race

Contesting individual’s claims to Indigenous ancestry is nothing new; a notable example is Elizabeth Warren’s ancestry testing and Donald Trump’s repeated “Pocahontas” jeers. Proving authentic group heritage is something many Americans never think about, but such dynamics are common for Indigenous persons.

The labels, “Native American,” “Indigenous,” and “American Indian,” are social constructions rooted in the story of colonization. Indigenous populations in present-day United States were subject to state policies and institutions that lumped many different groups into the label, “Native American.” As a legacy of these policies, people have to provide proof of Native American ancestry to be considered official tribal members. In new research published in Sociology of Race and Ethnicity, Dwanna L. McKay explores how Indigenous people draw on different strategies to navigate these complicated systems of belonging and proving identity. Proving authentic group heritage is something many Americans never think about, but such dynamics are common for Indigenous Peoples.

Interviewing 45 Native American participants, McKay describes two dominant methods they use to defend their identity as authentic Indigineous Peoples. First, there is “blood quantum,” a term that refers to how much Native ancestry or family a person can point to in their family tree. The other common way to display authenticity is producing one’s “Indian Card,” a certificate that some Indigenous people receive as proof of their heritage. For several interviewees, these cards not only represent a structural and political qualification, but also hold cultural and personal significance.  

Of course, blood quantums and Indian cards are specific to Native Americans; members of other races in the United States do not have to similarly prove their ancestry or identity. This distinct picture is a product of colonialism and the subsequent categorization, marginalization, and isolated Indigenous populations. Today, such history has affected how people experience race and negotiate Indigenous authenticity.

The Equal Justice Initiative’s National Memorial for Peace and Justice honors the lives of the over 4,000 Black men, women, and children who were lynched on U.S. soil between 1877 and 1950. When the memorial opened in Montgomery, Alabama last spring, reporters asked founder Bryan Stevenson, why build a lynching memorial? Stevenson aptly replied that the memorial serves to not only honor lynching victims but to highlight how the legacy of racial violence affects U.S. punishment practices today. A new study from Eric Stewart and colleagues helps us understand the relationship between lynching and the contemporary punitive attitudes of whites.

The study builds on a long line of research that stems from the work of Ida B. Wells and examines how this history of racial violence shapes criminal justice practices. Wells was one of the main public voices to challenge the common justification for lynchings among whites — that Black men committed acts of rape and other crimes against white women. Her work demonstrated that lynchings were in fact, not a response to crime but a tool of economic and political control used to maintain white dominance in both the South and North. Stewart and his co-authors attempt to unpack this complex history and its implications for criminal justice attitudes today.

The authors draw from a wide range of sources, including a 2013 national survey of crime and punishment attitudes and multiple historical lynching data inventories matched to modern county boundaries. Their findings indicate that this history of racial violence is relevant for whites’ beliefs about crime and punishment today. Specifically, white people who reside in areas where lynchings were more common have increased punitive sentiments towards Black people, including greater support for imprisonment, longer prison sentences, and the death penalty.In places where lynchings were historically more common, white residents report increased punitive sentiments towards Black people.

This effect is amplified among whites who view Black people as more prone to violence against white people. This finding demonstrates that the historical myth used to justify lynchings of black-on-white violence continues to hold sway over white beliefs’ about crime and punishment today. Further, the findings seem to apply nationally — not just in the South — and lynchings do not appear to impact the punitiveness among Black survey respondents.

Stewart and colleagues’ study demonstrates that the legacy of lynchings has shaped contemporary white views of crime, criminality, and punishment through a racial lens. Similar to Stevenson’s comments, the authors conclude that researchers must continue to unpack the importance of historical context in shaping contemporary views of crime and other social issues.

There are two understandings of how schools affect inequality. On the one hand, evidence suggests that schools increase inequality by providing more advantages to students who are better off to begin with. On the other, schools are hailed as society’s “great equalizer” and believed to provide opportunities for all children to get ahead. New work from von Hippel, Workman, and Downey revisits whether schools can compensate for family inequality.

The researchers replicated an earlier study that compared kindergarteners’ reading and math progress during the school year to their progress during summer vacation. Looking at summer vacation allows researchers to focus on inequality due to differences in the home. And by comparing summer vacation progress to school year progress, researchers can determine whether schools are making those differences larger or smaller. The earlier study found that, while inequality grew substantially between the start of kindergarten and the end of first grade, it grew much faster during summer vacations than it did during the school year. The researchers concluded that schools, in fact, were slowing down the growth of gaps due to inequalities in the home. Not only are schools slowing down the growth of achievement gaps, they’re actually shrinking them.

In the new study, von Hippel, Workman, and Downey tested children who began kindergarten in 2010 with an updated measurement of achievement to see if school affected inequality differently in this younger cohort. For most students in both the original and the younger cohorts, gaps grew more quickly over summer vacations. For the 2010 cohort, however, the variation in scores upon entering kindergarten was reduced by the time they finished second grade. This means that not only are schools slowing down the growth of achievement gaps, they’re actually shrinking them. Yet, this finding was not the same for all children — for African American students, the pattern was reversed, with gaps growing wider when school was in session.

While it is heartening to know that schools have the ability to close achievement gaps, these early childhood gaps — especially those in basic reading and math — are still an issue. Since these gaps emerge before students begin kindergarten, later school or summer interventions are palliative, rather than preventative. It may therefore be wiser to develop policies that reduce inequalities among parents and their children before they’re old enough to enroll.

Originally published November 1, 2018.

For a long time, individuals and organizations have drawn stark lines between the “deserving” and the “undeserving” poor. Over the past 40 years, these distinctions have been used to justify cutting or limiting social safety net programs, leading to a decline in cash welfare programs and other parts of social assistance programs that working-age, able-bodied, poor adults are eligible for. Furthermore, researchers have shown that welfare recipients are subject to a growing list of limits, conditions, and expectations. In a recent study, Eric Bjorklund, Andrew P. Davis, and Jessica Pfaffendorf continue such research by examining states’ efforts to implement drug testing for applicants to “Temporary Aid to Needy Families” (TANF), a flagship national welfare program.

In the tense racial and economic climate following Obama’s 2008 election, Arizona became the first state to introduce a policy restricting access to cash welfare for applicants based on drug test results. Since then, 15 states followed by passing drug test policies for recipients of TANF. To understand how the states that passed welfare drug testing policies potentially differ from states that did not, Bjorklund and colleagues looked for patterns in the years leading up to the implementation of the policy. They examined factors such as states’ government ideology, whether a Republican governor ousted a Democrat, the proportion of nonwhites in the population, and the white employment rate.  Whites’ racialized economic fears may have led them to support restrictive policies framed as “correcting” the behavior of certain groups, thus prompting politicians and legislators to tighten access to welfare programs by excluding those who failed a drug test.

Both decreases in white labor force participation and having a Republican governor were associated with a state’s implementation of a drug testing policy. The authors rely on social context to explain this finding — specifically, these policies were implemented during the economic recession following Obama’s 2008 election as the first African American President of the United States. Given the importance of the white employment rate, the authors speculate that whites may have held a zero-sum belief that economic gains by people of color would entail losses for whites. Whites’ racialized economic fears may have led them to support restrictive policies framed as “correcting” the behavior of certain “morally compromised” groups, thus prompting politicians and legislators to tighten access to welfare programs by excluding those who failed a drug test. In short, this research highlights the ways social assistance programs can be shaped by public perceptions about who deserves assistance and who doesn’t.

Originally posted May 16, 2018. 

After a particularly long winter, spring has finally sprung in our snowy corner of the United States. As the weather improves, people are emerging from their winter sanctuaries to enjoy the warmth and sunshine outdoors. But there may be more to these everyday adventures than just taking a stroll. In fact, going out in public — whether riding transit, taking a walk, or gathering in large groups — is an act influenced by social factors, like identity and bias. In a recent article, Michael DeLand and David Trouille examine these daily explorations through their new theoretical lens.  

DeLand and Trouille describe different styles of “going out” on various spectrums. The first includes the level of interactions with others. While some go out to be alone, others go out to seek social engagement. Outings also differ by commitment. Some may head outside to wander and explore, and others may venture with a specific task in mind, like joining a public sporting event or going for a run. Each outing is dynamic — an individual may intend to stroll alone through a park, then stumble across a game of soccer and change plans. Going out in public — whether riding transit, taking a walk, or gathering in large groups — is an act influenced by social factors, like identity and bias.

The authors also discuss how social structures and identities influences the styles of going out. For example, structural inequalities and individual identities influence which public spaces an individual may feel safe inhabiting. For example, in Trouille’s ethnographic work he describes tension between styles of “going out” for Latino immigrant men and their neighbors. The men he observed drank in a Los Angeles park since bars were too expensive and unsafe. While some neighbors found this maddening, the Latino men made plans based on structural restraints — and this vantage point of “going out” allows for deeper insight into the ways that inequality impacts day-to-day life. In short, the social world influences decision processes like these every time we step outside.

Earlier this year, Donald Trump pledged to contribute $1 million to a charity of Elizabeth Warren’s choice if she “proved” that she had Native American ancestry. Warren then released results from a DNA test indicating she may have had a Native ancestor six to ten generations ago, bringing controversy about ancestry testing to the forefront once again. The science behind DNA testing is often misunderstood or overstated, and a recent article by Wendy D. Roth and Biörn Ivemark seeks to understand how people internalize their results (or don’t). Ancestry tests use historical migration routes to “geneticize” race and ethnicity, promoting a link between biology and identity while underemphasizing social factors that shape identity categories. Roth and Ivermark examine how personal and social expectations impact consumers’ evaluations of their ancestry test results, complicating the common assumption that genes determine race.

The researchers interviewed 100 American ancestry-test consumers after they had received their results. They asked participants how they identified throughout their lives and if the DNA test altered their identities. Most participants said their identities remained consistent even after the test, but not all. Privately, bias and aspirations shaped how participants responded to their results. For instance, one white woman had previously embraced her family’s supposed Native ancestry, and when the test did not reflect this story, she rejected the test. On the other hand, participants were more likely to incorporate a new identity if they felt positively about a racial or ethnic group reflected in their test results. Publicly, participants used social cues to evaluate whether a new identity would be accepted. The results of one Black participant, for example, indicated that she may have native ancestry. When she tried to embrace this identity by volunteering at a Native community center, she felt unwelcome, and thus decided to dismiss the identity.A desire for uniqueness may make whites more eager to embrace trace levels of non-white ancestry — and they can do so while still retaining the social benefits of their whiteness.

However, such internal and social influences aren’t constant — they differ by race.  Black respondents were the least likely to incorporate new identities, while white respondents were the most likely to do so. Black participants often assumed a multi-ethnic identity before taking the test and they generally thought cultural and political differences were more important for shaping their racial or ethnic identities than their DNA. Roth and Ivemark theorize that a desire for uniqueness made whites more eager to embrace trace levels of non-white ancestry, and white respondents were also able to embrace new identities while still retaining the social benefits of their whiteness. Overall, Roth and Ivemark’s work reemphasizes the social factors that shape identity, far beyond the capacity of ancestry tests to unveil historical genetic trends.

Emotions ran high across the nation as many of us tuned in to watch Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s testimony of sexual assault by Judge Brett Kavanugh in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee. Dr. Ford’s public testimony has produced important dialogues regarding why most victims do not report, as seen in the social media hashtag #WhyIDidntReport. New research by Shamus Khan, Jennifer Hirsch, Alexander Wamboldt, and Claude A. Mellins contributes to this growing conversation by exploring the social risks students face in reporting.  

Khan and colleagues draw upon the Sexual Health Initiative to Foster Transformation (SHIFT) study, which includes 151 interviews, 17 focus groups, 18 months of participant observation, and a random-sample survey of 1,671 college students at Columbia University and Barnard College (a women’s only institution). This study mostly draws from the interviews with college students. Researchers defined incidents of sexual victimization based on legal definitions of sexual assault, rather than incidents that students explicitly labeled as such. According to the authors’ definition, interviews revealed that 66 students recounted 89 incidents of sexual victimization.

For many victims, naming their experiences as sexual assault and telling authorities came with a variety of social risks. For one, students feared association with a stigmatized identity such as “victim” or “survivor.” They often viewed these labels as disempowering and told interviewers they didn’t want to be seen as “that girl” or “that guy.” Some students attempted to claim alternative identities as compassionate students willing to provide second chances to their perpetrators by not reporting.Naming their experiences as sexual assault and reportingthem came with a variety of social risks.

Second, reporting means students encounter risks to their social networks. For example, students considered how labeling and reporting might hinder their ability to develop or preserve interpersonal relationships, which for some, include relationships with their perpetrator. Lastly, students worried they might lose access to college activities like sports, sororities, fraternities, and other student organizations, which would affect their long-term career goals. Several students discussed how reporting would add stress and take time away from their activities. Men who were intoxicated and Black men in particular expressed concern that they would be the ones accused of assault due to their alcohol intake or lack of racial privilege.

As we continue to address sexual violence in the Me Too era, this work encourages us to look beyond formal reporting policies and work to transform the social and cultural conditions that shape perceptions of risk among sexual assault victims.

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Research on racial attitudes finds that a more modern form of racism has emerged since the civil rights movement — people are less likely to assert biological differences between racial groups, but often utter statements that covertly reinforce racial inequality (“I’m not racist, but…” ). A recent study by Kasey Henricks suggests that such covert forms of racism were actually present in the speeches and debates about slavery during the framing of the U.S. Constitution.

Henricks and his research assistants examined over 1,000 pages of an archival collection at the Library of Congress called, A Century of Lawmaking for a New Nation, one of the largest and oldest collections of congressional records. They focus on the three-fifths clause debate, the clause that codified slavery into law, between Northern and Southern framers about how to “properly tax” the human bondage that the United States was built upon, as well as how to count slaves for state representation in Congress.Many framers stated their opposition to slavery, but still provided colorblind justifications for its continued existence, like the idea that slavery should be left up to local governance instead of federal intervention.

In these discussions, Henricks finds parallels to many of the same expressions and contradictions we see today. For instance, while many framers lamented that slavery continued to exist, they simultaneously refused to extend the same humanity and rights to slaves as they did to “freepersons.”  Many framers stated their opposition to slavery, but nonetheless provided colorblind justifications for its continued existence. One of these justifications was the idea that slavery should be left up to local governance instead of federal intervention. Slaveholders also tried to distance themselves from any culpability by discussing themselves as “victims of circumstance” to a costly form of labor that made them more deserving of tax breaks. According to Henricks, these findings highlight how core American values were used to justify the continuation of slavery without ever having to explicitly discuss race.

These historical underpinnings of colorblindness illustrate that both our present and past are defined by forms of racism, overt and covert. In our current era, characterized by the reemergence of white supremacist groups and violence at Charlottesville, research must continue to demonstrate the multiple ways racism manifests itself and thus supports persistent inequalities, injustices, and violence.

Racial diversity within American families has steadily increased since the mid-20th century. But norms are not changing as quickly as demographics. Individuals still question when children do not look like their caretakers (see Babysitting While Black), and suspicious gazes present a chronic annoyance to transracially adopted children. New research by Devon Goss investigates the ways that transracial adoptees and their siblings are incorrectly perceived by others and the strategies they use to respond to mischaracterization.

Goss interviewed 30 adults from across the country — 16 non-white people adopted by white families, and 14 white people with non-white adopted siblings. The interviewees reported being frequently mischaracterized when in public with their different-race siblings. Most commonly people categorized them as a romantic couple, regardless of the gender pairing of the siblings. Goss hypothesizes that a transracial pair exhibiting familial intimacy is unrecognizable to most as a sibling group, so people instead interpret them as sexual partners. She links these misperceptions to racialized stereotypes of sexuality — specifically, that non-whites are more sexually active and deviant than whites. Different-race siblings were frequently mischaracterized when in public together. Most commonly people categorized them as a romantic couple, regardless of the gender pairing of the siblings.

The participants in the research used three strategies to challenge these false assumptions. Some openly confronted people about their stereotypical beliefs. Others used subtle conversation cues to indicate their true relationship, such as addressing their sibling as “sis.” Others humorously played along with the mischaracterization to make light of the situation. Each of these strategies represents a form of what sociologists call impression management — an attempt by transracial siblings to redefine public perceptions of them with overt or covert signals. Transracial families in America will continue this awkward exercise until societal norms acknowledge and accept their existence.

We hear a lot about the gender pay gap and the racial wealth gap, but rarely about how disability also affects economic security. New research by Michelle Maroto, David Pettinicchio, and Andrew C. Patterson investigates how disability interacts with gender, race, and education level to influence economic stratification in the United States. The researchers analyze data from the 2015 American Community Survey (ACS), focusing on poverty status and total personal income (earnings, governmental income, savings). The ACS identifies people with disabilities as anyone who has cognitive, ambulatory, independent living, self-care, vision, or hearing difficulty. Instead of analyzing race, education, and gender separately, the researchers created 24 different groups where these identities intersect (e.g., black women with a bachelor’s degree, white men without a bachelor’s, Asian Pacific Islander women with a bachelor’s, and so on).

Overall, the effects of disability on poverty were strongest for women, racial minorities, and those with low levels of education. Specifically, disability had the largest effects on poverty for black and Hispanic women with low levels of education. White and Asian men with high levels of education were the least affected. In other words, if individuals already have racial, educational, and gendered privilege, these components may insulate people with disabilities from falling into poverty — in this case, highly educated white and Asian men. On the other hand, women and racial minorities who are already at a greater risk of poverty do not have that insulation.

In terms of total income, disability had the largest negative effect on the most advantaged groups, particularly for men with higher levels of education. But even though more advantaged men with disabilities took the greatest hit in terms of income, they still averaged more total income — about $63,000 per year — than other groups. Less-educated women with disabilities overall earned only about $28,000 per year and women of color in this category earned even less. In other words, those with more markers of privilege have more to lose, but the more disadvantaged groups still end up at the bottom. This research shows that disability disadvantages all groups economically, but the ways it combines with other social statuses influences how groups experience economic insecurity or privilege.