The story’s writer, Bob Huber, is a friend and colleague whose work I’ve long respected. His lament, in this piece, is that whites can’t talk about race for fear of being labeled “racist.” And the story’s stated aim is to print the things white people think but are uncomfortable saying. Problems crop up throughout: No African-Americans are interviewed in the piece, nor are any Asians or Latinos; and the narrative takes place in a small swath of land, along the border of Fairmount, a largely white section of the city, and North Philadelphia, which is predominantly African-American. This gives a story that purports to be broad and authoritative a narrow cast. But I’m going to start by focusing on one early exchange, between Bob and a white Russian lady, who cuts loose.
“Blacks use skin color as an excuse,” she says. “Discrimination is an excuse, instead of moving forward. … It’s a shame—you pay taxes, they’re not doing anything except sitting on porches smoking pot … Why do you support them when they won’t work, just making babies and smoking pot?”
There isn’t much done to contextualize this quote. And what’s there seems to endorse the Russian lady’s view. “If you’re not an American, the absence of a historical filter results in a raw view focused strictly on the here and now,” Huber writes, which I interpret as suggesting the foreigner has a clearer-eyed view of the moment.
Bob assures me he just wanted to let his sources speak for themselves in this story. But he seems to miss the obvious here, which is that if white Philadelphians would like to be able to address race without being labeled “racist,” they should avoid saying racist things. But there are further layers of error and creeping bias to uncover here.
For instance, it’s never stated that the writer is going to let his sources say any ‘ole thing. And the resulting piece doesn’t seem to obey even the most basic journalistic conventions—like being true. After all, the city’s African-Americans demonstrably aren’t sitting on their porches, waiting for government checks to arrive. They’re working—the unemployment rate among African-Americans is 14 percent. Perhaps some African-Americans, like some whites, Asians and Latinos, are underemployed or working low-wage jobs but they are not, as a group, smoking weed while they wait for the mail. For sake of comparison, imagine if we had quoted someone leveling the allegation that Ed Rendell is now spending his days sitting on his porch, smoking pot and waiting for financial “support.” We’d bat those falsehoods away with factual information a sentence or two later. But in this instance, an entire race was denigrated without exercising the journalistic practice of being, you know, factual—first taught in high school and reinforced throughout a career.
Now, Bob writes that he wants to see the city begin to engage in a meaningful conversation about race. And I’m sure, with the story now online, a “conversation” will start. I’m going to try and write something here that might render that conversation productive. Because there is a subtler issue at play here—namely, “Being White in Philly” never really raises matters of race.
As the piece winds on, Bob writes about street fights, drug dealing, muggings, the theft of grills and Halloween pumpkins. In each instance, the only feature of the perpetrators he mentions is the (imagined) color of their skin. I say “imagined” because, in some instances there is no witness—just the thought that it must have been a “black guy” or kid acting as the culprit.