Capital mark of respect to identity
IN addition to a global pandemic, 2020 witnessed an upswell of support for BIPOC (Black, Indigenous and other People of Colour) as crowds across the globe gave voice to the myriad injustices they have endured for centuries.
It was heartening to see millions of allies take to the streets to amplify the voices and demands of BIPOC. Yet, as a writer and lover of New Zealand journalism I can’t help but feel most media outlets in Aotearoa are doing our BIPOC friends, colleagues, and family members an injustice by refusing to capitalise the ‘B’ in Black and the ‘I’ in Indigenous.
Lest I be accused of quibbling over a simple style issue, or trying to rewrite the rules of grammar, let me explain. This issue goes beyond the purview of writers and editors. The question of whether we should capitalise the ‘B’ in Black and the ‘I’ in Indigenous is one of respect, recognition, and identity.
I have spent many hours editing the work of friends, colleagues, and classmates. I have also presided over a number of student publications, making the final decisions about which words to cut from the final copy; which commas to delete; which words to italicise for emphasis.
And so, I cannot understand how any editor, who well understands the importance of discerning between “you’re” and “your”, or the shame of an errant comma, can approve the use of a lowercase ‘b’ or ‘i’ to signify a whole culture of people. Capital letters are eyecatching and signify an importance greater than that of uncapitalised words. The ‘P’ in Pakeha is capitalised, as is the ‘A’ in Asian, the ‘M’ in Maori, the ‘I’ in Irish, and so on. Yet Black and Indigenous people are denied this respect.
As writer and professor Lori L. Tharps puts it: “Black with a capital B refers to people of the African diaspora. Lowercase black is simply a colour.” ‘‘Black’’ with a capital ‘‘B’’ signifies a group of people whose ancestors were torn away from Africa and brought on slave ships to the United States.
Even the Oxford and Webster’s dictionaries state that when referring to Black people, uppercase is acceptable and correct. Removing the capital
‘‘B’’ from Black therefore, when referring to these people, denies their history and humanity. The reality of slavery means that many Black people, especially Black Americans, lack a specific geographic identity, as they cannot trace their ancestry back to a specific place or country.
Similarly, colonialism continues to impede many Indigenous people from tracing their ancestry back to a specific people, place, or country.
The Columbia Journalism Review has made the decision to capitalise Black when referring to groups in racial, ethnic, or cultural terms.
“For many people,” they write, “Black reflects a shared sense of identity and community.”
Similarly, the United Nations characterises “Indigenous” as referring broadly to “peoples of long settlement and connection to specific lands who have been adversely affected by incursions by industrial economies, displacement, and settlement of their traditional territories by others.”
This definition includes First Nations people, Aboriginal people, and Native Americans, as well as many other peoples with ancestry originating in societies that existed in particular territories before European colonisation.
My recent scrolling through Twitter has illustrated to me yet again that antiBlackness is not merely an issue overseas, but one that is insidious in New Zealand. Language has long been used to separate and devalue the humanity of BIPOC people.
For example, throughout American history, people have applied dehumanising names and refused to use proper titles of Black Americans. In 1889, American sociologist W.E.B Dubois pushed back against writing “Negro” with a lowercase “n” , saying “eight million Americans deserve a capital letter”. Du Bois viewed the lowercase ‘‘n’’, like the lowercase ‘‘b’’, as a form of disrespect, contempt, and overt racism.
I have no doubt many devil’s advocates will ask why we do not capitalise ‘‘white’’. But, to be frank, this is a false equivalence; at best, an unintentional distraction from matters at hand, at worst, a wilful and intentional excuse to confound racial injustice. Most ‘‘white’’ people do not identify themselves as “white”; they have a bounty of other options more specific;
Irish, Scottish, German, French or English, to name a few.
Moreover, the New Zealand media ought to properly employ macrons in the use of te reo Maori. As an official language of New Zealand, and one that existed long before English speakers breached our fair shores, te reo Maori deserves to be treated with mana, by ensuring that its usage is technically correct. The incorporation of macrons
(tohuto) aids in the pronunciation of te reo Maori and helps to prevent confusion.
I encourage the media to consider becoming actively antiracist by correctly referring to BIPOC people. Capitalising the ‘‘B’’ in Black and the ‘‘I ’’ in Indigenous reflects and respects the political and historical realities of many people.
YOU may suspect me of making this up. You would be wrong. You may suspect me of exaggerating.
You would be wrong. You may suspect me of boasting. You would be right.
He was hard not to notice. He was big, perhaps six foot three, with large limbs, a mass of fairish hair and the sort of moustache that would please a wing commander. The spectacularity of the moustache was emphasised by the white zinc sunscreen with which he’d plastered the rest of his face.
His brightly coloured shorts were as noticeable as his moustache, and as for his shirt, when I passed close by I swear I heard it say aloha. Here was a young man who did not blend in, who did not fear the gaze of others, or their judgement. He was himself, take him for all in all, and that is a fine thing. We are too subject to the tyranny of the herd.
He was being loud in an aisle of Lyttelton Supervalue debating purchases with a notquitesonoticeablebutstillemphaticallyherself young woman. She was wearing a voluminous printed cotton skirt that would not have looked out of place in Timaru in 1953.
Having duly noticed the pair of them I passed by on the other side of the pasta, and arrived shortly afterwards at the checkout with my burden of groceries: pork belly, garlic and feta.
‘‘Hello Joe.’’ I turned and found myself face to face with the wing commander moustache and the voluminous skirt.
‘‘Hello,’’ I said,
She was carrying yoghurt and bacon. He was merely smiling. At that moment a cashier became free and I stepped forward to disgorge my goods on to the little conveyor belt.
‘‘We’ve met before,’’ went on the noticeable young man. ‘‘Really?’’
‘‘Yes. At the airport.’’ ‘‘Really?’’ I said. ‘‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember.’’
‘‘It was 10 years ago.’’
‘‘Oh.’’
He looked to be in his late 20s. So 10 years ago would have been his late teens, that most volatile period, that time of greatest intensity, after which adult life can seem as flat as paper.
‘‘You told me,’’ he said, ‘‘to stop playing video games and read Camus.’’
Oh dear, that was me all right. The moral bully, the evangelist for the redemptive power of literature. And especially the Camus. I read L’Etranger at 16 and it did for me as very little has ever done for me. Though it’s set in Algeria in the 1950s, it seemed to spring straight from the heart of life as I knew it.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ I said. ‘‘I had no right to’’
‘‘No, no. I loved it. L’Etranger. Best book I ever read.’’
I didn’t have to ask if he was serious. His grin said he was serious. By now he and Ms Voluminous were unloading goods on to their own adjacent conveyor belt and we were conducting this conversation publicly between aisles.
‘‘Well, isn’t that lovely,’’ I said then paused to concentrate on my PIN. I know from experience that the great religious ritual of eftpos requires from me complete devotion. When I was done I turned back to the young man. ‘‘So what now?’’ I said. ‘‘Now,’’ he said, ‘‘I want to know what to read next,’’ and a woman behind us, carrying a whole head of celery, snorted. ‘‘Seriously?’’
‘‘Seriously.’’
‘‘Evelyn Waugh.’’
‘‘Spell it.’’
I spelt it. ‘‘Start with Brideshead Revisited.’’
They’d paid. I’d paid. We walked out of the supermarket together.
‘‘What do you do for a living?’’ I said on the street.
‘‘Musician. I play the piano.’’
‘‘Splendid,’’ I said and shook his hand and turned to go.
‘‘See you in 10 years,’’ he said.
‘‘It’s a date,’’ I said and I went on my way, humming.
❛ This issue goes beyond the purview of
writers and editors
(18551922); Robert Hogg, New Zealand socialist politician/journalist/poet (18641941); Oscar Thorwald Johan Alpers, New Zealand journalist/writer/poet/lawyer/ judge (18671927); John Angus Erskine, New Zealand chess player (18731960); Henry (Harry) Kerr, New Zealand’s first Olympic Games medallist (18791951); Sir Howard Kippenberger, New Zealand military officer World War 1 and World War 2 (18971957); Pat Entrican, New Zealand civil engineer/ forestry administrator (18981965); Sir Trevor Skeet, New Zealandborn lawyer and a British Conservative politician (19182004); Wharetutu Te Aroha Stirling, New Zealand community leader/conservationist (192493); Alan Alda, US actor (1936); Erenora PuketapuHetet, New Zealand weaver/ author (19412006); Dame Margaret Clark, New Zealand political scientist (1941); Dame Malvina Major, New Zealand opera singer (1943); Mike Moore, New Zealand politician (19492020); Sarah McLachlan, Canadian singer (1968); Nick Carter, US singer (1980); Elijah Wood, US actor (1981); Daniel Radcliffe, New Zealand entrepreneur (1984); Will Poulter, English actor (1993); Ariel Winter, US actress (1998).
Quote of the day:
‘‘Logic sometimes has very little to do with political action.’’ — Alexander Mackenzie, ScottishCanadian politician who served as the second prime minister of Canada, who was born on this day in 1822. He died in 1892, aged 70.
ODT