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Abstract

WelcometoHealdshurg Rae Paris In front of Robin, about sixty people—mostly White—sat in uncomfortable foldout chairs in a circle drinking coffee and tea from biodegradable cups, chomped on bagels, and waited for her to do something about the crying White woman. The woman was sitting too far away for Robin to read her nametag, but her T-shirt had huge block letters: I MARCHED WITH MARTIN Below, Martin Luther King Jr.'s giant, disembodied, wax museum head floated against a sky-blue background, as if the other pieces of his body might be passing this way any minute now, just wait. The crying woman sniffled. Usually, Robin could spot them right away, the people who'd been saving up years of guilt, who came to diversity trainings prepared to cry, but this woman had moved too fastforher, must have started crying before Robin pulled the top offher magic marker. If Summer was here, one of their White allies at DWP (Dismantling White Privilege), an ail-White antiracist group they often partnered with, she'd put her hands on the crying woman's shoulders and lead her away from the group, gentle but firm. But Summer had called that morning sick with the flu. FeministStudies39, no. 2. © 2013 bv Rae Paris 654 Rae Paris 655 Even before Summer called, Robin knew the day would go wrong. Earlier, she'd woken up feeling extra dumpy and loose, so she wrapped a bright red scarf around her shaved head, tying it in a knot at the base of her neck in an effort to keep it all together. On the bus from Oakland to Emeryville, a scrawny little White boy sitting behind her on his mother's lap yanked the scarf off her head. "Balloon, balloon," he'd said. His mother returned the scarf without apology. "He thinks your head's a balloon." She was a girl, the mother, her tired face a distur bance of severe freckles that were probably never cute. She frowned at Robin's head as if Robin had stepped out into the world looking like a balloon on purpose just to confuse her tow-headed son who was reaching for her head again. She couldn't have been more than twenty—fifteen or so years younger than Robin — but already deep lines stretched from the corners of her mouth. "He has lots of imag ination," said the girl, sounding uncertain, not bothering to bat the boy's hand away. "Well," said Robin, "at least he has that." She leaned away from the sticky hand and retied her scarf, which made the boy cry. For the next few stops, Robin listened to the girl's wounded pigeon coos: "It's okay. There's nothing there. Justa big, black, bald head. That's all it is. We'll get you something else." Soon, came the laplaplap of the boy's lollipop sucks. It might as well have been Robin's head. And now, this crying White woman. The woman stuck a hand in her full head of gray hair and fluffedit. She sniffled louder. Robin turned her back to the circle. I am Miles Davis, she thought. You people don't matter. At the top of her flippad, she wrote: Welcome! Tolerance in the Workplace. Eventually she'd have to turn around. She'd already taken stock of how many people of color were in the room: a couple of Asians, one Latino, and two Black people, one of whom was a fine-ass, Tupac looking brother. She turned toward them. Most everyone's arms were crossed. Not a good sign. No one wanted to be here, except maybe Mar tin's sidekick who fluffed her hair again and sniffled louder. Robin 656 Rae Paris stuck a fingernail underneath her scarf to get at an itch. She didn't blame them. She'd rather be on a bus going nowhere. It started years ago. Robin, along with three other women — one Mexican, one Filipina, one Vietnamese—formed their nonprofit, Free Your Mind, in the early nineties, not too long after the En Vogue song had come out. Organizations hired them to perform magic. They'd wave their hands, say...