I spent much of the day yesterday reading about how deliberation is critical for democracy.

John Dryzek, for example, argues that fundamentally, it is the presence of deliberation which determines whether a state is truly a democracy. “…Democratic legitimacy,” he writes, “resides in the right, ability, and opportunity of those subject to a collective decision to participate in deliberation about the content of that decision.”

But while there seems to be much agreement that deliberation is a nice ideal, it is far from clear that such a theoretical ideal is attainable.

To be fair, most advocates of deliberation don’t argue that it is the only mode of democracy. Whether imperfect or inefficient for some tasks, a democracy must reasonably use other tools as well.

“Certain non-deliberative forms and mechanisms that intrinsically employ coercive power are legitimate and necessary procedures of democracy more broadly conceived,” Jane Mansbridge argued in a 2010 paper, adding that these additional forms are only acceptable “to the degree that they and their procedures emerge from and withstand deliberative, mutually-justificatory, scrutiny.”

But what if deliberation is actually bad for democracy? What if deliberation served to reinforce power dynamics rather than over come them?

That’s essentially the argument Lynn Sanders makes in Against Deliberation.

She begins with a jab at the deliberation community: “To begin, one might be suspicious of the near consensus among democratic theorists on its behalf. It isn’t clear, after all, that this wide endorsement has itself emerged through a genuinely deliberative process: democratic theorists are a select group who cannot and do not claim in any way to represent the perspectives of ordinary citizens.”

In my experience, the deliberative community is largely white – a point that comes up often as proponents of deliberative democracy actively work to address this shortcoming by recruiting speakers of color and seeking to engage diverse groups in conversation.

Deliberation as democracy doesn’t work if only some views are in the room.

But Sanders doesn’t end her critique there. A diverse group of participants may not be enough to ensure the ideal dialogue of deliberation.

“If we assume that deliberation cannot proceed without the realization of mutual respect, and deliberation appears to be proceeding, we may even mistakenly decide that conditions of mutual respect have been achieved by deliberators,” she writes.

I imagine the room where “the boss” asks for feedback and nobody speaks. Where power dynamics have led to a culture of silence and quiescence – so whoever’s in charge can say the right things and do the right things, while all those without power have internalized the unmistakeable subtext: your view doesn’t matter.

John Gaventa compellingly captures this dynamic in Power and Powerlessness: Quiescence and Rebellion in an Appalachian Valley, as he tracks the history of power dynamics in poor Appalachian communities. In democratic elections, people would vote against their interests for “the company man.” They didn’t have to be threatened – they knew what happened to people who didn’t.

“Power relationships, once established, are self-sustaining,” he wrote. That is, a stranger dropped into a situation might see people autonomously choosing to act in a given way, but a historian of local power dynamics would see that there was something much more insidious at work.

Sanders takes a similar line of argument in warning against deliberation:

Even if democratic theorists notice the inequities associated with class and race and gender, and, for example, recommend equalizing income and education to redistribute the resources needed for deliberation – even if everyone can deliberate and learn how to give reasons – some people’s ideas may still count more than others. Insidious prejudice may be unrecognized by those citizens whose views are disregarded as well as by other citizens.

Prejudice and privilege do not emerge in deliberative settings as bad reasons, and they are not countered by good arguments. They are too sneaky, invisible, and pernicious for that reasonable process.

That’s a challenge that hasn’t been sufficiently addressed by deliberation advocates. I think it’s a challenge most advocates are aware of, and no doubt its the sort of concern that keeps them up at night.

To be fair, the problem isn’t just one for deliberation. Given such pernicious prejudice, other democratic tools might find themselves equally unmatched. Deliberation may even be one of the most potent tool in combating that prejudice.

For example, pointing to successful truth and reconciliation activities around the world, Dryzek argues that “deliberation also can play a part in healing division.” Perhaps deliberation, while flawed in a flawed world, is a critical tool to slowly chipping away at those divisions and prejudices. Perhaps deliberation, while ideally requiring equalization, is ultimately a path to equalization itself.

Sanders concerns aren’t a reason to throw out deliberation – merely a reason to be continually, productively critical of how it is realized. Perhaps less than the ideal is still enough.

The question this raises for me is one of measurement. How can you tell the difference between a truly good deliberation and one that merely looks good on paper while masking the deeper quiescence of oppression?

The Black Lives Matter protests that shut down two democratic candidates’ speeches at Netroots Nation highlights an emerging topic of the conversation around race.

While white southerners are arguing against the idea that racism is all Dixie’s fault, white northerners are being confronted with the troubling idea that they, too, might be part of the problem.

To be clear about my own identity, I am a white person born and raised in California. I’m fairly sure that makes me neither a Yankee nor a southerner, though California officially supported the north in the civil war. I have lived my entire adult life in Massachusetts.

I have spent very little time in the south, though thanks to my father – who grew up in 1940s Florida – I ate a lot of grits growing up.

All of that is to say that I am in no position to judge the south. Certainly recent events – such as our nation’s president being greeted by Confederate flag wavers in Oklahoma – indicates that there is important work to be done around racism in the south. But that’s hardly enough to write off the entire south, and only the south, as our nation’s problem.

I am also struck by the reflections of John Gaventa, exploring white powerlessness and poverty in Appalachia: “Programmes which present people like those of [Appalachia] do so usually as stereotypes of passive, quaint or backwards characters…What a society sees of itself on television may provide its mainstream with a kind of collective self-image, by which individuals and sub-groups evaluate themselves and others…the lack of coverage of a subordinate group keeps the members of the group isolated from one another, unaware that others similarly situated share common concerns or are pursuing challenges upon common issues.”

All of that is to say: stereotypes of white, racist southerners help nobody.

The south should indeed confront its racist past and present, but it is wrong to scapegoat the south as the home of all our nation’s racism.

Northern racism – or liberal racism or progressive racism, if you prefer – is just as real. It is somehow more proper, a fine veneer of inclusion over a troubling racist interior.

This northern racism is arguably more insidious: a norther says the right things and goes through the right motions. But all the while, the system pushes to ensure segregation and white dominance.

Historically, this has put white northerners in an enviable position of avoiding fault: They wanted the meeting to be inclusive, its just that only white people showed up. The dutiful liberal heaves a sigh. What could be done?

The reaction to the interruptions of Gov. Martin O’Malley and Sen. Bernie Sanders at Netroots reminds me of this type of liberalism.

As one reporter noted, “I, like many of the others there, was initially irritated by the protestors. I was there to hear the candidates and was frustrated that they weren’t being heard. Even a bit angry, in fact. “These are your allies,” I thought. “Why on earth are you attacking them? Why are you disrupting an event where the people there are sympathetic to your cause?””

That is the response of the white liberal. Sympathetic to the cause, but not to the method. Wanting there to be a chance, but not willing to work for it.

The author eventually reflected on his own experience of being silenced in that moment – emotions “felt acutely and painfully every single day by racial minority groups in our country.”

Yes, indeed, being silenced is frustrating.

But all is not lost for us well-meaning, white liberals who genuinely want to do more than sigh and blame the system. Paulo Freire proposes a path beyond liberalism – to radicalism:

Those who authentically commit themselves to the people must re-examine themselves constantly. This conversion is so radical as not to allow of ambiguous behavior. To affirm this commitment but to consider oneself the proprietor of revolutionary wisdom – which must then be given to (or imposed on) the people – is to retain the old ways. The man or woman who proclaims devotion to the cause of liberation yet is unable to enter into communion with the people, whom he or she continues to regard as totally ignorant, is grievously self-deceived. The convert who approaches the people but alarm at each step they take, each doubt they express, and each suggestion they offer, and attempts to impose his “status,” remains nostalgic towards his origins.