On a college campus with an unofficial uniform of sweatpants and down jackets, one young man stood out to me because of his attire. He was not on his way to an interview and was not giving a class presentation, but he was wearing a suit. He entered my office to ask for my help.
The young man wearing a suit, not just that first day, but every day, was Justin J. Pearson, the Democratic House representative from the 86th District of Tennessee. We met in my first year as Director of Writing and Rhetoric at Bowdoin College, as he neared graduation. He wanted to be a better writer and a stronger speaker, he said. He wanted to hone his voice. So we made a plan. We met each week for a year, discussing current issues, and reading news articles. He wrote reactions and I responded with feedback and questions. But mostly, I held space for him. I affirmed that his ideas were worth reading and that his voice was worth hearing.
Over the past ten days, Justin's voice has garnered national attention—inspiring celebration and drawing criticism. His critics do not point to flaws in his argument. They do not call out his political objectives. Instead, he has been criticized for challenging the status quo. First for his appearance, and second for the way he used his voice.
At his swearing into office earlier this year, Justin proudly wore a dashiki in honor of his ancestors. Republican Representative David Hawk scolded him, alluding to a rule that male lawmakers must wear suits and ties.
There is no such rule.
There are, however, powerful unwritten rules about the status quo. And when Pearson, a young black man who is a powerful orator, wears his hair natural and chooses a formal dashiki over a western suit and tie, his very presence is a challenge. It's respectability politics.
On March 27, a mass shooting at Covenant School in Nashville left six people dead. When the Tennessee House of Representatives convened on March 30, Pearson and others walked past thousands of protestors as they entered the State House. Some held signs that read: "Do Something." Seeing that the House was not planning to address the mass shooting, Pearson joined with two other representatives—Justin Jones of Nashville and Gloria Johnson of Knoxville—to protest within the state house to call for gun laws.
The three were stripped of their committee assignments. On April 6, Pearson and Jones, both young Black men, were expelled from their positions by vote in the Republican-led House of Representatives. Gloria Johnson, a white woman, was not.
In a country founded on protest, when he took part in a peaceful protest to amplify the voices of his constituents begging for safer gun laws, Justin was silenced. It's respectability politics.
But for Justin J. Pearson to be successful at Bowdoin College, he learned how to deal with respectability politics. He knew how to code switch. He modulated to adapt to the rhetorical conventions of Government class discussions and commencement speech contests. As a Black man at a predominantly white institution, he was deeply aware of the expectations placed upon him as the son of two teenage parents who returned late to college and worked their way out of poverty through education. His mother is an educator currently pursuing her doctorate, his father is a minister who earned his Masters of Divinity when Justin was a child. He understood the opportunities education offers just as much as he understood how he was expected to behave. So he wore a suit. He wrote in a way that was legible in that setting and spoke with fluency in the language of that context.
Code switching is a practice of moving from one way of speaking to another. To be successful in the contemporary American system of education, one must navigate a colonial framework. One must use the language of the colonizer. Educator and scholar Vershawn Ashanti Young advocates for what he calls codemeshing, asserting that code-switching creates segregated codes that are separate but unequal. Instead, Young says, writing teachers should "teach how language functions within and from various cultural perspectives. And we should teach what it take to understand, listen, and write in multiple dialects simultaneously."
Some of the work that Justin and I engaged in had to do with understanding rhetorical contexts. Some of what we did together had to do with code switching and code meshing. The work of an educator—perhaps especially a teacher of writing and rhetoric—requires an understanding of systems of oppression and the needs of a student.
"At minimum, you can say something."
When I reached out to Justin this week after his expulsion, I asked how he was navigating these codes from within the institution. What does it mean to inhabit a rigid space like the legislature and does he feel that it is a productive space to bring about change? We discussed the foundational quote from Audre Lorde: "The Master's tools will never dismantle the master's house."
"It's true," he agreed.
"If we wanted to operate with the tools of white supremacy and patriarchy, or we were using the tools of hatred toward the poor. If we were using the tools of exploitative capitalism, of militarism… if we were using those tools, then no way that you could change the institution that you're a part of. Those tools will never dismantle the house because the house was built with those tools. And so you've got to come with new tools. Something entirely different that's not adjacent, not tangential to, but some tools that are entirely different than the ones that built the institutions."
Instead, he explained, "we are using a different set of tools to dismantle it. Brick by brick. Pillar by pillar. Piece by piece. And it is a painful, grueling process because these institutions are designed this way over centuries to be immovable. To be untouchable."
"Right?"
That's right, I nodded. Sitting in my office after a day of teaching composition and now being reminded by this former student about all the ways that change can happen. About all the tools we might use. We must use.
"I believe being within this institution but not being of this institution is quite important," Justin continued. "Institutions do not change because the people within them all suddenly get more courage. Rather what actually happens is that there are a few good folk within them that have some moral courage. And there is a mass movement of people outside of the building, outside of the institution, who push it to change. That actually leads to progress."
Raised in the black church and educated at an elite college, Pearson bridges worlds. He understands rhetorical situation and code meshing. In the wake of yet another school shooting, he responds with humanity to the families from Covenant School inside the building. He responds with compassion for the high schoolers who are pleading for their lives outside the building. And when it becomes clear that lawmakers will not address the issue, he and two others use their voices. Their voices are disruptive not because they know of no other way to speak, but because the situation called for disruption. Later, when offered an opportunity to speak before the vote for his expulsion, Pearson's voice is defiant and full of emotion because the situation calls for that. And when I sit down to talk with Pearson about all of this, he speaks quietly with reflection—calling me to see the situation in a new light. Because that is what was needed.
When I asked how he still felt optimistic despite the challenges, he said, "I don't believe [the challenges are] permanent. There's nothing in my body that says all the bad things that are happening are permanent. What I was getting to and what you helped me to get to, too, is that at minimum, you can say something."
"This is a generational awakening that is going to demand solutions."
Pearson feels empowered, despite all of the obstacles and silencing, because he so deeply believes in this truth. "The reason why it's worth it is that I'm assured that there is a victory date. I know it in my soul. And the reason I know it is because what we are fighting for is not because there is a financial interest associated with it. It's not because there's a lot of fame or recognition that comes with it. It's not that. It's that we believe in our hearts that this is true. And so, that cannot be taken. That cannot be easily lost or gained because of what the stock market is doing. Because of what people in power are doing. And the main thing is that we will never quit, so how can we lose? If you never quit, there is no way for you to lose."
When he was expelled from the House, though, did it not feel like a loss? I wonder.
Pearson leans back and smiles, taking in the question and shaking his head. "What I ask is 'What if we did give up?' Then what happens? What if we never fought back? The governor of Tennessee today wouldn't be talking about red flag laws as he is talking about in this red state where they have a super-majority Republican legislature. The governor of Tennessee said we need to pass red flag laws, which is what myself and my colleagues screamed about on the House floor."
"So it's a victory?" I ask.
"It's a victory." He pauses. "It's a start of a victory. But that doesn't happen without thousands of people marching. That doesn't happen without people having some courage."
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It took courage for Pearson to move to Maine from Memphis. It took courage for him to ask for help—to share his messy drafts and take the feedback. It took courage for Pearson to put on a suit at Bowdoin. And it takes courage for Pearson to wear a dashiki and to pick out his hair each day that he walks into that white-dominated space not built for him. It takes courage for Pearson to evoke the rhythms of Black vernacular and the images of the black church on the floor of the House.
When Pearson was reinstated by a unanimous vote on Wednesday, the day after we spoke, he wore a dashiki with a suit. From the clothes that he wears to the tones he uses, to the spaces he inhabits, Justin J. Pearson is drawing from his various lived experiences. He is claiming his multiple ways of being. He is codemeshing and bridge-building as he claims his space among the next generation of leaders.
"We've got to be the folks who say, this is not something we want to preserve. We need a new status quo, we need a new South, a new Tennessee, a new country."
As he looks ahead, Pearson is inspired by the young people he sees. "This is a generational awakening that is going to demand solutions. And they not going nowhere. They're only growing up. They're only becoming more voters."
And as I look ahead, I am inspired by this young man. Following his lead, I am eager to use new tools to build a house worth inhabiting, and grateful that he determined to hone his voice and to use it for good.
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