Warring Ideals
Warring Ideals
Andrea Nwabuike
On W.E.B. Du Bois and Professional Code Switching
I’ve been told that I change when I speak to my family on the phone. The pace of my speech quickens in a way that conforms to an improvised rhythm; my volume increases to an unnecessary decibel. I gesticulate forcefully as if the movement of my body were necessary to release words from the confines of my mouth. Composure and poise, those familiar companions, shrink under the imposing presence of unfettered emotion. Annoyance sits on the edge of my tongue as it rises to kiss the back of my teeth. Joy dances on violent waves of laughter. Questions, musings, mockery, and sarcasm flow freely. Though unseen, the loud theatrics of this exchange are mirrored with equal intensity on the other end of the line. It is a performance full of music, dance, and poetry.
When people tell me I change, it is an inaccurate descriptor of this spectacle. Returning is a far more fitting term. I am not becoming something else; rather I am coming back to my truest and most remarkable self, unveiling a melodic chaos and wise disorder that would otherwise be cloaked in respectability and professionalism. When I speak to my family on the phone or gather with them in the comfort of our home, I am no less articulate, intelligent, or thoughtful. I am, in fact, articulate, intelligent, and thoughtful in their most authentic forms.
In his book, The Souls of Black Folks, scholar and civil rights activist W.E.B Du Bois writes:
After the Egyptian and Indian, the Greek and Roman, the Teuton and Mongolian, the Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world—a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his two-ness—an American, a Negro . . . two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder. The history of the American Negro is the history of this strife—this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to merge his double self into a better and truer self.
Despite being rooted in the African American context, Du Bois’s description of double-consciousness captures the far-reaching experiences of Black men and women embodying hyphenated identities. We share in a collective history of two-ness; resisting a poisonous view of Blackness that denies our humanity while longing to settle fully in the spaces we inhabit. Both resistance and longing come at a cost. They demand the energy, strength, and hope we prefer to spend elsewhere. To save ourselves from these exacting costs, we may choose acceptance, resigning to the knowledge that for as long as we reside in these dark bodies, they will be the battleground of warring ideals.
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Code-switching is a survival mechanism that offers safety in the fight. Originally created to describe the conversational dance performed by multilinguals when moving between languages and dialects, the term is often used to refer to the adjustments made by racialized individuals in order to assimilate into predominantly white spaces. Hairstyles, clothing, vernacular, and even posture are shifted to abide by the unspoken rules of the office, lecture hall, and other public spaces. We become edited versions of ourselves, trying to neatly fold our beings into more palatable shapes. Adaptation is a requirement of all living beings, but for racialized communities, code-switching is a reminder of life’s potential for cruelty.
Josh Cunliffe
Spike Lee’s biographical film BlacKkKlansman offers a nuanced exploration of the shapeshifting powers Black individuals possess, often by necessity. David Washington plays Ron Stallworth, a Black Colorado Springs police officer that infiltrated the Klu Klux Klan in the 1970s. Stallworth accomplishes the impossible by making slight adjustments to his communication, both sonically and ideologically, while speaking with local KKK members over the phone. A white colleague eventually poses as Stallworth for in-person meetings, but it’s Stallworth that lays the groundwork of building trust and gaining acceptance in the local Klan chapter. He adopts the abhorrent language of the KKK, making comments that clearly contradict his identity as a Black man. But Stallworth’s ability to blend into different contexts is introduced before his undercover work within the KKK. His initial assignment was to observe the civil rights leader Kwame Ture at a Black Student Union rally. Surrounded by empowered Black men and women, Stallworth adjusts himself to adapt within the space. His voice loosens, adopting a smooth and melodic charm. While espousing his commitment to Black liberation, he peppers his speech with “right on” and “sista.”
When Stallworth code-switches to assimilate within the KKK, he expresses a clear disdain for the persona he adopts. But when sitting with the Black audience held captive by Kwame Ture’s speech, Stallworth appears to battle within himself. Ture begins his speech by advising the crowd, “It is time for you to stop running away from being Black.” As the crowd cheers, the camera pulls into Stallworth’s face. He surveys his surroundings with wide eyes, as if he is afraid that his cover has been blown. Ture goes on to pronounce, “Our lips are thick, our noses broad, our hair is nappy. We are Black, and we are beautiful!” Like a preacher at his pulpit, Ture weaves between illustrations and impassioned exhortations. His speech is subversive and directly challenges Stallworth’s hidden identity as a detective. And yet, Stallworth aligns himself with the current in the room as he verbalizes his agreement with the notion of Blackness as a force of power and beauty. It is a scene that subtly highlights the tension and complexity of African American identity. Stallworth sits in the rally as a vessel for the state, his colleagues listening in to the speech via a wire, and yet his true sense of self seems to sit somewhere beneath his undercover identity. By the end of the speech, he stands with the crowd, raises his fist, and chants with apparent conviction, “All power to all the people!”
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My first job as a therapist after completing my master’s degree was at a telephone crisis counseling center. I was unsure whether I could work effectively without the nonverbal cues I had relied on while working as an intern therapist the previous year. After a brief adjustment period, I found it strangely freeing to work exclusively over the phone. I could not see my clients, but I could feel with them. Their tone of voice, heavy sighs, and choked breaths communicated the depths of their emotional pain and the heaviness of their burdens. Neither myself nor my clients worried about how we presented ourselves. On weekend shifts, I shuffled into the office with slides on my feet and a silk scarf covering my hair. Barking dogs, clanging dishes, and screaming children commonly played in the background of our sessions. Client and therapist were both free to come as we were . . . or at least I thought.
It became apparent that some clients had an inaccurate mental picture of how I looked. Their insinuations and remarks made clear that they did not expect me to be a young Black woman. I realized that I had been code-switching during my sessions. Without conscious thought, I edited my style of communication to present what I believed was a more “acceptable” version of myself. I wasn’t simply conforming to the professional boundaries and expectations of my role as a therapist. The rhythm and intensity would drain from my voice. The phrases and expressions I used were outside of my natural way of speaking. I was more reserved and toned down. At my core was the fear that if I expressed myself too boldly, my clients would refuse the support I offered. In a world that views Blackness as inherently aggressive, messy, and “too much,” my fears had some legitimacy. But withholding from my clients the gift of my true self robbed them of the opportunity to receive the authentic and vibrant support they likely needed.
When supporting clients through difficult decisions or overwhelming temptations, I often remind them that God honors the struggle. If they choose to press forward, persevering through the pain, God will ascribe meaning and worth to their wrestling. I repeat those words to myself when the burden of double-consciousness feels too heavy. When the struggle for a merged, better, and truer self feels impossible, I remember my forefather Jacob. His story is marked by struggle and wrestling. Jacob persevered through a nightlong tussle with God and was rewarded with a solidified identity and reassured of the security of his inheritance. I find comfort in the reality that God did not abandon Jacob when he believed that assuming a different identity was his only option for laying hold of the blessing he was called to receive. It was through that process of struggle that God revealed his authority over Jacob’s identity.
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I remember the first time I felt fully settled within myself while in session with a client. The conversation flowed as if I were speaking with a family member. Thoughts and emotions moved freely between us, guided safely by the boundaries we co-created. It did not feel like the therapy I had been taught to deliver. I used the slang that I had only dared to use in the company of my loved ones. We made music with laughter and tears, punctuating our performance with eye rolls and deep sighs. At the end of the session, she thanked me for allowing her the space to be real. I thanked her for offering me the same. It was a glimmer of the self-consciousness Du Bois wrote of; assurance that my striving would not end in vain.
Andrea Nwabuike
Writer & Psychotherapist
Andrea has been published in Love is Moving Magazine and Resolute Magazine.
Photography by Josh Cunliffe