinian encampments on college campuses is bringing up memories for me of when I was an activist on campus. 

It was the mid-1980s, at Georgetown in Washington, DC. To protest South African apartheid and demand divestment from their government, we built shanties out of cardboard and scrap wood on Copley Lawn. (They were much more ramshackle than the campers’ tents students are using now.) 

I remember we established an outdoor classroom to educate each other. Several faculty members taught their classes there. We staged a kind of simulation of apartheid with the races reversed. We marched, rallied, and protested at graduation. We were adamant, maybe self-righteous—just like the students today. 

At the time, we thought the administration was oppressive. But looking back, I think they gave us a fair amount of room. 

The University President, Father Patrick Healy, and the Dean of Students, Jack DeGioia, met with us more than once to listen to our demands. They didn’t budge, but they did listen. Jack warned us that he would call the police if we built shanties. I remember saying, “You do what you have to do and we’ll do what we have to do.” (Definitely self-righteous.)

Jack did eventually call the police to remove us, but there was no riot gear, no shields. He was so concerned about avoiding injury to students that he insisted that the unarmed university security officers do the physical removal. 

Jack—who is now the president of the University—allowed us the space to express our opinions. And about a year later, Georgetown did divest, though they said it had nothing to do with the student protest. (I don’t buy that).

Today’s protests differ in important ways, but the tension around how colleges handle them is familiar. I’m reading about peaceful protests, listening, and negotiations on many campuses. As in my day, lots of professors have shown up to support the students. 

But in echoes of the anti-Vietnam War protests of the 1970s, we also see scenes of violent counterprotests and intimidating police actions. 

My own experiences shape my reactions to them. If a protest is peaceful and people are expressing their opinion without hate speech or violence, then why not engage in discourse? That’s what a university is all about: teaching young minds how to do that in a way that’s productive. Learning what kind of leader you want to be. 

This is our future workforce. What are we teaching them about how to resolve disagreements and how to stand up for what they think is morally right? 

What we did at Georgetown has influenced the adult I’ve become, and the work that I do now in organizations.

And when I think about the Georgetown administration’s response, I feel appreciation and admiration. They could have done it differently. They gave us room to grow, say what we had to say. 

When I think of transformational leaders throughout history, I have to admit: it is the job of young people to push us forward as a society.

Why Was This Conversation Different From All Other Conversations?

I have been anxious about talking about the war in Israel and Gaza with friends. But last week I had a conversation where I didn’t feel anxious or nervous at all.

Four friends I’ve known for almost 20 years got together to celebrate some spring birthdays. Tricia, Comma, Laurie, Jane and I met doing DEI work. We’ve seen each other on and off, but not all together for a while.

We walked around an arboretum, catching up on our lives and different topics we all cared about. When we got to dinner we started talking about Israel/Gaza. 

Two of my friends are Jewish. They both said they were feeling a lot of anxiety about marking Passover this year, for a number of reasons.

They expressed concern for the suffering of the Palestinian people and how they might incorporate this into their Seders.

We shared more deeply, exchanging our perspectives on the world since October 7. At one point, I remember Laurie saying, “Jane, I disagree,” and she went on to explain why. 

And Jane nodded in understanding. Not necessarily persuaded, but not escalating into a shouting match. 

Driving home, I felt like my cup had been filled. It’s always wonderful to spend time with people you care about. 

But what struck me most was that I hadn’t been anxious at all. We were willing to listen and yield to those with more knowledge and experience, even though we don’t agree on everything. 

This is a skill we try to build in our workshops—how to have difficult conversations across differences, on polarizing issues. So I was keen to understand: what had allowed us this safety with each other?

We have been friends and colleagues for a long time. Time has allowed our relationships to develop. The trust and respect that we have for each other provided a necessary foundation. 

It’s also true that the five of us care deeply about creating inclusive spaces in which everyone can thrive; we’ve even chosen that as our career. 

At the risk of sounding sappy, I wish we could package what we had last week and share it. We can teach the skills, but what about the foundation of trust and respect? The willingness to listen? Is that teachable?

Of course the tensions are higher for those who are living in the midst of the conflict. But shouldn’t we be able to engage in civil discourse here in the U.S., where we are not at war? Instead we are seeing an increase in Islamophobia and antisemitism in the U.S. 

We should be able to express our views, through conversation or peaceful demonstrations, without resorting to hate speech or physical confrontation.

Personally, I am ready for some Moses-level miracles: the return of the hostages, an end to the conflict, and an equitable solution for the people of Israel and Palestine. 

Shades of Privilege

Within the U.S., being Black isn’t a privilege in the racial hierarchy. But my childhood in Jamaica gave me a different perspective. 

I was in the majority there, and yet we were not all valued equally.

One of my early memories is of Mrs. Morris, who worked for my parents as a housekeeper, helping me with my hair. I was 8 or 9. 

She said, “Maggie, you’re so lucky you have good hair.” 

“What do you mean, good hair?” I asked. “You have good hair. Everyone does.”

“No no,” she said. “Mine is coarse and tight. Yours is smooth and curly.”

Even at that age, I knew something about this was wrong. I didn’t have the words, but I recognized in Mrs. Morris what I now know as internalized oppression. 

She was acknowledging privileges she didn’t have, but which she knew I would, because I was light-skinned. 

In Jamaica and around the world, this colorism is a vestige of colonialism. History has shown that there are many benefits to being paler—sufficient benefits that people will spend their hard-earned money and risk poisoning themselves with skin lightening products, some of which contain mercury or bleach.

It’s not just a matter of standards of beauty. It has material impact on people’s lives. The more adjacent you are to whiteness in any way, the more access you are likely to have. Catalyst’s 2023 study of women around the world showed that darker skin correlated with more experiences of racism at work. Emory researchers also found evidence that the more “Black-stereotypical” someone’s appearance, the less likely they would be to be promoted to leadership roles (7% vs. 12% for Black employees)—and the “whiter-looking” a white-identifying employee is, the more likely they’d be promoted (43% vs. 32%).

Look around your own workplace. Can you see this playing out? Are people who are lighter-skinned being promoted more than darker-skinned colleagues? 

How about your own biases—who do you socialize with, mentor? Have you internalized messages that make you feel more drawn to, comfortable with, or respectful of people with more European features?

I know I’ve gained unearned advantages because of my own color. 

My job is to notice when that happens—and use my privilege to break it down wherever I see it.