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Utah is not yet a very diverse state; as of 2013, nearly 90 percent of residents were white. Latinos are a distant second at 13 percent, followed by Asian-Americans, Native Americans, blacks and Pacific Islanders (each less than 3 percent).
But in 2013, that was slowly changing, and Utah was not immune from the angst rippling through the rest of the country. With signs of a backlash against immigrants brewing, a group of concerned residents decided to take action.
Billy Palmer
“We saw what was happening elsewhere, and then in our own state, but no one was talking about it and nowhere to go to do it,” recalls Anna Brower Thomas, strategic communications manager for the ACLU of Utah. “We needed to create that place.”
The result was Racially Just Utah, which bills itself as a “coalition of organizations, service providers, students, parents, educators, attorneys, advocates, activists, community members and concerned citizens.” The coalition focuses on issues such as the school-to-prison pipeline, lack of funding for public education, development of youth leaders and systematic oppression/implicit bias.
Then, in 2014, three young men were shot by police officers in separate incidents—two of whom were youth of color. One of them was a Pacific Islander named Siale Angilau, 25. Angilau was in court for a hearing. According to official reports, the young man “lunged aggressively” toward a fellow gang member with a pen. A deputy marshal fired eight shots, all of which hit Angilau, who later died at a hospital.
Maria Garciaz, executive director of NeighborWorks Salt Lake, was approached by a graduate of the organization’s Westside Leadership Institute (similar to NeighborWorks America’s Community Leadership Institute), who asked if some of the Pacifka youth could use the organization’s facilities for a meeting. The result was a new youth group called the Raise Your Pen coalition.
NeighborWorks Salt Lake served as a catalyst for both coalitions, sending several of the youths who were new to activism to the CLI for further leadership development.
“It’s extremely taboo in Utah to discuss racial issues and discrimination,” Garciaz explains.
It wasn’t long before the two coalitions began cooperating, born out of their networking at the CLI. The forum is Race Matters, an annual, open-mic event that “brings everyone together, giving voice to people who want to share their thoughts and experiences,” says Billy Palmer, a member of the NeighborWorks Salt Lake board and a Race Matters “performer.”
Anyone who signs up can perform, reciting poetry, playing music, dancing—whatever inspires them. In the first year, 2015, 30-40 people showed up, mostly people of color; in 2016, the number swelled to about 250—including about 40 percent whites. The event is held in a warehouse owned by a nonprofit food-and-employment program run by a formerly homeless man who is now a successful entrepreneur.
“Common themes in this year’s performances were discrimination, racial profiling and self-acceptance,” says Palmer. “Race has been too easily dismissed around here; if you bring it up you’re regarded as being unreasonable. But in this space, you can be open about it.”
So what comes next for his successful event?
“We’re talking about how to translate the energy generated into more follow-up action and empowerment,” says Thomas. “We might offer activist training for specific communities, for instance.”
If other organizations would like to hold their own Race Matters, Thomas has this to say: “Focus on encouraging organic expression. Don’t try to structure and control it too much. The role of the MC is really important, to help guide it and keep it a safe space with no judging.”
If you’re successful, she says, you’ll discover aspects of people you didn’t even know existed. “There is this one gentleman who got up on stage and performed a poem he wrote himself. He was on our board, and I’d never seen that side of him before! One of the main themes that comes out is labels. How do I see myself? How do others see me? Who am I really?”
But in 2013, that was slowly changing, and Utah was not immune from the angst rippling through the rest of the country. With signs of a backlash against immigrants brewing, a group of concerned residents decided to take action.
The result was Racially Just Utah, which bills itself as a “coalition of organizations, service providers, students, parents, educators, attorneys, advocates, activists, community members and concerned citizens.” The coalition focuses on issues such as the school-to-prison pipeline, lack of funding for public education, development of youth leaders and systematic oppression/implicit bias.
Then, in 2014, three young men were shot by police officers in separate incidents—two of whom were youth of color. One of them was a Pacific Islander named Siale Angilau, 25. Angilau was in court for a hearing. According to official reports, the young man “lunged aggressively” toward a fellow gang member with a pen. A deputy marshal fired eight shots, all of which hit Angilau, who later died at a hospital.
Maria Garciaz, executive director of NeighborWorks Salt Lake, was approached by a graduate of the organization’s Westside Leadership Institute (similar to NeighborWorks America’s Community Leadership Institute), who asked if some of the Pacifka youth could use the organization’s facilities for a meeting. The result was a new youth group called the Raise Your Pen coalition.
NeighborWorks Salt Lake served as a catalyst for both coalitions, sending several of the youths who were new to activism to the CLI for further leadership development.
“It’s extremely taboo in Utah to discuss racial issues and discrimination,” Garciaz explains.
It wasn’t long before the two coalitions began cooperating, born out of their networking at the CLI. The forum is Race Matters, an annual, open-mic event that “brings everyone together, giving voice to people who want to share their thoughts and experiences,” says Billy Palmer, a member of the NeighborWorks Salt Lake board and a Race Matters “performer.”
Anyone who signs up can perform, reciting poetry, playing music, dancing—whatever inspires them. In the first year, 2015, 30-40 people showed up, mostly people of color; in 2016, the number swelled to about 250—including about 40 percent whites. The event is held in a warehouse owned by a nonprofit food-and-employment program run by a formerly homeless man who is now a successful entrepreneur.“Common themes in this year’s performances were discrimination, racial profiling and self-acceptance,” says Palmer. “Race has been too easily dismissed around here; if you bring it up you’re regarded as being unreasonable. But in this space, you can be open about it.”
So what comes next for his successful event?
“We’re talking about how to translate the energy generated into more follow-up action and empowerment,” says Thomas. “We might offer activist training for specific communities, for instance.”
If other organizations would like to hold their own Race Matters, Thomas has this to say: “Focus on encouraging organic expression. Don’t try to structure and control it too much. The role of the MC is really important, to help guide it and keep it a safe space with no judging.”
If you’re successful, she says, you’ll discover aspects of people you didn’t even know existed. “There is this one gentleman who got up on stage and performed a poem he wrote himself. He was on our board, and I’d never seen that side of him before! One of the main themes that comes out is labels. How do I see myself? How do others see me? Who am I really?”
