100 Years: Celebrating and Contemplating
“What do you expect when attending a 100-year-old’s birthday celebration?” I thought to myself, as my fiancé and I strolled towards the community room of the apartment complex where both he and his 100-year-old neighbor lived. Both of us had never attended a birthday party celebrating all 100 years of someone’s life and we grappled with what to wear, what to possibly give as a gift, and what festivities to anticipate. We pushed the door open and took in the sights of regal deep purples and gold tones, balloon arches adorning a royal throne set up for the guest of honor. Ornate candles and gold table runners glistened atop the circular tables as a sense of elegance enveloped the room. Approaching the “sign-in” table, we were greeted with a large professional headshot of the guest of honor, reading “Happy 100 Years Young!” of a moment captured almost mid-laugh, eyes shining and staring up into the distance as her hands grasped the collar of her white blouse. Blues music filled the room and we eyed a caricaturist in the back, gliding a silver Sharpie along black pieces of paper to create fluid, abstract drawings of musicians (see photograph). My fiancé and I looked at each other, exchanging a knowing glance that this was going to be quite the celebration.
A little uneasy of the protocol for 100th birthday celebrations and unsure of where to sit, we wandered around the room, eyeing the caricaturist at work and watching the musicians play. The party organizer, a friend of the guest of honor, rushed over to my fiancé, exclaiming, “You must be Michael! Oh, I’ve heard so much about you.” My fiancé’s duties as a next-door neighbor not only included planning a photo slideshow for the event with the party organizer, but also providing ongoing technical support, being a personal grocery and drugstore shopper, as well as serving as a point of contact for his neighbor’s family and friends when they had difficulty reaching her. Since she lives alone, Mike often spends time assisting her with these tasks and socializing with her, listening to stories of her experiences, and marveling at her strong spirit, independence, and love of spending time with her friends over glasses of red wine. As relatives and friends from near and far came over to thank Mike for all he did for his neighbor—their cherished sister, aunt, cousin, and friend—it became evident how they were able to so clearly distinguish who in the throngs of guests was Mike. He and I were two of the four guests who were White.
Growing up in a mostly White community, I rarely found myself in predominantly Black spaces. Throughout my K-12 schooling, conversations about racial equity were scarce or even absent. As a White woman who grew up in a predominantly White neighborhood, I was never forced to confront my own privilege and reckon with racial inequity until I began college. For the first time, I encountered people outside of my bubble and was able to listen, learn, and become involved in social justice initiatives. And although I like to believe that this suddenly made me “more woke,” I learned that my reckoning is, and will continue to be, ongoing throughout my life. It is what Cathy Park Hong describes as “not a singular revelation but a long-term commitment fueled by constant reevaluation” (2020, p. 192).
At the time of the 100-year party, I had been out of graduate school and teaching for a few years. I was already a little bit more alert and aware of how I moved through spaces, but Mike and I made several faux pas at the party. I tried to ask for a drink from the bartender before we were officially seated and was told by the party coordinator that I should get water from my table, not the bar area. The party coordinator shooed me back towards a table, urging me that I should not be asking for water from the bartender and directing me to take my seat. Additionally, the guest of honor questioned Mike’s outfit, wondering why he didn’t have on nicer slacks instead of jeans. Surrounded by partygoers in rich jewel-toned hues, flowing dresses with sequins, and crisp suits, he stuck out. When it came time for cake, we started to sing happy birthday but the version that echoed the room was unlike any rendition I had heard before, yet everyone seemed to know it except us.
I recall my own discomfort attending the party. Aside from the fact that I wasn’t sure of the appropriate etiquette of a function like this, I was presented with race in a way that I had never experienced before. My Whiteness had never been so apparent to me as it was during those seemingly long hours. And when I say Whiteness, it was beyond the color of my skin. I was aware of the taken-for-granted norms that I embody and the cultural practices that I assume across spaces without question. But here, I analyzed every movement and statement - policing myself in a way that I hadn’t often done. Reflecting on the event, I see the way that my experiences moving through the world as a White woman in predominantly White spaces were steeped in privilege. My collegiate encounters with race and social justice only scratched the surface of a much deeper, essential excavation of self in which I continue to engage.
What I’ve come to realize is the necessity of my discomfort in that experience at the party. While there have been times I’ve felt out of place in social situations throughout my life, this was different. I wasn’t feeling out of place because I was unaware of the protocol for a 100th birthday celebration. I wasn’t feeling out of place because I was outside of the social circle and limited to making light conversation with strangers. I wasn’t feeling out of place because my fiancé and I were clearly underdressed amidst a more formal crowd. I’ve realized that the discomfort I felt wasn’t from asking for water from the wrong person at the wrong time, nor was it from a pair of jeans or “Happy Birthday” rendition being heard for the first time. It was from being White in a predominantly Black space. For one of the few times in my life, I was the outsider.
As I continue to reckon with this experience, I realize the degree to which I was incorrectly attributing my discomfort to the small events that, when interwoven, made me feel as though I was out of place – the water, the jeans, the song. I needed to unpack the roots of those feelings. I needed and need to continue to come back to those hours at the party in order to reckon with my racial identity, something that couldn’t be done as a participant in a social justice workshop or as a member of my union’s Social Justice Committee. I needed to acknowledge the White woman who stood in a predominantly Black space among glittering golds and deep purple hues, starkly aware of race. I admit that this awareness is few and far between. As White people, we are rarely made to feel this. I can easily move through this world unaware of my identity and privilege instead of doing the work. I recognize that my relationship with race begins with and requires my continual commitment to digging deeper within myself.
Maddie Dressner was born and raised on Long Island in New York. She has taught for over six years in a public school setting and is a passionate elementary school educator who is deeply invested in the social-emotional wellbeing of her students and in participating in the school and district community. As a current doctoral student at Teachers College, Columbia University, some of her scholarly interests include counternarratives to student misbehavior in schools, teacher education, and anti-bias and anti-racist pedagogy. You can connect with her on Twitter: @MsDressner.
