One is the idea that people often use the term “race” when what they really want to talk about is racism. When commentators emphasize “race consciousness” or “race relations,” they make something that’s about oppression into something about identity.

A classic example is the tragically common refrain, “They shot him because he’s black.” We all know what that means, but actually, the sentence doesn’t make sense. Black skin doesn’t attract bullets. The color of someone’s skin does not cause them to be shot. That’s oppression that causes that to happen. That’s racism, not race.

Barbara and Karen Fields use the term “racecraft,” evoking witchcraft, to describe an ideological fog, a pervasive mental terrain, in which all of this operates. One of their most provocative arguments is that well-meaning people often end up recreating the ideas of race in their attempts to be anti-racist. For example, by trying to find in ideas of race something to do with culture, or something to do with identity. But Barbara and Karen Fields point to the example of Amadou Diallo, an immigrant from West Africa who was gunned down by New York City police in 1999.

If the police had known that he was an African immigrant, and not an African-American, would they have thought he was the same kind of threat?

Amadou Diallo didn’t get to define himself in America. They define you. Black is something imposed on you in this country. It’s not a self-definition. Look at all those court cases of people trying to define themselves and being told, “No, you’re not that.” Native American tribes have gone before United States courts for generations, explaining that they define tribal membership socially (that is, as people who live on tribal sites and perform tribal practices), not genealogically. But time and time again, the court insists that bloodline is what matters.

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The official stance of every institution is antiracist and in favor of “diversity” and so on. But we know at the same time that all of these institutions — every university, every school, every prison — has a tremendous pattern of racial disparities: who gets punished and who gets rewarded, who gets opportunities and who doesn’t. These tremendous patterns happen at the same time as a high level of official denial. And the court has ruled again and again that the pattern isn’t enough, you have to show intent to demonstrate racism.

There are 11 students in the class. All of them are white.

Our discussion is lively and intense; everyone seems impatient to speak. We talk about language, history, and identity. Most students say “the n-word” instead of “nigger.” Only one or two students actually use the word in their comments. When they do, they use the phrase “the word ‘nigger,’” as if to cushion it. Sometimes they make quotations marks with their fingers. I notice Lauren looking around. Finally, she raises her hand.

“I have a question; it’s somewhat personal. I don’t want to put you on the spot.”

“Go ahead, Lauren,” I say with relief.

“Okay, so how does it feel for you to hear us say that word?”

I have an answer ready.

“I don’t enjoy hearing it. But I don’t think that I feel more offended by it than you do. What I mean is, I don’t think I have a special place of pain inside of me that the word touches because I am black.” We are both human beings, I am trying to say. She nods her head, seemingly satisfied. Even inspired, I hope.

I am lying, of course.