Small Great Things (56 page)

About four years into my writing career, I wanted to write a book about racism in the United States. I was drawn by a real-life event in New York City, when a Black undercover police officer was shot in the back, multiple times, by white colleagues—in spite of the fact that the undercover cop had been wearing what was called “the color of the day”—a wristband meant to allow officers to identify those who were in hiding. I started the novel, foundered, and quit. I couldn't do justice to the topic, somehow. I didn't know what it was like to grow up Black in this country, and I was having trouble creating a fictional character that rang true.

Flash forward twenty years. Once again, I desperately wanted to write about racism. I was uncomfortably aware that when white authors talked about racism in fiction, it was usually historical. And again, what right did I have to write about an experience I had not lived? However, if I'd written only what I knew, my career would have been short and boring. I grew up white and class-privileged. For years I had done my homework and my research, using extensive personal interviews to channel the voices of people I was not: men, teenagers, suicidal people, abused wives, rape victims. What led me to write those stories was my outrage and my desire to give those narratives airtime, so that those who hadn't experienced them became more aware. Why was writing about a person of color any different?

Because race is different. Racism is different. It's fraught, and it's hard to discuss, and so as a result we often don't.

Then I read a news story about an African American nurse in Flint, Michigan. She had worked in labor and delivery for over twenty years, and then one day a baby's dad asked to see her supervisor. He requested that this nurse, and those who looked like her, not touch his infant. He turned out to be a white supremacist. The supervisor put the patient request in the file, and a bunch of African American personnel sued for discrimination and won. But it got me thinking, and I began to weave a story.

I knew that I wanted to write from the point of view of a Black nurse, a skinhead father, and a public defender—a woman who, like me, and like many of my readers, was a well-intentioned white lady who would never consider herself to be a racist. Suddenly I knew that I could, and would, finish this novel. Unlike my first, aborted foray, I wasn't writing it to tell people of color what their own lives were like. I was writing to my own community—white people—who can very easily point to a neo-Nazi skinhead and say he's a racist…but who can't recognize racism in themselves.

Truth be told, I might as well have been describing myself not so long ago. I am often told by readers how much they've learned from my books—but when I write a novel, I learn a lot as well. This time, though, I was learning about myself. I was exploring my past, my upbringing, my biases, and I was discovering that I was not as blameless and progressive as I had imagined.

Most of us think the word
racism
is synonymous with the word
prejudice
. But racism is more than just discrimination based on skin color. It's also about who has institutional power. Just as racism creates disadvantages for people of color that make success harder to achieve, it also gives advantages to white people that make success easier to achieve. It's hard to see those advantages, much less own up to them. And that, I realized, was why I
had
to write this book. When it comes to social justice, the role of the white ally is not to be a savior or a fixer. Instead, the role of the ally is to find other white people and talk to make them see that many of the benefits they've enjoyed in life are direct results of the fact that someone else did
not
have the same benefits.

I began my research by sitting down with women of color. Although I knew that peppering people of color with questions is not the best way to educate oneself, I hoped to invite these women into a process, and in return they gave me a gift: they shared their experiences of what it really feels like to be Black. I remain so grateful to these women—not just for tolerating my ignorance but for being willing to teach me. Then I had the pleasure of talking to Beverly Daniel Tatum, former president of Spelman College and a renowned racial educator. I read books by Dr. Tatum, Debby Irving, Michelle Alexander, and David Shipler. I enrolled in a social justice workshop called Undoing Racism, and left in tears every night, as I began to peel back the veneer of who I thought I was from who I truly am.

Then I met with two former skinheads, to develop a vocabulary of hate for my white supremacist character. My daughter, Sammy, was the one who found Tim Zaal—a former skinhead who had Skyped with her class in high school. Years ago, Tim beat up and left a gay man for dead. After getting out of the movement, he started to work at the Simon Wiesenthal Center talking about hate crimes and realized one day that the man he had nearly killed worked there, too. There were apologies and forgiveness, and now they are friends who talk about their unique experience to groups every week. He also is happily married now, to a Jewish woman. Frankie Meeink, another former skinhead, works with the Anti-Defamation League. Although he once recruited for hate crews in Philly, he now runs Harmony Through Hockey—a program to promote racial diversity among kids.

These men taught me that white power groups believe in the separation of the races and think they are soldiers in a racial holy war. They explained how recruiters for hate groups would target kids who were bullied, marginalized, or who came from abusive homes. They'd distribute antiwhite flyers in a white neighborhood and see who responded by saying that the whites were under attack. Then they'd approach those folks and say,
You're not alone.
The point was to redirect the recruit's rage into racism. Violence became a release, a mandate. They also taught me that now, most skinhead groups are not crews seeking out violence but rather individuals who are networking underground. Nowadays, white supremacists dress like ordinary folks. They blend in, which is a whole different kind of terror.

When it came time to title this book, I found myself struggling again. Many of you who are longtime fans of mine know this was not the original name of the novel.
Small Great Things
is a reference to a quote often attributed to Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.: “If I cannot do great things, I can do small things in a great way.” But as a white woman, did I have the right to paraphrase these sentiments? Many in the African American community are sensitive to white people using Martin Luther King, Jr.'s words to reflect their own experience, and with good reason. However, I also knew that both Ruth and Kennedy have moments in this novel where they do a small thing that has great and lasting repercussions for others. Plus, for many whites who are just beginning to travel the path of racial self-awareness, Dr. King's words are often the first step of the journey. His eloquence about a subject most of us feel inadequate putting into words is inspiring and humbling. Moreover, although individual changes cannot completely eradicate racism—there are systems and institutions that need to be overhauled as well—it is through small acts that racism is both perpetuated
and
partially dismantled. For all of these reasons—and because I hope it will encourage people to learn more about Dr. King—I chose this title.

Of all my novels, this book will stand out for me because of the sea change it inspired in the way I think about myself, and because it made me aware of the distance I have yet to go when it comes to racial awareness. In America, we like to think that the reason we have had success is that we worked hard or we were smart. Admitting that racism has played a part in our success means admitting that the American dream isn't quite so accessible to all. A social justice educator named Peggy McIntosh has pointed out some of these advantages: having access to jobs and housing, for example. Walking into a random hair salon and finding someone who can cut your hair. Buying dolls, toys, and children's books that feature people of your race. Getting a promotion without someone suspecting that it was due to your skin color. Asking to speak to someone in charge, and being directed to someone of your race.

When I was researching this book, I asked white mothers how often they talked about racism with their children. Some said occasionally; some admitted they never discussed it. When I asked the same question of Black mothers, they all said,
Every day.

I've come to see that ignorance is a privilege, too.

So what have I learned that is helpful? Well, if you are white, like I am, you can't get rid of the privilege you have, but you can use it for good. Don't say
I don't even notice race!
like it's a positive thing. Instead, recognize that differences between people make it harder for some to cross a finish line, and create fair paths to success for everyone that accommodate those differences. Educate yourself. If you think someone's voice is being ignored, tell others to listen. If your friend makes a racist joke, call him out on it, instead of just going along with it. If the two former skinheads I met can have such a complete change of heart, I feel confident that ordinary people can, too.

I expect pushback from this book. I will have people of color challenging me for choosing a topic that doesn't belong to me. I will have white people challenging me for calling them out on their racism. Believe me, I didn't write this novel because I thought it would be fun or easy. I wrote it because I believed it was the right thing to do, and because the things that make us most uncomfortable are the things that teach us what we all need to know. As Roxana Robinson said, “A writer is like a tuning fork: we respond when we're struck by something….If we're lucky we'll transmit a strong pure note, one that isn't ours, but which passes through us.” To the Black people reading
Small Great Things
—I hope I listened well enough to those in your community who opened their hearts to me to be able to represent your experiences with accuracy. And to the white people reading
Small Great Things
—we are all works in progress. Personally, I don't have the answers and I am still evolving daily.

There is a fire raging, and we have two choices: we can turn our backs, or we can try to fight it. Yes, talking about racism is hard to do, and yes, we stumble over the words—but we who are white need to have this discussion among ourselves. Because then, even more of us will overhear, and—I hope—the conversation will spread.

—
J
ODI
P
ICOULT

M
ARCH 2016

For Kevin Ferreira,

whose ideas and actions make the world a better place,

and who taught me that we are all works in progress.

Welcome to the family.

If not for a host of people and resources, this book would never have been written.

Thanks to Peggy McIntosh for the concept of the invisible knapsack. Dr. Beverly Daniel Tatum literally braved the ice storm in Atlanta to meet with me, and is one of my heroes—I hope she doesn't mind that I borrowed the explanation she gave her own son about the color of his skin being something
more,
rather than something
less
. I also must thank Debby Irving for her expertise as a social justice educator, for being available all hours of the day and night to vet my words, and for so graciously letting me steal her metaphors and best lines, including the concepts of headwinds and tailwinds of privilege (as brilliantly described by Verna Myers) and
ignorance
having the word
ignore
in it. Thanks, too, to Malcolm Gladwell, who on
Q&A
on C-SPAN on December 8, 2009, used an example from his book
Outliers
examining birth-date cutoffs for young Canadian hockey players and how that translates into NHL success—the premise of which I used for Kennedy's closing argument. Thanks to the People's Institute for Survival and Beyond, which ran the Undoing Racism workshop sponsored by the Haymarket People's Fund in Boston, which encouraged me to notice my own privilege—they get full credit for Kennedy's metaphor about throwing away the babies.

I am grateful to Professor Abigail Baird, for the research on bias she provided (as well as the introduction to the remarkable Sienna Brown). To Betty Martin, the woman I'd always call first if I wanted to kill a fictional newborn. To Jennifer Twitchell of the ADL, Sindy Ravell, Hope Morris, Rebecca Thompson, Karen Bradley, and Ruth Goshen. Thanks to Bill Binnie, for his name and his donation to Families in Transition, which provides safe, affordable housing and comprehensive social services to individuals who are homeless or at risk of becoming homeless in southern New Hampshire. For McDonald's advice: Natalie Hall, Rachel Daling, Rachel Patrick, Autumn Cooper, Kayla Ayling, Billie Short, Jessica Hollis, M.M., Naomi Dawson, Joy Klink, Kimberly Wright, Emily Bradt, Sukana Al-Hassani.

Thanks to the many doctors and nurses who shared their experience, their lingo, and their best stories with me: Maureen Littlefield, Shauna Pearse, Elizabeth Joseph, Mindy Dube, Cecelia Brelsford, Meaghan Smith, Dr. Joan Barthold, Irit Librot, Dr. Dan Kelly.

To my crackerjack legal team, who swore that race is never brought into a courtroom—I hope I've changed your mind. Lise Iwon, Lise Gescheidt, Maureen McBrien-Benjamin, and Janet Gilligan—you are all way too fun to simply be considered work colleagues. Jennifer Sargent, many thanks for coming in at the eleventh hour and vetting the court scenes for accuracy's sake.

Thank you to Jane Picoult and Laura Gross, for being outraged and moved and humbled at all the right places when you read early drafts. Auriol Bishop gets credit for finding the title. And thanks to the best publishing team on the planet: Gina Centrello, Kara Welsh, Kim Hovey, Debbie Aroff, Sanyu Dillon, Rachel Kind, Denise Cronin, Scott Shannon, Matthew Schwartz, Anne Speyer, Porscha Burke, Theresa Zoro, Paolo Pepe, Catherine (I-secretly-run-Jodi's-life) Mikula, Christine Mykityshyn, Kaley Baron. Special thanks to the incomparable editor Jennifer Hershey, who challenged me so that every word on these pages is earned, and right. I'm also indebted to head cheerleader–road warrior–de facto non-
Scandal
ous Chief of Staff Susan Corcoran, who has become so indispensable I truly don't know how I've survived this long without her.

To Frank Meeink and Tim Zaal—your courage and your compassion are all the more inspiring because of how far you've come. Thank you for walking me into the world of hate, and for showing so many others how to leave it.

To Evelyn Carrington, my Sister Friend, and Shaina—and to Sienna Brown—one of the great joys of writing this book has been getting to know you. Thank you for your honesty, your bravery, and your open hearts. To Nic Stone—who knew when I was trapped in Atlanta that I would be making a friend for life? I could not have written this book without you holding my hand and telling me not to second-guess myself. All those frantic late-night texts have led to this version. Thanks for giving me confidence, for fixing my white girl mistakes, and for believing that I could and should write this. I can't wait for
your
novel to hit the shelves.

To Kyle and Kevin Ferreira van Leer—you two are what I want to grow up and be: models for social justice. Thank you for being the ones to open my eyes to those tailwinds. To Sammy: thanks for coming home from school and saying, “You know, I think I have someone you should talk to about your book.” To Jake: thank you for knowing what parking lot is behind the New Haven County Courthouse and for explaining Supreme Court decisions to me; I know you will one day be the kind of lawyer who changes the world. And to Tim, thanks for serving me my coffee in the Harvard “white privilege” mug. I love you for that, and for everything else.