Looking for Diversity and Belonging? Go Fish - Issue #23

This week, JB writes about the most diverse place he's ever been, and suggests an approach to increasing cultural awareness that emphasizes activities over discussions.

The most culturally diverse place I have ever visited was a fishing pier in Destin, Florida. 

Destin is on the Gulf Coast, a heck of a lot closer to Mobile than Miami. In the station at the foot of the pier, I rented a pole, bought some frozen shrimp for bait, a little lure, and headed out to try my luck. 

The array of people was striking. We had Black, Asian, Hispanic, White, and Other all well-represented. And when someone landed a fish, we were all one. 

Early in the day, one guy actually landed a shark. This sucker put up a fight like I’d never seen. People of all backgrounds and persuasions leapt into action. 

There was a kind of grappling hook nearby for just such an occasion (wild, I know!), and while the dude held the line with all his might, other fishermen tried to snag the shark with the hook. 

When he did pull it up, there were a lot of knives and blood and little plastic bags, and they divvied up the shark meat amongst everyone who helped out according to some unwritten rules that have likely been in place for generations. 

Late one afternoon a young, Hispanic guy, maybe in his early 20’s came running down the pier. Literally running—struggling to hold up his sagging pants as he went. “Spanish run! Spanish run! Close to shore!” he hollered. He was going to retrieve his gear from further up the pier, but he felt it incumbent upon himself to alert everyone as he went. “Huge, huge, Spanish!” 

I had heard buzz about the Spanish Mackerel running. But I had yet to witness it. In retrospect I wish I had treated the matter as urgently as this guy had. I wondered why he’d alert all of us down toward the far end of the pier rather than slyly retrieve his gear and fast-casual walk back up in the hopes of hoarding the fish for himself. 

I made my way closer to shore slowly, and soon I had my answer. 

It was madness. 

Hundreds of these creatures were rocketing past the pier at an insane clip, leaping as they went. The fisherfolk could barely land a cast before their bait would be snatched, and another long, slithery creature would come thrashing up from the waves. 

Eager to maximize the opportunity, the more seasoned anglers would just leave their catches writhing on the pier as they got their hooks back into the water ASAP. Up until now the pier had been a slow-paced, casual scene of quiet enjoyment. Now, it had turned into one of splashing, reeling, flopping, bloody chaos. 

I landed what I thought was a mackerel but turned out to be something called a ladyfish. A middle-aged, Southern White couple passing by on a stroll took a shot of me holding the fish here, but the lure is still stuck in its gill. I did not have any pliers or tools beyond my pole and my bare hands, and if you imagine this creature being very slippery and floppy, you could understand the challenge I had ahead of me. 

Throughout the day I had been happily giving up smaller fish to some Asian folks who seemed to be local and frequent pier denizens. My guess is that they encountered tourists like me every day, and were happy to make use of the many fish that we would otherwise toss back. When another Asian family saw me holding this sucker, they could likely tell that I had no concrete plans for it. 

A mutually beneficial exchange occurred in which I was able to borrow a pair of pliers to help me get the hook out as I assured them they could then keep the fish. Very few English words were involved in this exchange, but we understood each other well enough. 

Even with the pliers I struggled to pry the hook free. 

The White couple who took my picture laughed at my struggle. One of the Asian women, probably younger than me, mercifully came over and asked, “Help?” 

I nodded. Yes, I was ready for help. 

I handed her the pliers. She stepped on the fish’s head to pin it to the deck (smart!) and with a quick, decisive flick of the wrist, the hook was out. 

The White couple was dying laughing now.  

This all went down close to sunset. But throughout the day I’d had these kinds of tiny exchanges with people. At one point, I caught this odd-looking creature. 

As I studied it, an older Asian man approached me, wrinkled his nose, and simply said, “No keep.” This was likely some bottom-feeding beach scavenger, I was able to deduce, and I tossed him back to go about his filthy life. 

A long-haired, 50ish white guy from Alabama also shot the breeze with me for a time. We talked about how fishing party charter boats were a ripoff, and how we both had daughters. He hadn’t spoken to his for many years because they “hated his guts.” I did not pry into that. But I felt sad for him, even as I suspected it was probably his own damn fault. 

By the time the Spanish mackerel had concluded their run, I felt as though I’d discovered heaven. It smelled a bit more like fish than I’d imagined, but it was beautiful and I was happy to be there. 

I couldn’t stay, unfortunately. I had to meet the rest of my family for dinner.  

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Recently, I attended a webinar hosted by an organization called Christians Against Christian Nationalism. In it, someone asked Michael Curry, the presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church, who you may remember from his headline-making royal wedding sermon a few years back, what we should do if and when we see Christian Nationalism creeping into our own congregations, or if people in our churches start to be influenced by Christian Nationalist ideas.

For my part, I was pretty shocked that Curry did not advocate for quickly identifying and stamping out such elements. He didn’t recommend that pastors embark on a special sermon series, or that congregations convene in small groups to read and pray about the issue. 

Instead, he suggested the best way to confront it may not be to confront it at all.  The approach we can take as Christians is to live alongside people – go to church, share meals, play church softball, whatever. In this way, he said, we establish ourselves as fellow humans, peers; friends, and not enemies.

Then, when topics on which we disagree inevitably arise, they’ll be more likely to take our point of view seriously and less likely to write us off as being just another one among the lost. They see the humanity in us and (here’s where it gets challenging!) we see the humanity in them. 

Our brothers and sisters will be more inclined to listen to our points of view, because we’ve already established this initial bond. 

Now, I’d imagine this approach might feel far too passive for many. You can take that up with the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church, Michael Curry. 

But as I reflected on what he had to say, I thought about how it might apply more broadly to talking about issues of race in America. And I took his advice to heart. Maybe the books and trainings, well-intentioned as they are, fall short of a more immersive, if less targeted experience. 

The best relationships I’ve had with people of different races were always centered on something mundane. A love of basketball, movies, music, comic books… and, yes, fishing. 

My former colleague, Jerry, and I used to talk hoops until our lack of actual work activity became conspicuous. 

Another colleague, Foley, was an amateur filmmaker like me. We talked about how to light a set, how to submit shorts to film festivals, and we batted around ideas for a collaboration. Perhaps I should have worked a little harder to make that collaboration happen, as he is now an award-winning director. 

Back in fifth grade, Roosevelt and I played two-hand touch football in the parking lot at recess, memorized and recited “Jump” by Kris Kross, and discussed the merits of wearing our clothes backwards. We were obsessed with sneakers and Starter jackets.

One of my two best friends from high school was Black and Jewish; a wry, funny, understated, and quietly brilliant fellow named Eric. 

Race rarely came up between us. Although if I’m being honest, and I don’t know if I ever told him this, the reason I first approached him was because I was new in school and I, perhaps racistly, hoped he played basketball. 

He did play basketball, although he was better at baseball. But there’s no such thing as one-on-one baseball, and we were a pretty good matchup for each other in our respective driveways over the next four years. 

One time when we were riding in his father’s car we passed a tattoo parlor and Eric idly mused about getting one when he turned 18. 

“Jewish people aren’t allowed to get tattoos,” his father said matter-of-factly. 

“Really?” Eric asked. 

“Yes. And I’m sure your mother will tell you that African-Americans aren’t allowed to get tattoos either.” 

We did talk about race on occasion, but more often we talked about sports, movies, the girls we (mostly I) liked, the guys we thought were assholes, where the party would be that weekend, and why we probably weren’t going to go. 

I have no doubt each of these friends has experienced discrimination in their lives. But to really know them, even casually, or maybe especially casually, was really valuable in a way that all the books on racial issues or workplace diversity trainings in the world couldn’t make up for. 

As much as I admire and appreciate Emmanuel Acho’s web series, “Uncomfortable Conversations with a Black Man,” I think it’s got a bit of a ceiling in terms of promoting real connection. In one episode, he hosts a handful of white cops, who, as far as I can tell, are there in good faith and with a sincere desire to promote racial healing. Acho starts by asking them when the last time they had a Black person over for dinner was. 

There’s some palpable discomfort as these guys don’t seem to have many, if any, Black friends in their spheres. But how might one go about rectifying that?

In my mind I could already envision headlines like, “Dear White People, Please Stop Inviting Me Over for Dinner and Asking Me What It’s Like to be Black.” 

On the other hand, there’s a viral video that made the rounds a few months back called “1st black cookout.” This one features a genuinely curious White dude recording his reaction to attending a family cookout hosted by one of his Black friends. All he does is show up and eat, but he learns a lot about Black family traditions, and gives a humorous take on his ignorance around various bits of etiquette and his experience overall. 

Part of me thinks this is the better model. Maybe we need to spend less time talking about stuff and more time doing stuff. Admittedly, a difficult balance to strike. 

I’ve always said that my ideal way to tour a foreign country would be as a secret agent chasing a bad guy through a crowded marketplace. I think this appeals to me because it would give me a job to do, as opposed to just lumbering around gawking and gaping at things like an obvious noob.

That’s a joke, but I think the idea of putting yourself in a situation where you have something to do besides talk about diversity, inclusion, and belonging is a healthy way to foster diversity, inclusion, and belonging. 

What are some things you like to do that might bring you naturally into a more diverse environment?

For me, it was basketball. Me and my best friend, Jay Alvarez, dominated the courts in middle school. Although, I do remember once getting dunked on by an 8th grader. I probably should’ve set my NBA ambitions aside at that point, but I didn’t read the writing on the wall. I got pretty good at the art of Talking Trash, a habit I’d later shake when I went to a much whiter high school. 

Jay and I even attended a basketball camp where I distinctly remember missing a beautiful behind-the-back pass from my teammate and future NBA player, Brandon Knight. I was the quintessential big, clumsy, White kid in the middle who couldn’t catch, but I could shoot and rebound and block shots pretty damn well if I do say so.

But even in my mid-30’s there was a period during which I’d head down to the local court near my office on Thursday afternoons for pickup games. 

This court ran like a well-oiled machine and the rules about who had next were dutifully enforced, which meant you could simply show up and get integrated into the scene. The rules of the playground are well-established, but, of course, nowhere written down. You just have to learn as you go.

Within a game or two of banging bodies in the post with one Black dude, he was offering me a sip of Hennessey between games. 

My days of pickup basketball with random young people are probably in their waning phase, but my days of pier fishing, I hope, are just beginning. And I look forward to meeting more Black, Asian, Hispanic, and what I’ll call White Others (think, the guy I met from Alabama, with whom I probably had less in common than with the fish). 

Look, I know that saying we ought to focus on what unites us rather than what divides us is about the whitest thing imaginable. But that’s not exactly what I’m suggesting here. 

I think achieving real diversity, inclusion, and belonging is a little like learning a foreign language. You can read all the books and attend all the seminars and trainings, but to really be fluent, you’ve got to just go live there. You’ve got to put yourself in an awkward and uncomfortable setting, and just keep doing it until, one day, it’s no longer awkward and uncomfortable.