"African-American History" was the only class I would have at
Notre Dame -- or any educational institution -- with equal numbers
of black and white students. Racial tensions ran relatively high
at ND in 1991. A group called SUFR (Students United for Respect)
had formed, and in a few weeks about 100 of its black and Hispanic
members would hold a 12-hour sit-in outside the registrar's office
to demand, among other things, a multicultural center, compulsory
black and Latin American studies courses, more minority faculty
and an anti-harassment policy.
Against this backdrop, it wasn't unusual for students in this
particular class to veer from the text. One day a white student
spoke up. "I'm just curious," he said, addressing the black students.
"If you want to be integrated here, why do you all sit together
in the cafeteria?"
It seemed like a fair inquiry. In fact, I didn't know a single
white student -- including me -- who hadn't wondered the same
thing. But the reaction from some of the black students surprised
me. They laughed.
"You all sit together, too!" came the answer.
No we don't, I thought. We just sit with our friends from the
dorm. (Sorin Hall's third floor always went to dinner early, around
5:15.) And then it hit me. If "self-segregation" was the issue
here, we were literally guilty by association. It was easy to
look near the center of South Dining Hall and point out "the black
table." But my friends and I also had a group of tables we claimed
every night. We segregated ourselves not only by race, but by
gender, dorm--even floor.
I thought about this experience during the recent Supreme Court
case regarding the University of Michigan's undergraduate and
law school admissions policies. At the heart of the affrimative-action
controversy is a single question: Can a university consider having
a racially representative student body an "educational benefit"?
Although Notre Dame is a private institution, and thus not bound
by the same laws as a public university like Michigan, the core
concern still applies, and my instinctive answer is a resounding
"yes."
For some, the issue of preferential treatment in admissions
is, fittingly, black and white. And indeed, from a cold legal
perspective, it's easy to argue that affirmative action policies
are intrinsically discriminatory. The truth, however, is far more
complex.
When I look back at my educational experience at Notre Dame,
I firmly believe it was top-notch. I was fortunate to spend a
year studying and traveling in Europe and the Middle East. My
classes were stimulating. The physical environment promoted a
spiritual weight that called you to concerns larger than your
own.
But 12 years later, I can still say that nothing had more impact
than my two semesters of African-American History. I learned plenty
from Professor Marcia Sawyer and the materials in the syllabus,
but it's the stories that stick in my memory. Tales of
black students being stopped by campus security for no reason.
White students drunkenly accusing black students (including one
straight-A engineering undergrad) of "lowering the University's
standards." The white running mate of a black student-government
hopeful receiving a tapeful of racist and obscene phone messages.
If Notre Dame hadn't made the effort to increase its minority
student base, would I have known the extent to which people in
my age, religious, racial and socioeconomic demographic are capable
of such moral failure and intellectual laziness?
Now, when a white person criticizes the entire black community
for the actions of one man who makes the evening news -- and then
writes off people like Jeffrey Dahmer, Timothy McVeigh and Ted
Kaczynski as simply "insane" -- I see the cafeteria double-standard
in the real world: Even among murderers, whites are individuals.
As a Catholic institution in America, Notre Dame will always
appeal to a primarily white demographic. To some extent, that's
beyond its control. But at the same time, it's important to acknowledge
that this group has precious few chances to experience not only
diversity but intellectual accountability. That comes only when
you sit in a class like African-American History -- with African-American
students -- and listen. It is only then that you can turn the
mirror of scrutiny back onto your own collective conscience. And
that's when true learning takes place.
I wish all university admissions would reflect the American
population without intervention. But, as my African-American History
class taught me, ours is far from a perfect world.
* * *
(Autumn 2003)
