Stephen Vasciannie
SOME WEEKS ago, I wrote -- under the title, 'Rice and Please' -- about Condeleezza Rice, pointing out that Democratic opposition to her appointment as Secretary of State in the United States was ill-conceived politically, and quite odd.
Responses to that column have almost all suggested that Dr. Rice is fair game, essentially because she is allegedly a leading member of the carelessly interventionist wing of the military-industrial complex, or at least a stooge of the "neoconservative cabal" in Washington.
From my perspective, such criticisms tend to downplay a significant factor in politics and personal relations -- the question of race. Dr. Rice is a black woman who has excelled within the United States, a product of the segregationist South, and a first-rate intellectual.
Her political perspectives may differ considerably from some of my own, but, within limits, I am prepared to look past that to see the moral and symbolic importance of her appointment to a high position of State.
The question I have had to ask myself is why do I find myself driven to support Rice at least partly on the basis of symbolism. My answer tends to be personal; but, in race matters, the personal is sometimes very political. Let me explain.
WIDER SOCIETY
Twenty years ago, I lived in Oxford, England, as a graduate student. My supervisor, a leader in his field, treated me with great kindness, and did much to enhance my prospects. At no stage in our interaction did race become an issue, and when I worked with him, I felt that there were no limitations on where I could go professionally. Other British people of all colours also treated me very well.
But, I had to contend with the wider society. Football hooligans hurled racial abuse at me; a man tried to steal my winter coat, and when I saw right through his ruse, he proceeded to throw racial epithets at my Africanness; within minutes of meeting me, no small number of people would ask me when I was going back home; some college porters repeatedly sought to bar my access to parts of a certain college open to me; I faced open discrimination when I tried to rent a car; when I became a Research Fellow at Cambridge, one of my colleagues noted: "Stephen, the Selection Committee didn't realise you were black. Vasciannie isn't really a black name, is it?" And so on.
And, as I recollect -- not quite in tranquility -- one episode seems more dangerous than most. At Oxford, there are women, self-described as "Oxford Aunts", who will do sewing, washing and that kind of thing, for a fee. I had three jackets with slits. I had packed my clothes closet too tightly, and the door of the closet had torn each jacket on the right arm: whenever the closet door was closed, it pinched the jacket.
PINCHING THE JACKET?
A friend said she knew an Oxford Aunt who could repair the jackets, and made arrangements for me to drop them off with the Aunt. When I did so, the Oxford Aunt treated me with great suspicion. She took the jackets, and though I explained how they had come to be torn, she kept saying: "I suspect foul play, I suspect foul play."
In my naivete, I smiled, made my downpayment for the repairs, and arranged to pick up the jackets a week later. When I returned for the jackets, Aunty was not there. A man answered the door, told me that he was Aunty's nephew, a policeman, and overpolitely said he wanted to talk with me inside. He explained his belief that the jackets were all cut during a knife fight, and he wanted to know about my involvement in the fight.
There I was, then, in the first stages of a criminal investigation in Aunty's sitting room. Eventually, the policeman (if he was one) was satisfied that I was a graduate student, although his scepticism was raised when I said that law students no longer had to pass Latin in order to practice. I made my payment, collected my jackets, and mounted my bicycle, never to see Aunty or her nephew (if he was that) again. Aunty could have had me in the dock, because she was a racist.
If we are to overcome the history of racism, especially in the United States and Britain, one method must be to encourage the elevation of serious-minded, talented black people to positions of prominence. When the Oxford Aunt calls the Commissioner of Police for her area, there must be every possibility that a black person answers the telephone. When American foreign policy is being formulated, the black Secretary of State must be there.
So, why do I like Rice? I do because black people have been, for far too long, the victims of foul play. Foul play.
Stephen Vasciannie is a professor at the University of the West Indies and a consultant in the attorney-general's chambers.
