Between Blacks and Jews

The national dialogue on race is a bunch of garbage. It's a worthless touchy-feely exercise that isn't going to accomplish anything. It's another poorly conceived liberal enterprise that will only dredge up guilt and animosity to no positive end.

That's the column I would have written a week ago, before I attended Monday's inter-ethnic discussion sponsored by the Black Students Association and Hillel. I went to the event in part to find out what blacks and Jews might say to one another when seated at the same table. But primarily I went to gather empirical evidence for my great treatise exposing the national dialogue for the farcical disaster I perceived it to be.

My mission failed almost immediately. Walking into the Adams Lower Common Room, I was immediately struck by the charged atmosphere. As students mingled, making introductions and sampling fondue, the scene reminded me of a diplomatic reception between two warring countries. Manners were reserved, speech carefully considered and few members of either group seemed inclined to fly solo while working the room. Soon the organizers called us to attention and we were instructed to break into small groups to begin discussing assimilation and conformity in our minority communities.

I split off with six other students. After more introductions, we began by attempting to define what was meant by assimilation. As we rattled around ideas, things loosened up. We soon found ourselves wondering whether attending Harvard might be an act of assimilation in itself. That debate was interrupted by a call to return to the larger group. We continued to talk among ourselves, despite the cajoling to return our attention to the big circle, until someone remarked of our enthusiasm, "This is what it's all about. This, right here. This is beautiful."

Those mushy words made my hardened conservative heart a bit uneasy, but the seductive dynamic of the room helped me withstand the setback. The large group discussion, presided over by Professor Cornel West, was at times engaging and at times the incarnation of the section from hell. There was the unfortunate share of emotional venting, recollections of those painful moments in childhood when we wondered, "Why doesn't Santa Claus celebrate Chanukah?" or "Why is Santa always white?" But, for the most part, people's comments were fascinating, though not conductive to a coherent exchange. Early on, it became apparent that we had so much to say to each another, so many questions, that any attempt to focus the discourse was doomed to failure. A question about Israel's treatment of the Palestinians was followed by a statement about the inevitability of black exclusion, followed by a testimonial about life in South Central Los Angeles, followed by a student's confession that he removes his yarmulke when he returns to his house from Hillel.

This sort of wandering exposition had been one of my prime suspicions about the ineffectiveness of dialogue. But seeing it in practice produced only mild frustration. While a guided conversation might have been nice, what took place had its own significant power. Every time a Jew began to speak, I tensed up with anxiety, worried that the individual would misrepresent the entire community. Every time a black student spoke, I hung on every word, as if each bit of information, no matter how mundane, was a precious resource to be hoarded. After more than an hour, and well after Professor West had to leave for another lecture, the discussion was going strong, and the decision was made that it would best be continued back in smaller groups.

It was during this second small group meeting that the most significant progress was made. One student asked, "Why don't Jews do more to help other struggling minorities? You of all peoples should understand what struggle is like." A Jew inquired of the black students, "Why doesn't your community take more responsibility for its own plight?" Inquiries and answers flew back and forth. At one point, during a discussion about Jewish loyalty to Israel, I suggested that the roots of that loyalty lie at the deepest level in the Jewish fear that someday, somehow, we may be forced out of the United States.

Disbelief was followed by an epiphany-like moment of common understanding. The eyes of the black students lit up as they explained that they felt the same uneasiness about their future in this country. As we bonded over our shared sense of exile, one black student did point out a crucial difference: if blacks are ever kicked out, or even just socially marginalized into oblivion, they have no homeland to which to turn.

When I left for my room that night, two-and-a-half hours after the dialogue had begun, the crowd of participants remained large and was still engaged in heated discussion. The high I've felt since Monday shows no sign of receding. Despite my general satisfaction, however, I can't say I'm a complete convert. My experience here at Harvard has not convinced me that the same process, Presidentially mandated and on a national scale, is the best approach to better race relations. Students can come together on more-or-less equal footing, and there is a degree of intimacy on this campus that doesn't exist in America's cities. I'm not sure how what I witnessed would transfer effectively to the Bronx.

Even with regard to my personal experience, I wonder whether my positive sentiments are but the illusory product of some social psychological phenomenon and not any real progress in understanding. I'm bothered by the fact that no one at the discussion tackled affirmative action, perhaps the most contentious racial issue today, head-on. And I worry that the sense of connection built on Monday night cannot exist outside the artificial environment of our official dialogue.

At this moment, these doubts do not hold much power compared to how I feel on a visceral level. Monday night was just a beginning, and the meeting was certainly not without its flaws. But even so, it was one of the few truly educational experiences I've had here at Harvard. When I think about the students gathered in that room, I've got to paraphrase Paul Simon, a Jewish brother with a little bit of soul: There was something so right.

Noah D. Oppenheim '00 is a social studies concentrator in Adams House. His column appears on alternate Fridays.