On Missouri and Diversity Day

When I was in high school, I attended something called Diversity Day. In case you don’t know what that is, Diversity Day is a day when there are no classes. Instead, there’s a series of discussions and conferences and activities designed to celebrate diversity — God bless us, every one.¹ It often seemed the idea was that everyone can feel more equal and together by pointing out how different everyone is. If it isn’t already clear, I went to a private school. I know. Sue me. (I mean, don’t sue me, because I could probably swing a dead cat and hit a lawyer at the 10-year reunion; let’s hope so for the annual fund’s sake. Also, kick the next prep school boy you see real hard in the shins because we’re the worst, man.)

So, yes, Diversity Day. I don’t remember it super clearly, which I suppose is a good thing because that means no one got so pissed about it that he — or she; remember, equality — shot up the place. Low bar I know, but it’s not like that’s a thing that couldn’t happen.

The one clear memory I have of Diversity Day is being in a classroom with people of all races and sexes and, more intimidatingly, ages and grades. We were going around the room talking about what we were interested in and what some of our favorite stuff was. I suppose the idea was to show that people who didn’t necessarily look the same could be into the same things — like, who doesn’t think Chappelle’s Show is funny? Or maybe the idea was to show that everyone has different opinions and likes and dislikes, and that that’s okay and we should all respect each other. Either way, those seem like pretty good points.

Anyway, we were going around the room saying who our favorite musicians were. And 14-year-old me lied about my answer because there were black kids in the room. The real reason is that there were older kids in the room, and at least one of them was a girl who happened to be black. I can’t remember her name for the life of me, but I probably thought she was hot and/or cool, and that was reason enough for me to be willfully dishonest about my musical preferences. I didn’t want anyone to think that I was lame or a poser or whatever. It’s a story as old as high school itself.

I didn’t want anyone to think that I was lame or a poser or whatever. It’s a story as old as high school itself.

Tupac Shakur died on September 13, 1996, ten days before my ninth birthday. I did not listen to Tupac while he was alive. I had discovered Beavis and Butt-head by then, and I may have discovered South Park by then, but I had not discovered hip-hop by then. I’m certain I had listened to it a bit — countless mid-90s nights were spent listening to the Big Nine at 9 on Jammin 92.3 — but not really. I didn’t have a discerning ear at least. After all, countless mid-90s nights were spent listening to the Big Nine at 9 on Jammin 92.3.

Christmas, 1996. Living room. Mom, Dad, Brother, Me. Norman Rockwell’s wet dream kinda stuff. I grab a handful of presents and pass them around, each one of us building piles of swag as we open our stockings. Thinking about it now, we ran a pretty regimented gift opening program. We would take turns opening presents, going around one by one so as to give each gift its own stage. Sometimes it would be an aw-shucks bummer (socks. huzzah) and sometimes it would be a legitimate event (NO F*CKING WAY A NINTENDO 64 OH MY GOD OH MY GOD I LOVE EVERYBODY).

More often the gifts fell in the middle. A long-used tactic in the Gibson household to add some spice to a present is the old funny nametag trick. Here’s how it works. You get one of those To: From: stickers and write in the recipient’s name normally. Then — stay with me now, here’s the trick — you come up with a humorous name to occupy the From: field. Bernie Kosar often made trips to drop off some Browns gear. Jake and Elwood Blues might bring my brother a jazz CD. Especially large professional male athletes always seemed to leave 3-foot-long sticks of pepperoni. (I come by my peculiar sense of humor honestly.)

Anywho, after a few rounds of openings I picked out a CD-shaped box. A CD was an exciting shape to get once upon a time because you knew it was going to bring the goods. It might be a regular music CD, or it might be a computer game CD, or, depending on your console, it might be a video game CD. Lots of appealing cards on the table. The rotation gets around to me and I open the thing. So excited. I open it up at least semi-carefully, lifting the edges instead of tearing at the middle. My dad’s mom always had — has, I should say; she’s going strong at 95 — a thing about saving the wrapping paper because “it’s perfectly good.” We always joke about it because it’s silly, yet we often abide by it.

I get all the paper off. This is what’s inside.

Blackstreet, Another Level. I didn’t know what to say. For a good five seconds I was speechless. Not because I was blown away. Not because of the awesome power of Dr. Dre’s verse on “No Diggity.” Not because I was a Teddy Riley fan from way back in his days with Guy. I was speechless because I literally had no idea what I was holding in my hands. I am confiding in you right now when I say that I had truly and sincerely asked my brother for a Backstreet Boys album, and I was very disappointed when I saw that I had received a Blackstreet album. I hadn’t learned how to feign gratitude for a gift yet, so I think I was rude about it for a second. That’s how much of a toad I was.

Fast forward a couple years. Having listened to Another Level roughly a thousand times and now holding a sincere appreciation for it, we have a nascent hip-hop head on our hands. I may well have been the first and only of my kind, a white kid who listens to rap music more during his adolescence. Landmark stuff, yes sir. Tupac’s Greatest Hits album has been posthumously released. One of those hits is “Changes,” released as a single about a month earlier. A music video is made for the song, comprised of old videos and pictures of the performer, and it is the most moving thing your faithful scribe has ever seen.

I loved everything about that video for reasons that should be self-evident. Tupac immediately became my favorite rapper/musician/person/entity. I loved “Changes” and I loved “Dear Mama” but I also loved “Hit Em Up” even though I didn’t really understand what made “Hit Em Up” good. He was a badass and a hardass but he was also sweet and tender and loved his mom. He could be intense and frightening and vulnerable and friendly, sometimes all at once. He was that thing I so desperately yearned to be: cool.

Fast forward a couple more years. I’m in that high school classroom on Diversity Day. I know that I will soon be asked who my favorite musician is. Maybe not my favorite-favorite, but someone who I really enjoy at this particular moment in my existence. Someone who speaks to me. Kids are going up and down the aisles offering their choices. After a few more it will be my turn. I know deep in my heart that Tupac is the only true answer to this question.

But the aforementioned cooler older kids are there, and some of them are black. And I’m 99 percent sure that that one girl said Tupac was her favorite. And oh god what if they think I’m just saying Tupac because they’re there and I want to seem cool? And what if I come off as a wigger and I’m unwittingly being racially insensitive — and even worse, unoriginal — when I’m just saying what’s in my heart of hearts, and I mean no harm to them nor to their proud rich cultural heritage? So do I be honest and say Tupac?

No. No I do not. I say Dave Matthews Band instead, and almost certainly come off like a completely vanilla dorktopus in the process. That’s one thing I remember from Diversity Day.

Another is when we were all in the gym. The bleachers were pushed in and everyone stood in a big circle. Then a bunch of different statements were read aloud, and if they applied to you then you could choose to walk into the middle of the circle — where the bullseye resides on a dartboard. The statements were about you and things you identified with, and not all of them were necessarily things that an average high school kid wanted to cop to in front of the whole gym. Step into the middle if your parents are divorced; if you were raised by one parent; if you were adopted. Step forward if you’re Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, athiest. Step forward if you’re Hispanic. Step forward if you’re gay. Students and teachers alike stepped forward for all of these different things, except one. (Turns out there were no Hispanic kids. My one friend is part Cuban, but decided that he didn’t want to be the only one standing in the middle of the whole school.)

The whole thing reads like an Onion article

I bring all of this up because I have no idea how things are going to be — how things can be — resolved at the University of Missouri. The whole thing reads like an Onion article. It’s just absurd. Every part of it is crazier than the next. A swastika made out of feces? A hunger strike? A university president forced to resign over racist things that he himself did not do or say?² And the only reason it really came to a head, in my view, is SEC football money? And now everyone (probably) has to go to diversity class?

Look, this isn’t to say that any part of it is invalid. For better or worse, everyone involved seems to have felt very strongly and acted according to their beliefs. That’s a commendable thing. I think the entire situation is objectively ridiculous is all, from cause through effect.

I’m not sure what Tim Wolfe could have done to quell whatever racism is afoot in Columbia, Missouri. I don’t think he could have done anything to stop it, especially once Ferguson entered the national conversation. There ain’t no way to legislate how people think, and racism is just a type of thinking, thoughtless as it can be. Yet it certainly seems that Wolfe should have done more. Maybe some of those vacuous public statements, like when the President condemns North Korea but doesn’t really do anything, would have helped. Maybe all he had to do was seriously acknowledge what was going on. Maybe just being on the record does matter, if only for the sake of appearances. Maybe people care about that sort of thing more than I realize.

I don’t know, man. It sucks.

What I do know is that everyone within 500 miles of Mizzou will get diversity class out the wazoo. The people who want to get something out of it will, and the people who don’t want to get anything out of it won’t. Some will savor it, others will decry it. Adjust the exchange rate for my two cents as you see fit, for I am a straight white male. Like, driven snow white — people ask exactly what part of Caucasia I’m from. I’m such a WASP you can hear me buzzing from a mile away. I’ve long come to terms with the fact that when it comes to issues of race and gender and discrimination, odds are I don’t get it, thus it’s tough for me to come to any substantive conclusion vis-a-vis Missouri.

All I can reflect on that is germane to this conversation is my own experience from Diversity Day. I thought then and think now that it was a rather silly event, but nothing worth getting too upset about. I have to say that some parts of it were cool, even powerful — a bunch of kids comfortable enough with their sexual orientation to announce themselves as gay in front of the entire student body is a pretty awesome thing. I can’t imagine that I ever would have had the balls to do it.

As with many things, I think growing up in a generally decent environment does infinitely more than any sort of workshop or training can. But not everyone grows up in a generally decent environment, so I suppose those other options have value. But I also understand that a bunch of people may look at said options and think they’re a bunch of overly PC hooey, which can serve to exacerbate whatever unsavory thoughts and feelings they might have. I’m falling into a well of contradictions, which is sort of the point. This stuff ain’t simple and there are no easy fixes.

Point is, I have no idea if Diversity Day helped me become a better, more accepting person or not. I suppose it didn’t hurt, but I don’t think it would have straightened me out had I been edging down a Vinyardian path either. More than anything, it was weird and uncomfortable. I don’t know if that means it was effective, or if that just means I was a high school student. I’m leaning toward the latter.

I just wish I would’ve been honest about liking Tupac.

1. But not necessarily “God” nor “bless.” We’re all very very special in a very very non-denominational way is all. [↩]
2. It should be said that Wolfe’s standing had begun to erode long before a swa-shit-ka was smeared on a wall. He was brought in to cut costs, hardly an auspicious starting point, and things went further downhill from there. [↩]