I am now of the age that when trying to put my hands on a certain piece of paper — buried somewhere in my paper-strewn home office — I end up finding random interesting items but not the very sheet of paper I was searching for.
It was during one of these excavations of a wayward pile of “important” papers that I found the instructions for an exercise I used to lead in workshops during the 1980s. Having been an anti-racism educator for decades, I used to crisscross the country leading workshops.
The instructions for the exercise I stumbled on by chance brought back painful memories. I sat with the paper in my hands and stared out the window. As I remembered the last time I led this exercise several decades ago, I could feel my heart rate quicken and I was sure my blood pressure rose as well.
After that final time leading this particular exercise, when it went so badly, I put the instructions at the bottom of a pile of papers — out of sight and (I wished) out of mind.
The exercise, meant to shine a spotlight on privilege and also highlight the diversity in the gathered group, is called the “Power Shuffle.” Everyone stands in a line, shoulder to shoulder, in a large room. People are then asked to take one step forward or one step back as I read off the instructions. (Remember, this was in the 1980s.)
Take one step back if you are a woman.
Take one step forward if you are white.
Take one step back if you are Asian, Asian-Indian, or Pacific Islander.
Take one step forward if you are a man.
Take one step back if you are of Arab descent.
Take one step forward if you are between the ages of 21 and 55.
Take one step back if you are African American.
Take one step forward if you are Christian.
Take one step back if you were raised poor.
Take one step forward if you grew up in a home where English was the primary language spoken.
Take one step back if you are Native American or an Indigenous person.
Take one step forward if you went on a trip to Europe before the age of 21.
Take one step back if you grew up in a home with fewer than two dozen books.
Take one step forward if you were born in this country.
Take one step back if you are Latino/a.
Take one step forward if no one in your immediate family was diagnosed as mentally ill.
Take one step back if you or a member of your family has ever been incarcerated.
Take one step forward if you attended a four year private college.
Take one step back if you are gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender.
Take one step forward if while growing up your family took an annual family vacation.
Take one step back if you are a person with disabilities.
Take one step forward if drugs or alcohol were not problem in your immediate family.
Take one step back if you were raised in a family where sexual abuse or violence was present.
Take one step forward if your family owned a second home.
Take one step back if your family ever lived in a shelter.
And the list went on.
The exercise was difficult, but the discussion afterwards broke people’s hearts open and led to powerful insights and moments of great learning. Until it didn’t.
One day, while leading a workshop in St. Louis in 1987 (I believe), I lined the group up, gave them the guidelines (no talking or laughing, do not ask for clarification, etc.), and began the exercise. During the exercise, one woman in the group stepped back and back and back and back until she was against the back wall of the room.
When she could not take another step back, she screamed out, “Stop it, just stop it, stop it! I cannot back up any farther! Stop it!” And then she began to cry. It was suddenly so awful: what I had done, what she was feeling, her at the back of the room against the far wall. No learning, no insight, no poignant discussion was worth it.
I called a break and attended to this woman for well over an hour, and I swore I would never lead that exercise again. The woman, to her credit and my amazement, chose to stay in the workshop. A stronger person than I. But the hurt and damage were done.
When, recently, I found the instructions for that exercise stashed in my study, I literally shuddered. Feelings and questions coursed through me.
How many people who are targeted have had to endure watching people dripping with privilege slowly or barely acknowledge their privilege? How many “diversity” workshops require targeted people to ache, share, sublimate, and suffer? How many diversity trainers mean well and do badly? How many white, able-bodied, heterosexual, middle and upper class people deny and dismiss their privilege while evidence of their dominance is laid out before them? How many people who are targeted sit through anti-racism and diversity trainings quietly believing that nothing will change?
I led anti-racism and diversity workshops for decades. I believe that I offered some useful insights and concrete ways to take action to dismantle oppression. I know I did some good — but I also know I mistepped and did badly.
I know that over time I learned to listen. To listen very deeply. Eventually I developed this mantra that I would say to myself repeatedly before each workshop began: I am going to learn something powerful today. And then I would watch and listen for that learning.
As the years went on, I learned to lead while being more humble about my failings. I learned to elevate and amplify the voices of targeted people much more thoroughly and systematically. I learned to say, “I don’t know.” I became practiced at saying, “I am sorry.” And when people came at me with criticism of my work, I learned to say the three words that eventually transformed my workshops: “Tell me more.”
I am still learning. I am, with others, on a long and hard journey. I continue to mess up. And I continue to listen.
The Rev. Dr. Andrea Ayvazian of Northampton is an associate pastor at Alden Baptist Church in Springfield. She is also the founder and director of the Sojourner Truth School for Social Change Leadership.