Dressing up ignorance as a compliment

Opinion

Recently, U.S. President Donald Trump told Liberian President Joseph Boakai that he “speaks beautiful English.” It barely made headlines, lost among the many offensive things Trump says and does on a seemingly daily basis. But for many racialized people, it landed with a familiar sting.

It was a classic microaggression, delivered on a global stage to a man who had climbed to the highest rung of leadership in his country. During a meeting with five West African leaders at the White House, Trump asked Boakai where he had learned to speak “so beautifully,” following up with: “Where were you educated? Where? In Liberia?”

Boakai’s government said it took no offence. What else could they say? Liberia has been heavily dependent on U.S. aid for decades, with American assistance accounting for nearly 2.6 per cent of its gross national income, according to the Center for Global Development. And now, with that aid recently cut, it’s easy to understand why Boakai might have felt he had to grin and bear it.

But Trump’s comment isn’t a compliment. It’s a reminder of the often unspoken assumption that people who look a certain way couldn’t possibly speak well, let alone lead a country. It’s an insult wrapped in admiration, and one I, and many like me, have heard far too often.

I still remember one night from my teens. I was driving with my dad down Academy Road when we hit black ice and spun into a pole. We were unharmed, and since we weren’t far from home, we started walking.

A white woman pulled over and kindly offered us a ride. We accepted, grateful. But during that short drive, a series of seemingly innocent questions began to reveal something else. She spoke only to me, even when asking about my dad, who was sitting right there. She asked if we had insurance. Then if I was in school. I told her I was in my first year of university. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “Your English is really good. Where did you learn to speak it? It must be such a help for your dad.”

My dad, who taught English, whose only language is English, sat beside me in silence. He had become invisible in her eyes. Her assumptions about our race overrode everything else.

After the end of British colonization in our homeland, my dad was one of the first racialized teachers allowed to teach in a system that once excluded people like him. He spoke English fluently, yet he was treated as though he didn’t understand.

These kinds of comments don’t happen in isolation. When Trump told Boakai he spoke “beautiful English,” he wasn’t complimenting eloquence; he was expressing surprise.

To be fair, perhaps Trump didn’t intend to be offensive. Hear me out. The White House later pointed out that he has complimented white leaders on their English as well, commenting on their British or Australian accents, for example. But that’s not the same. Admiring a posh accent from a white leader is different than expressing disbelief that a Black African president could possibly speak English “so beautifully.” It’s not about tone; it’s about expectation.

And context matters. English has been the official language of Liberia since the country’s founding in the 1800s. Trump’s question didn’t reveal curiosity. It revealed ignorance.

It’s the same kind of surprise racialized professionals encounter in boardrooms and classrooms when we’re told we’re “so articulate,” with a tone that implies, “You’re not like the others.”

These microaggressions may seem small, harmless even, to those who say them. But they add up. They remind us that no matter how well we speak, how many degrees we earn, or how accomplished we are, we are still seen as exceptions.

The problem isn’t that racialized people don’t speak English well. Many of us are fluent in English and several other languages too. The problem is the deeply embedded belief that we shouldn’t be.

I don’t think the woman who drove us home was trying to be unkind. I believe she thought she was being warm and welcoming. But kindness and racism are not mutually exclusive. Microaggressions like hers and like Trump’s are rooted in the same idea: that whiteness is the norm, and everything else is foreign.

I didn’t say anything that day. But I’ve thought about that moment often. How small it made us feel. How large the assumptions were, based on nothing but the colour of our skin.

In case you’re wondering: my skin is brown. I was born in a foreign land. My English is excellent. My French is pretty good. My Spanish isn’t bad either. But what I really wish is that I spoke Arabic. Now that’s a beautiful language.

Samantha Turenne is a Winnipeg writer.