Even in Iowa, racism has become business as usual

By Carolyn Szczepanski

At first glance, it's easy to misinterpret Dr. Eddie Moore Jr.'s intentions. After all, white privilege is a touchy subject.

Moore jokes that he never knew there were so many white people in America until he moved from Florida to Mount Vernon to attend Cornell College. No more could he take refuge in the all-black neighborhoods in which he grew up; in Iowa he was interacting with white folks every single day, many of whom, he says, had never had a single conversation with a person of color.

Inspired in part by his experience, six years ago Moore came up with a contentious concept: a White Privilege Conference. Don't get him wrong; Moore doesn't want to beat up on white folks. In fact, he has an undeniably affable presence, with a soft-spoken nature and easy laugh that instantly puts a room at ease. Then again, he has no qualms making people a bit uncomfortable for the greater good either.

The conference's inauguration sparked plenty of controversy, but drew more than 100 people, Moore says, and each year since, the annual April gathering has grown exponentially. Never did Moore think he'd be giving anti-racist activists from Canada directions to Pella, but, last month, the unique workshops prompted more than 600 people of different skin colors to make travel plans to the tiny tulip town.

"What sometimes gets missed is that, after we've had years of these kind of overt acts of racism, we don't talk about how people benefited from that: the resources and wealth and all the opportunities people gathered from living in a system based on inequitable practices," Moore says. "There are all kinds of benefits and perks that have been accumulated because we built a society favoring one group of people."

And Moore makes such assertions, not from the impassioned conviction of a community activist, but from the studied perspective of a degreed academic who spent years researching the topic. He knows conservatives publicly ripped the conference the very week it was convening, but he didn't give the gathering its "White Privilege" title to be sensational. He gave it that title because, as his research has confirmed, it's time to face the facts. While a majority of society has come to believe that racism has been relegated to the history books, even the friendly folks in Iowa have skeletons in their closets. Especially in a state where barely 6 percent of the population is comprised of ethnic minorities, it's easy to become complacent. As the conference set out to address, it's easy to keep the door shut to uncomfortable discussions.

"We talk about tough issues, and we don't all agree on everything," Moore says. "It's not a kumbaya kind of conference. Some are more happy than others when they leave. But everyone comes and gets stretched, challenged."

Standing in front of a group of eager but apprehensive participants, Ako Abdul-Samad wastes no time in getting to exactly that point: "I'm here to challenge you," he tells them bluntly.

In his workshop, the Des Moines School Board member and founder of Creative Visions peppers the group with questions that prompt, at first, hesitant answers. He distributes a black history test to highlight the breadth of the education system's cultural oversights. He screens disturbing images of brutal lynchings and exposes seemingly innocuous dictionary definitions as blatantly racist.

But over and over, Abdul-Samad returns to one simple question: is racism an illness or has it become a way of life? In the minds of millions of white Americans, racism is a social disease that died years ago. But if Iowans think they have a clean bill of health, minority residents say they need to get a second opinion. A diagnosis from a handful of Des Moines' 20,000 African- Americans reveals Central Iowa suffers from symptoms of overt and covert racism every single day. And, perhaps worse than racial slurs, is the constant repetition that everything is OK.

"Denial is one of the main killers in our community today," Abdul-Samad says. "We deny we have a problem. We deny racism exists. We deny it needs to be addressed. We think we've made so much good progress, but all we've got are simple achievements."

Growing up, Floyd Jones remembers trudging past the white school to get to the all black school. He recalls going to the movie theater and being relegated to the balcony, and ordering food from cafés that, instead of offering him a seat, stuffed his meal in a paper sack and sent him on his way. In the 1950s, Jones grew up in a culture of institutionalized racism that has since been deemed a national embarrassment. But, for many of Jones' generation, the more things change, the more things stay the same.

Now the executive director of Des Moines' Human Rights Commission, Jones says racial bias is easily the primary allegation in the dozens of complaints of discrimination in employment, housing and public accommodation his department investigates each year. There are still reports that are so overt, they're open-and-shut cases. But brazen bias has become less common over the years, Jones says, and racial discrimination has evolved into a refined practice. "It's become more sophisticated, more difficult to prove," he explains. "The standard of law is high, but at the same time it's not as blatant as it used to be. It used to be so simple that anybody could figure it out. Now it's the subtleties. Racism has become a very subtle practice, because everyone knows it's not politically correct. But even without the derogatory names, a lot of things go on that are suspect."

Robert Simmons, education and outreach coordinator for the Coalition for Housing and the Homeless, constantly hears suspect stories, often from people who don't even realize their race may be undermining their happy ending.

"Generally we get calls where they don't outwardly say, 'I was discriminated against,'" Simmons says. "But when you start talking to them, when they start telling you about the makeup of their family and it was only until the landlord saw them that there was a change in the status of getting the housing, whether it be a minority or a biracial couple, we get lot of that. There's just flat out a lot of discrimination in housing here, and it's a tough thing to prove, so it continues. It's still pervasive. There's no question about it."

And it gets tougher as the years go by, as the majority of society believes it has put into place all the right policies and purged itself of all its historic prejudices, officials add. Even after 30 years in the field Jones says he is still amazed at the lack of sensitivity, the striking naiveté about the continued existence of racial discrimination. In a climate of belt-tightening, funding cuts have plagued plenty of government programs, but, in a culture that believes it has become largely color-blind, his department has been nearly crippled. Two years ago, Jones had four investigators, in addition to himself. Now, not only does he have inadequate funding, but he's been cut to only one investigator. As a result, the number of investigated complaints has dropped dramatically; while they used to handle as many as 100 complaints each year, Floyd says they get through as few as 60 now.

"If you're not able to take it right away and get into it, then no justice is served," he says. "If a person is losing housing or a job or being harassed they need action, they don't need someone to sit back and take two years to investigate. But you need money, you need people to process those cases in a timely manner. You do an injustice when you don't have adequate resources to handle those things."

Racism keeps Mario Hayslett up until 2 a.m. many nights. As director of the Hansen House of Hospitality, which helps men transition from prison to public life, 15-hour days are the norm for Hayslett. But it's not his white brothers who call him, hopeless in the middle of the night; it's the African-American guys who face daunting discrimination when they try to reintegrate into society.

In Hayslett's position, racial double standards are impossible to ignore. He's working with an African-American gentleman right now, he says, who has put in more than 30 applications and gotten not one call back. But send a white ex-offender into Jacobson's temp agency? Nine times out of 10, he'll walk out of there with a work consignment. Having spent 40 months in prison on drug charges himself, Hayslett knows firsthand that, in Des Moines, even if a black ex-offender has a wealth of relevant job experience he'll be outbid by a novice Caucasian every single time.

"Trying to encourage an African-American male in Des Moines and the surrounding area to continue to strive hard and keep a good attitude is a very challenging role I have to take on," he says emphatically. "My time spent with an African-American in trying to keep him motivated and keep him encouraged is triple what it is to push the other white brothers along."

Even Hayslett, despite years of experience, borders on discouragement at times. Right now, for instance, he's working with the City of Colfax, where he says the community and city council have mobilized to keep a local man from renting out his property to ex-offenders. Largely because of the racial make-up of the inhabitants, Hayslett says he's sitting on e-mails demanding the city attorney get those folks out, no matter what it takes.

"I thought the lynch mob and railroading days were over in our country," he says gravely. "But its just the sort of racism we're dealing with. I'm just stunned at some of the e-mails I'm receiving here about these folks."

With a staggering racial discrepancy in Iowa's prison population, past convictions have become a convenient way to mask veiled prejudices, many say. In Iowa, African-Americans make up only 2 percent of the total population, but comprise nearly 23 percent of prison inmates. And pointing to a person's rap sheet is an easy way to skirt claims of racism.

"Even if you come into the community having already proved yourself, they'll use it as reason not to hire you," he says. "Even after you've done a superb job somewhere else, become an outstanding employee, they're still going to allow that conviction be a reason for them to not hire you or give you a chance."

And that majority perception of black men as criminals stalks even the innocent. Otis Henderson, a clean-cut professional black male, says he can walk into Younkers or Dillards and, despite no ill intentions and plenty of scratch in his wallet, get outright followed. Nicole VanZandt says that when she worked at a local Walgreens, a good 85 percent of the shoplifters were white. But, the Caucasians were seldom caught because all the attention was trained on African-Americans. And Hayslett says he can watch a line of white folks buy their items with credit cards without a second glance from the cashier, but, when he pulls out plastic, they ask for I.D. They scrutinize his signature. They make you go the extra mile in everything thing you do, he says.

"You can say anything you want out of your mouth, but when it comes down to really displaying your non-racism, that's another thing," he says. "You say what you should out on the street, but when you're home around friends, there are people that are still saying, 'those niggers.' Of course they won't do it in public, but I've been through it myself. The perception is there, it's definitely there."

Freddie Claytor wasn't happy when the bouncers had the audacity to tell him how to dress on a Saturday night. But, when they insisted that the club's dress code prohibited hats, he was ready to take his ball cap off, swallowing his difference of opinion to keep the evening running smoothly. Then, out walked a white guy sporting a cowboy hat, and, faced with a 10-gallon double standard, Claytor, a 31-year-old African-American, quickly changed his mind.

The thing that got him was he was the portrait of clean cut that night, wearing a white sweatshirt and a matching ball cap with no logo. It would be one thing, his friend Tyrone Boston chimes in as they lift weights, if he had a Crip rag, excessively sagging pants and his hat cocked to the side.

"But, it was a clean ball cap, straight up," Claytor says indignantly. "What does that represent? Nothing."

Between them, Claytor and Boston recount story after story of dress codes that disqualify the style of an entire demographic, I.D. policies that are enforced unequally, and pointless hassles about the orientation of their hats, even if they're just trying to get a clean pool shot. In both these men's minds, the drama of trying to go out without selling out, all adds up to a certain unstated agenda.

"It's perceived as racism," Boston says bluntly.

When it comes to being a progressive, inclusive city, Iowa's capital just doesn't get it, Boston says. In fact, in the minds of many young people, Des Moines treads a fine line between culturally ignorant and downright uninviting.

Shortly after his supervisor at the fire department asked him why he couldn't be more of an Uncle Tom, Boston moved to Seattle for eight years. Now that he's back, he says it's more apparent than ever that Des Moines has a backward mentality. From the street salesmen openly hawking large rugs and oversized flags emblazoned with the racist symbols on metro thoroughfares ("This is 2005," he says incredulously. "Do you not know what we think of the confederate flag?"), to the clueless nightlife, he'd says he'd be embarrassed if friends from the West Coast came to visit.

"If you want to cater to black folks don't name a club 'Pimpin,'" Boston says with a wince. "That's the most ridiculous name for a club. It's insulting. To me, that's patronizing."

Of course, it's not just the clubs that give Des Moines' a suburban-skewed, whitewashed reputation. Boston acknowledges that the city has a wealth of arts events, but none of them seem culturally diverse. Claytor points out that when the city finally books a hip-hop artist, like Snoop Dogg, the quickly sold-out show tends to get stuck in the middle of the week at a smaller venue, because nobody wants to pay the musicians' weekend rates. Then there was the sudden death of "The Beat," the metro's only hip hop station.

According to Joel McCrea, Clear Channel's Des Moines Market Manager, "The Beat" became "The Bus" because hip hop currently accounts for 70 percent of the Top 40 play lists and, since Des Moines already has a Top 40 station, "It did not make business sense to have two stations playing the same music."

But, although it encompassed a broad audience, that station was perceived to be for the black community, Claytor says. And when it went off the air there was no public outcry, Boston adds. Seems like a small issue, but in an city aspiring to be progressive and retain it's youth, that's moving in the wrong direction, the two agree.

Just ask 20-year-old Nicole VanZandt and 21-year-old Juran if they plan on sticking around and they'll likely laugh sarcastically: Of course not.

VanZandt says one reasons she's itching to get to a bigger city is that the racism here is "ridiculous." She's not African-American (her mother's white, her father is from Iran) but, because she dates men of color, she's been caught "driving while black" plenty of times. She's also been openly discriminated against because of the company she keeps, like when she and a group of five black friends recently stopped at a hotel outside of Council Bluffs, and, although the vacancy sign was illuminated and not more than four cars dotted the parking lot, they were told there was no room for them.

When asked if racial profiling occurs in Des Moines, DMPD spokesman Sgt. Todd Dykstra says "emphatically, no." But young men, like Juran, would beg to differ. It's basically a no-win situation, he says. Hang out with Caucasian friends and he's singled out as the kid up to no good. Roll with a bunch of black guys and the whole group is scrutinized by the cops, plus you get more of "that cocky stuff." So don't expect Juran to settle down in Central Iowa.

"It is what it is," he says plainly. "Nothing's going to change."

JoAnn Hughes speaks in battle terms. As the chairwoman of Concerned Citizens for Justice she isn't afraid of a fight and, armed with fiery demands, she isn't one to compromise. Five years ago, her son, Charles Lamont Lovelady, became a tragic casualty of racial divisions and now, as she continues to struggle for a level playing field, she knows that, no matter how understanding Iowans consider themselves, there are still plenty of opponents of racial equality.

"People come to me and say 'I know how you feel,'" she says intensely. "No, you don't know how I feel, but hopefully it will change the way you feel. That's the message I want people to get from this. You don't know how I feel, but you need to feel differently now."

But there is irony in her smile when it's suggested that lingering racial divisions are a matter of a lagging Midwest learning curve. It goes much deeper than simple naivete, she says shaking her head. Don't doubt that, when that white supremacist propaganda was distributed recently there was a constituency - people of status, mind you - who were receptive to it, she says.

"There are a lot of racists undercover," Hughes says. "And there's nothing you can do to expose them. You can only stand up for what's right and go all the way, whatever it takes, by any means necessary. You don't just say, 'that's just the way it is.' You demand respect, you demand what's right."

For Hughes that means working with a reliable, rent-paying family, who, she says, is being pushed out of its suburban apartment because they are African-American. It means staunchly opposing the new jail that won approval in March, because she's convinced that facility is being built for young black kids who don't even know how to spell incarceration yet. It means organizing with the African-American Leadership Coalition to get more people of color into public positions.

Veola Perry, also a member of the AALC, says she remembers pulling into Des Moines on a bus from Memphis 30 years ago to work on a graduate degree at Drake University and thinking to herself, "Where are all the black people?" In some ways, she says, she still feels African-Americans are a hidden community with under-representation in city affairs (there are no council members of color and city clerk Diane Rauh, says the city does not know how many minorities serve on municipal boards and commissions) and in the school system (according to DMPS, 34 percent of the student body is of an ethnic minority, while only 5 percent of the teaching staff is non-white). Not to mention, there seems to be a curious glass ceiling in Central Iowa.

"I was talking with a couple ladies a month or two ago, and one of them said, 'Is it just me, or is it open season on getting rid of black females in power positions?'" Perry says.

It turned into a lengthy discussion, she adds, ranging from the health department to the YWCA. Now, she's not saying it's a racist conspiracy. But it is a topic of conversation. And if Hughes has anything to say about it, that talk is right on track.

"I've lived here all my life and you can only get so far as an African-American in Des Moines," she asserts. "Once you get to a certain level, you can't go any further and you need to go somewhere else."

She watches as people she has spoken to on the phone literally jump when they meet her in person, because they never expected she was African-American. She's seen countless positions downsized, and minorities passed over despite their qualifications. And, in her opinion it all boils down to one thing: fear.

"There's a fear that if we get too much power we'll treat people the way we were treated," Hughes says candidly. "But we're not that kind of people; we have love instilled in us so deeply that would not happen. But that's the fear, thinking, 'Oh no keep them at bay, because we don't want them to have anymore power than they have now.'"

Abdul-Samad often borrows a famous quote from Fannie Lou Hamer: "I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired." And, to be perfectly honest, Abdul-Samad is sick and tired of the term "diversity."

In the school board member's opinion, it's become a buzz word. A way of approaching tough issues in a comfortable way. In the rah-rah atmosphere of embracing diversity, we celebrate only our similarities and downplay our differences, he says. Why? Because it keeps us in our comfort zone. We herd teachers and officials through stock diversity training. Why? Because it gives us a comfortable way to quantify our acceptance. But has society really rooted out racism?

"We haven't even scratched the surface," Abdul-Samad says.

In Iowa, he explains, racism is often dismissed with one liners. "I have black friends." "I helped a Latino boy." But while it's laudable that prejudice has become a social stigma, to some degree, Abdul-Samad wishes Iowans would follow the lead of their openly racist Southern neighbors.

"Racism is almost worse to me in the North because of the simple fact that we don't want to face the reality that it still exists," Abdul-Samad says carefully. "In the South everyone realizes that it exists so you can confront it. Here it's hidden. It's subtle. And even when it's blatant, we don't see it because our heads are so far below the sand."

Add to that denial the uniquely homogenous demographic in Iowa, he adds, and you have to dig even deeper.

"A lot of people are scared to death, because we basically have this rural-urban transition," he explains. "When I go into rural communities like Belle Plain, Iowa, people are still looking at me like, 'Oh my God, they have invaded.'"

And that reaction needs to be confronted before it cultivates another generation of children who are wary of different skin colors. Viola Perry says that, the times she's been subjected to the "N" word, it's been shouted out of cars driven by kids. She's heartened by her daughter's idealism, but, it's difficult to encourage her when recent high school sporting events have been plagued with incidents that "reeked of racism." And, while it was conceived with good intentions, the latest issue Drake University's humor magazine, DUIN, ignited a virtual firestorm last week with it's debatable portrayals of lynchings and slavery imagery.

To many, such seemingly insensitive behavior stems from an education system that fails to instill an authentic respect for or understanding of African-Americans and other minorities. Kids need to learn from kindergarten the contributions of other ethnic groups, Abdul-Samad says. And it can't be reduced to the current sound byte history, in which entire human rights struggles are diminished to single statements, he adds.

"Because if you don't learn about me, you don't think I did anything," he says passionately. "If you don't think I had anything do with the air-conditioner, with the stoplights on the street, with the soles on shoes, what does that make me? Useless. Nothing."

But before the problem can be addressed it needs to be acknowledged. And, like the Pella conference attendees who walked into his workshop thinking they'd leave with a clear conscience, Abdul-Samad says it time to start looking deeper.

"A lot of us do not realize the depth of conditioning we've been through until it's pointed out," he says. "We don't address it because we're comfortable."
So as his workshop builds he pulls people out of that comfort zone. He asks pointed questions and gets answers that seem to surprise even the respondents.

"Do you think you've been conditioned?" he challenges a girl with dark curly hair.

"Yes," she replies without hesitation.

"Good," he says with a reassuring smile. "We're going to work on it." CV

Test your knowledge of Black history
Created by Ako Abdul-Samad

1) On Nov. 2 of this year, President Ronald Reagan signed the bill that established Jan. 20 as a federal holiday in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
A) 1982
B) 1983
C) 1984

2) The light bulb is an intricate part of our lives. Who is responsible for the development of the essential element for the light bulb?
A) Alexander Graham Bell
B) Lewis Lattimer
C) Thomas Edison
D) George Washington Carver

3) Born in 1940, raised by his grandmother, this rubbery-faced entertainer attacked stereotypes and America's consciousness with his no-apologies, in-your-face style of verbal arsenal and became one of the most influential performers of the last 30 years.
A) Chuck Berry
B) Richard Pryor
C) Denzel Washington

4) A native of Detroit and a graduate of UCLA, this politician and diplomat was the first black person awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for his role in fostering an armistice between warring Arabs and Israelis.
A) Colin Powell
B) Andrew Young
C) Ralph Bunche
D) Jesse Jackson

5) Born on June 15, 1939, and embarrassed by living on public funds, he would become one of the most visible leaders in the fight against affirmative action in the United States. He once compared affirmative action to slavery - claiming it leaves blacks dependent on and dominated by whites, who make the decisions on whether to allow them special consideration in matters of education and employment. He is:
A) George Wallace
B) Ward Connerly
C) Clarence Thomas

6) With such books as "Dust Tracks on a Road," "I Love Myself When I am Laughing" and "Mules and Men," she called attention to herself and her blackness during a time when blacks were being urged to assimilate themselves to promote better race relations. Her works are seen as manifestos of selfhood and the positive aspects of black life. This author is:
A) Gwendolyn Brooks
B) Maya Angelou
C) Zora Neale Hurston

7) This renowned photographer, writer and filmmaker was the first African-American photographer to work at Life and Vogue magazines. Among other notable African-American firsts, he was the first to produce a film for a major motion picture company. He deemed the first camera he bought - a $7.50 Voightlender brilliant - was to become his weapon against poverty and racism. This creative genius is:
A) Spike Lee
B) Gordon Parks
C) James Baldwin

8) This extraordinary female athlete made history when she became the first American woman to win three Olympic gold medals in track and field. She is:
A) Jackie Joyner-Kersee
B) Wilma Rudolph
C) Marion Jones
D) Florence Joyner

9) As a co-founder of the Black Panther Party, he took his fight for Black rights to the Democratic Convention in 1968, where he was arrested and put on trial for inciting a riot. After his lawyer was unable to defend him due to surgery, this man was not allowed to defend himself and proved disruptive to the trial the rest of the way. He was sent to jail, and later released, only after he was tried for torturing and executing a former Black Panther member. He left the Panthers in 1974. This activist is:
A) Martin Luther King, Jr.
B) Malcolm X
C) Robert George Seale
D) Huey P. Newton

10) After losing her parents, this activist raised her siblings and became a teacher - at age 16. After being forcibly removed from a first-class train car she became determined to fight racial injustice wherever she found it. She wrote for the Memphis Free Press, where her writings often angered whites. She lost her job after penning a scathing article how black schools were far inferior to white schools. She attacked lynching and violent attacks with well-received pamphlets, crusades and an alliance with the NAACP. She is:
A) Betty Shabazz
B) Rosa Parks
C) Ida B. Wells-Barnett

Answers: 1B, 2B, 3B, 4C, 5B, 6C, 7B, 8B, 9C, 10C

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