DIVIDED BY RACE

A Special Report • Differences impede honest discussion • Frank talk across the racial divide • Guidelines for discussing race in Cincinnati • 'African-American': pride to some, division to others • Akron program brings groups face-to-face • Hard issues are political - and personal

        It's now clear: Polite silence works no more.

        In the aftermath of the city's worst riots in 30 years, Cincinnati's habit of avoiding hard issues has become part of the problem.

        Frank talk and honest listening between blacks and whites are urgently needed now, city leaders and citizens say.

        Few things could be more difficult.

        Complicated by decades of bad history and clouded by barriers of class and culture, the communication gap between black and white may be harder to bridge than those between men and women or parent and child.

        There is so much to discuss: Why do blacks and whites fear each other? Why do blacks feel unwelcome in white neighborhoods, and why do whites move out of town? Why do white police officers and young black males conflict?

        Even before conversation begins, communication is strongly influenced by experience. If one person has suffered racial injustice and another person has not, they may see and hear differently before the first word is uttered, experts in communication say.

        Stereotypes of how racial groups behave, and fear of saying the wrong things on volatile topics, clutter the talk more. Breakdowns follow when what people say is discounted because of how they said it. At some fundamental level, even well-meaning people eventually shut down, exhausted by talk they don't really understand.

        And then there's this: Some people are tired of talking and don't want to talk anymore.

        “These are not issues easily talked about,” Mayor Charlie Luken concedes. “But I am encouraged that people are starting to discuss this issue at levels that we haven't heretofore seen.”

        The mayor intends to form a special commission to examine the city's strained race relations. Communicate we must, he and others say, or the city risks more violence.

Diiferent ways of communicating are evident in church: At Quinn Chapel AME Church in Forest Park, choir members in bright yellow robes clap and sway to the music ... (Glenn Hartong photos) | ZOOM |

... while the choir at Forest Chapel United Methodist church may be equally heartfelt, but more sedate. | ZOOM |

        “I believe that mature cities have engaged in that dialogue,” Mr. Luken says. “We have no choice but to take what has happened and turn it into an opportunity. And I believe we can do that.”
       

Scars of a lynch rope
       

        When Ken Wilson talks about race, he remembers the rope scars on his grandfather's neck where the Ku Klux Klan tried to hang him. He reflects on the struggles of his father, the first African-American hired at a Cincinnati Procter & Gamble factory in 1962.

        He remembers walking home from basketball practice at Princeton Junior High School in the 1970s while drivers in passing cars would call him the n-word.

        “Blacks think about race every day. Whites don't,” says Mr. Wilson, 37, of West Chester. A P&G executive, he has led company diversity training classes and witnessed conversations about race time and again.

        Like Mr. Wilson, many blacks enter discussions on race and related topics with personal experiences of racial slights. They've heard stories passed down from generation to generation, and perhaps faced racism at work, at school or on the streets. Those experiences influence what they hear and say.

        If the topic is employment, blacks may enter the conversation recalling jobs lost or promotions missed because bosses looked more at the color of their skin than the quality of their work.

        Whites have the attitude, “If you work hard enough, regardless of color, you're going to succeed,” says Tim LaCour, 46, a black purchasing manager from Evanston. “And if you're not succeeding, you're not working hard enough. We all know that's not true.”

        For many whites, racial insults rarely affect their day-to-day lives, so they have trouble relating. A pattern of polite silence ensues to avoid dissension on the topic.

        Moreover, even well-meaning whites often skirt the issue of race for fear that saying the wrong thing will label them a racist.

        “I'm shocked to hear there's still prejudice in the workplace,” says Richard Hand, 74, a white Delhi resident. “My impression is that it's a level playing field now. My frustration is understanding their situation.”
       

Styles of speech

        Different cultural styles tangle straight talk, too.

        When whites start talking, they often strive for cool, measured tones to show they are reasonable and in control of their emotions, the experts say.

        But when blacks engage, they often use emotion, experts say. Their voices often become louder, their speech more rapid.

        This isn't something to fear, Mr. Wilson says. Rather, it's an emphasis to a point, a way of showing the conversation is important.

        Miscues in communications result because the emotion of blacks turns off some whites. The seeming indifference of whites infuriates blacks. What whites view as aggression, blacks see as passion. And conversation stutters to a standstill.

        The natural differences in style that stem from cultural or racial identity often are misunderstood, the language experts say.

        While whites consider interruptions rude, blacks may break into conversations to give verbal affirmation to the speaker.

        Hence, the amens and “Preach it, brothers” common in African-American church services — and largely absent from white congregations.

        Church services provide a quick primer on the differences in language styles.

        Predominantly white Forest Chapel United Methodist Church and predominantly black Quinn Chapel AME Church are just three-eighths of a mile apart in Forest Park, one of the most racially balanced communities in the Tristate. Yet services at the two churches continue to play out the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.'s observation more than 30 years ago that Sunday morning is the most segregated hour of the week.

        The crowd at Forest Chapel sits silent during the Scripture readings. On Palm Sunday, parishioners politely clap after “Hosanna to the King,” and laugh a bit during a children's sermon.

        Amens follow the end of a prayer, not at an especially good sermon point. A decorum of polite respect prevails.

        At Quinn Chapel, song after song brings members to their feet, arms raised, hips swaying. The Rev. Taylor Thompson tells the nearly all-black congregation, “The Lord just keeps on blessing us.” And they answer, “Amen,” and “Praise the Lord.” His voice rises and falls. His sentences end with exclamation points or question marks that can be felt in the pews.

        Rev. Terry Pontius, pastor at Forest Chapel, says his church values diversity and is working to integrate its membership.

        Yet a basic difference in communication styles makes integration difficult, language experts say. While whites may well find Quinn Chapel's service unsettling, blacks might see Forest Chapel's service as unfulfilling.

        “The codes aren't the same,” says Debbie Pearce, a communication professor at Xavier University. “The communication rules, expectations and styles are all different. It's like meeting a foreign language.”
       

Between two worlds

        For African-Americans, the experts say, communication is complicated further by the two worlds in which many live: a white world at large and a black world closer to home.

        Many blacks will use one language style in a corporate setting or among a mostly white group. They'll slip into another style when talking with fellow blacks. Grammar rules change, and so do the words used.

        “Every day I have a dichotomy,” says Darryl Erkins, 33, a black Colerain Township resident. “I have to go to work, associate with white people and talk the king's language. Then I come back and associate with fellows I grew up with in the 'hood. The way we talk is different. How we understand each other, how we relate to one another is different.”

        While blacks constantly adjust their speaking styles to their surroundings, whites don't have the same experience, Ms. Pearce says. Whites may not cuss at work as they would with friends, but their whole way of communicating doesn't transform from one situation to another.

        “Blacks have to be mindful of who they're talking to,” says Ms. Pearce, who is white. “It must be debilitating to constantly have to prove to you I'm competent to have this conversation.”

        Miscommunication occurs because people often are judged on how they speak, she says. People frequently interpret how someone pronounces a word as an indication of class, education, sophistication or intelligence.

        That often leads to whites making assumptions about blacks simply because the communication style is different.

        Eric Ellis, president and chief executive officer of Integrity Development, a West Chester diversity training firm, says the point was made clear when African-Americans took to the podium recently during a City Council meeting and demanded changes in police department policy. After the meeting, Mr. Ellis heard whites on the radio dismiss what some blacks had said because of how they talked, using slang and non-standard grammar.

        “If you don't respect what people are saying or how they're saying it, it's going to be difficult to have a good dialogue,” says Mr. Ellis, who is black.

        When Mr. Wilson came to P&G 13 years ago, he “had to learn how to articulate properly to speak in the white world.” He grew up in an all-black neighborhood in Hamilton, where black slang was standard talk.

        “For any minority to succeed takes a degree of assimilation,” he says.

        Tonya Bradley hears her 13-year-old son switch effortlessly from white to black talk.

        With black friends, he'll say “trippin'” or “Man, they're buggin' us,” says Ms. Bradley, 34, a black Silverton resident . With white friends, her son will say someone's acting silly.

        She has never talked to him about speaking in a particular way.

        “He just adapts to the environment.”
       

Breaking out of roles

        Overcoming the many communication obstacles is more critical than ever, community leaders say.

        “I don't think we can overestimate how important communication is,” says Norma Holt Davis, president of the local National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. “We have to be willing to talk about it.”

        The mayor's race relations commission, to be announced this week, will be charged with working with City Council to make immediate and long-term improvements in race relations.

        Their success will depend, in part, on their ability to have honest dialogue about the issue, communication experts say.

        To do that, people have to want to talk. Further, they have to change the way they discuss race, the way they listen and the way they stereotype others' actions instead of granting respect, says Mr. Ellis, who has facilitated three meetings on race for the Enquirer.

        “If whites can only play the role of the racist, and blacks can only play the role of victim, then that's not going to go anywhere,” he says.

        Dr. Frank Gilliam, director of the Center for Communications and Community at the University of California, Los Angeles, studied that city's riots following the 1992 Rodney King incident and has looked at the role communication plays in race relations.

        “This is not going to be an easy conversation or polite talk,” he says. “The only way we're going to make any progress is if we sit down and air our differences. We can disagree, but we have to hear and recognize other opinions.”

        After the 1992 Los Angeles race riots, there were lots of community forums and lots of talk about coming together and rebuilding, Dr. Gilliam says.

        The problem: Six months later, the initiatives died.

        Dr. Gilliam cautions Cincinnati to make communication a lasting commitment. Then efforts to improve race relations will have a better chance of being long-term, he says.

        If reasonable and well-meaning people are silent, more racial conflict could be ahead, Dr. Gilliam says.

In Walnut Hills, florist Archie Sherman (right), Herb Metts and Officer Kevin Ballman pray for racial healing. (Gary Landers photo) | ZOOM |

        One step to successful communication is to be aware of stereotypes, says Gladys Gossett Hankins, author of Diversity Blues, How to Shake 'Em, a book published in November. Everyone has preconceived notions about people of other races, she says. The key is to be aware of them so people can make better, informed decisions about how to treat others.

        “We often go through our day unaware of what we're doing to others,” says Ms. Hankins, a Clifton resident. “We can have better communications simply by recognizing our own shortcomings.”

        Listening is another important tool. Police Chief Tom Streicher earned points with some in the African-American community last weekend when he walked into a crowd outside police headquarters and listened. He let the primarily black crowd vent their frustrations without getting defensive or trying to justify the actions of his officers.

        Just listening isn't enough; people on both sides have to make a connection, others say.

        “If we put our heads back in the sand, that sand will once again grow hot with rage,” says Ross Love, president and chief executive officer of Blue Chip Broadcasting in Cincinnati. “The opportunity will be lost.”

        Last week, a white Cincinnati cop and a black business owner held hands and prayed for racial healing in the middle of a Walnut Hills flower shop behind windows barred with plywood.

        Officer Kevin Ballman, a 20-year police veteran, and florist Archie Sherman, 72, had met only moments before. Officer Ballman had stopped in to make sure Mr. Sherman had filled out riot-related paperwork on the damage to his store. And in a rare moment of grace, after a raw week of racial distress, the two men reached past skin color to talk about the hurts that they shared.

        The officer “approached me with respect, dignity, concern. He was willing to listen to me,” Mr. Sherman says. “We were just two men. We had different jobs. We had different reasons to come together. It didn't matter that he was a policeman and I was a black person. We were just two men talking about things.”

        Mr. Sherman isn't sure we'll ever be able to solve all the city's racial problems. “But if enough people started talking, maybe we could.”

       Enquirer reporter Tom O'Neill contributed to this story.