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Read the definition of Intercultural Conflict and the key barriers included in the attached document and then, fill out the matrix and submit it here.

5.3 Conflict Matrix
Unit 5 – Reading 5
Directions: Read the definition of intercultural conflict below and the three key barriers. After reading the definition and specific barriers,
consider each of the scenarios in the left-hand column in the matrix below. Check which barrier you believe most applies to the scenario. Then,
write a brief rationale for the barrier. There may be more than one right answer, depending on how you rationalize the barrier selected. An
example is listed in the matrix. You may work directly in this document. Save it and upload to the Blackboard dropbox.
Definition of Intercultural Conflict*: The perceived incompatibility of values, norms, processes, or goals between at least two parties over
identity, relational, and/or substantive issues. The three specific barriers include: anxiety; assuming similarities instead of differences; and
ethnocentrism.
➢ Anxiety: When you are anxious because of not knowing what you are expected to do, it is only natural to focus on that feeling and
not be totally present in the communication transaction.
➢ Assuming similarities instead of differences: When you assume similarity between cultures you can be caught unaware of important
differences. When you have no information about a new culture, it might make sense to assume there are no differences, to behave
as you would in your home culture.
➢ Ethnocentrism: is to negatively judge aspects of another culture by the standards of one’s own culture. To be ethnocentric is to
believe in the superiority of one’s own culture. Everything in a culture is consistent to that culture and makes sense if you
understood that culture.
*Please note this definition does not account for deep-rooted reasons, such as religious beliefs and a history of conflict.
SCENARIO:
A kindergarten boy from India
was teased and called “garbage
head” by his classmates who
noticed the smell of coconut oil
on his hair.
Barrier:
Anxiety
Barrier:
Assuming
similarities
Barrier:
Rationale for Barrier:
Ethnocentrism
X
The kindergarteners ridiculed the Indian boy, which is a
form of negative judgment. The kindergarteners acted
in a way that demonstrated they believed the Indian
boy’s head was not acceptable because they do not add
coconut oil to their hair (i.e., it was not “right” to add
coconut oil to the hair because they do not do it).
1. A United States college-age
woman cleaned her dorm room
while her Thai roommate was
having breakfast in the dormitory
dining hall. She did not know that
in the Thai culture the head is
sacred and putting a piece of
clothing associated with a lesser
part of the body on a place
reserved for the head is one of the
worst possible insults. The woman
placed the Thai woman’s skirt on
the pillow portion of the bed.
When the Thai roommate
returned, she became upset,
cried, and left the room.
2. A frail, old, almost totally blind
lady appeared at every health
clinic session and sat on the dirt
floor enjoying the activity. She
was dirty and disheveled and
obviously had very little, even by
Malaysian kampong (local village)
standards. A nurse tried to obtain
help for the woman. She was able
to convince the Department of
Welfare to give the old woman a
small pension, which would
provide the woman enough
money to live on. However the
woman continued to wear the
same dirty dress and still looked
like she did not have enough to
eat. In squatting near her, the
nurse noted a wad of bills in the
woman’s basket. “You have spent
nothing. Why is that?” The woman
laughed and explained, “I am
saving it all for my funeral.”
3. Two brothers and a sister, ages
7, 8, and 10, were expelled from
their elementary school for nine
months because they wore
ceremonial daggers required by
their religion. The children’s
parents explained that the dagger,
called a kirpan, is one of five
sacred symbols that must be worn
at all times by baptized Khalsa
Sikhs.
A night of conflict, chaos and courage in Sherman Park
Gina Barton, Rick Romell, Ashley Luthern and Calvin Mattheis, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel10:07 p.m. CDT August 20, 2016
“An eye for an eye! It’s time to die for something that matters!”
A line of uniformed police stood, their expressions impassive, as furious young men hurled
insults virtually nose to nose.
“We don’t want justice. We don’t want peace. … We want blood like y’all want it!”
In the immediate aftermath of the shooting in the Sherman Park neighborhood the
afternoon of Aug. 13, the area had remained calm. A few dozen neighbors milled about
in the humid afternoon sunshine, more curious than angry. Although there were numerous
officers near the 3200 block of N. 44th St., where the shooting took place, just one of them
approached the onlookers and asked them to back up.
They complied.
By late afternoon, though, word had spread that a Milwaukee police officer was
responsible for the death of a man well known in the area, Sylville K. Smith, 23. By word of
mouth, Facebook live and text message, one person after another urged friends and
relatives to show up at the scene. People poured into the area, all of them black, most of
them men, many simmering with rage.
The shooting of an African-American man by a police officer — even an officer of the same
race — was too much. Concentrated poverty, high unemployment, pessimism about the
future, hollow promises from politicians, a sense of relentless oppression — it was all too
much. In cities around the country, African-Americans were simmering. There had
been Ferguson. Then Baltimore.
“We cannot cohabitate with white people! One of us has to go. Black or white!”
A few officers donned helmets with face shields, but none responded, with words or
actions. More than once, supervisors ordered the line of cops to fall back. Each time, the
crowd advanced.
Smith’s mother and aunt made their way through the crowd, pleading for calm. Smith’s
body, they said, could not be removed from the yard where he died as long as the volatile
atmosphere remained. Almost immediately, some men near the line of police took up the
cause.
“Back to the streets, everybody. Back to the streets!”
“Respect the mother. She said back up.”
“Momma said back up.”
After a while, the people drifted away. Once again, Milwaukee had avoided an explosive
uprising at the intersection of racial frustration and law enforcement.
Or so it seemed.
•••
His mother’s only child, Smith grew up doing tricks on the trampoline at East Side Turners.
Well-liked by some, he hosted popular dance parties. But he was far from universally
loved.
In recent years, the streets had not been kind to Smith. Two different gunmen shot him,
leaving him to endure multiple bullet wounds. His run-ins with the law resulted in nine
arrests, but he had been convicted of just one crime: carrying a concealed weapon, a
misdemeanor.
A year older than Smith, Dominique Heaggan also grew up in the city. He had wanted to
become a police officer since he was a teenager. After graduating as valedictorian from
W.E.B. DuBois High School, he became a police aide, performing clerical duties until he
was old enough to enter the academy. He took pride in cleaning up the neighborhood
around District 7, and in being treated with respect.
As he patrolled the north side district, he often ran into people he grew up with. They knew
him by his nickname, “Domo,” remembered him from one high school event or the other,
maybe even downloaded rap songs he recorded with a friend. The songs were typical of
the genre, although in retrospect some are raising eyebrows; in 2015, he recorded
freestyle rap over Meek Mill’s song “Monster,” including lyrics that he’s going to “start a riot
like it’s Baltimore.”
To some, once Heaggan joined the police department six years ago, he was no longer one
of them. When he pinned on his badge, he became someone with the power so many of
them lacked. Further, he seemed to enjoy exercising it. After Heaggan shot Smith on
Saturday, people took to social media, complaining about Heaggan pulling them over for
speeding or because they had tinted their windows too dark.
On the 13th, a Saturday afternoon, Heaggan was on patrol less than four miles from his
apartment.
Authorities have said the events that unfolded next occurred about 3:30 p.m.
and lasted about 25 seconds.
Cruising down the 3200 block of N. 44th St., nine blocks from the District 7
station, Heaggan and his partner, both in uniform, rolled up on a car they thought looked
suspicious and flicked on the squad car’s red and blue lights. The car, which turned out to
be a rental, pulled to a stop. The two men inside it jumped out and ran in opposite
directions.
Smith sprinted east into a yard. Heaggan gave chase.
The interaction was captured on Heaggan’s body camera — much-anticipated footage that
has not yet been released. According to the official police account, Smith turned toward the
officer, a semiautomatic handgun in his grasp.
Heaggan fired.
•••
Smith’s mother, Mildred Haynes, missed a phone call from her son at 3:22 p.m. When she
called back, he didn’t answer.
But he had left a voice mail.
When she played it, Haynes could hear her son’s voice, muffled, saying: “I’m turning
around, bro. Slow.”
Then the recording went silent.
It’s unclear what Smith meant, or to whom he was talking. Was he turning the car around?
Was he turning himself around? Was Heaggan in the vicinity?
By the time Haynes listened to the message, her son was dead.
•••
By 5 p.m., agents with the state Department of Justice seemed to be wrapping up their
work; state law requires outside agencies to investigate officer-involved deaths. Milwaukee
Mayor Tom Barrett, who had come to the neighborhood after being notified of the incident
by police, felt the situation was calm and departed.
But about an hour later, hundreds of people were pouring into the neighborhood, gathering
near the place where Smith died.
Community activist Shawn Moore, who is African-American, got a call from a friend, who
alerted him of the situation.
“I think it’s going to be a riot,” Moore’s friend said. “You need to get up here, man.”
Moore headed out, hoping he could help calm the situation. As he made his way through
the mass of people, he could hear rumors and rage in the air.
“They shot him in the back!”
“He was running away!”
“He was trying to go home!”
“They killed him! They killed him! They killed him!”
Moore, Vaun Mayes, Tory Lowe, Nate Hamilton and other neighborhood organizers
— people who have protested peacefully after police shootings in the past — worked to
defuse the situation.
At first, it seemed to work. Clusters of people went off in different directions. Sometime
after 8 p.m., police officers piled into their vans and drove away.
But the tension never fully dissipated.
Within minutes, crowds regrouped, chanting: “Whose street? Our street!”
Then, near N. 44th St. and W. Auer Ave., they spotted it: An empty squad car. Some
people started kicking it, then heaving bricks at it, smashing the windows as the crowd
cheered.
Next, the mob moved toward an unmarked detective’s car, jumping onto it, smashing its
windows, popping the trunk and tipping it onto its side. A man tore off his T-shirt, lighted it
on fire, and stuck it into the gas tank. Flames shot into the air.
The police returned, more of them this time, wearing helmets and shields.
•••
At 8:29 p.m., Calvin Mattheis, a photojournalism student from Ohio University, got a text
message from an editor at the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, where he had just completed a
summer internship: “Things are heating up at 44th and Auer where the police shooting
happened. Police are being sent in with riot gear. Are you free to check it out?”
“On it,” Mattheis texted back.
Mattheis, who is white, grew up in Milwaukee and was staying with his parents for the
summer. He told his father where he was going, and his dad insisted on taking him. The
drive took only a few minutes.
As Mattheis ran toward a burning car, cameras slung around both shoulders, he heard
men in the crowd shouting racial slurs in his direction.
Mattheis stood in the median and lifted his camera. As he did so, he saw, from the corner
of his eye, the silhouette of a hand rising from a group of about 100 people. The hand was
holding a gun, then squeezing the trigger.
Mattheis took cover behind a Chevy Suburban.
Aaron Mak, a summer reporting intern at the Journal Sentinel, and Jacob Carpenter, an
investigative reporting fellow, were already there. Mattheis prayed in German — the
language he and his parents often use at home — for their safety and his own.
He raised his camera and fired off a few frames of riot police ducking for safety behind
trees, homes and cars. Squads zoomed down side streets with lights flashing and sirens
blasting.
Mattheis stood up from behind the Suburban, again raised his camera, and heard a
menacing shout from across the street: “Get your white ass out of here! You better not let
me (expletive) catch you!”
“It’s cool man,” Mattheis said, raising his hands as he started walking away. “I’m leaving.
Don’t worry about it.”
Then Mattheis saw the fear on the faces of some African-American men standing nearby.
“He’s heated, man!” one of them warned.“You’ve got to go! Run man, run!”
Mattheis turned around to see the man from across the street charging toward him, at least
a dozen others trailing in his wake. Mattheis’ cameras were slowing him down. He dropped
them and sprinted south toward W. Burleigh St., shouting for help.
As Mattheis turned the corner, running toward Wheaton Franciscan-St. Joseph hospital, he
saw the pack of men tackle Mak, who had picked up the broken cameras. Mak curled up
on the ground as a group of men punched and kicked him repeatedly.
Mattheis would later learn that Mayes, one of the activists, had run to Mak’s rescue. After
Mayes alerted Mak’s attackers that he was Asian-American, not white, they let him go.
Mayes led him to safety.
•••
The first burst of gunfire sent the crowd scattering.
Those who ran south ended up near the 24-hour BP gas station on N. Sherman
Blvd., which has been a flashpoint for neighborhood tensions all summer.
Less than two months earlier, after the park closed, a group of several dozen people
showed up at the station, throwing rocks and bottles at the windows. An employee there
said unruly throngs had been showing up at the BP for two weeks. When they did,
employees locked the doors and refused to let them in.
Over the Fourth of July weekend, despite stepped-up patrols and an informal day of
kickball, pizza and dancing in the park with police officers, crowds continued to congregate
at the gas station after park hours.
One night in mid-July, a worker tried to close the door against the crush of people, but they
prevented him from doing so. Behind the checkout counter, Bhupinder Sidhu reached for a
.40 caliber Smith and Wesson.
Sidhu walked outside and fired the handgun into the air, twice. The teens left, andSidhu
was arrested.
The next day, residents staged a daylong boycott of the BP.
On Saturday, as the crowd fled from gunfire near Sherman and Auer, a few people
shouted: “Let’s get the gas station.” About 40 people gathered outside the business, which
still had customers inside and cars pulling up to get fuel. Several neighborhood leaders
stood in front of the station and persuaded the cluster of people to move on.
But by 9:30 p.m., more than 100 people returned. The clerk had locked the door, but
someone threw a brick through the window, and the crowd streamed in, grabbing cases of
snacks and merchandise. Then they started a series of small fires inside the store.
Moore and his fellow activists arrived. They could see flames.
And people inside.
“Come out!” they urged a male clerk and a female customer, both of whom were frozen
in panic. “Come out! We’ll protect you.”
The two emerged, and the woman, terrified, dropped her keys. Moore’s group retrieved
them, guiding the two into the woman’s car. Both got in and drove away.
The gas station was soon engulfed. As police showed up, rioters threw bricks at them. The
sound of gunshots mingled with the pop and hiss of fire.
Following department policy designed to protect them, firefighters kept their distance.
It would be more than two hours before it was safe for them to move in.
•••
Ray Bader was working at the All For Us convenience store, 3500 W. Fond du Lac Ave.,
when a friend called about 9:45 p.m. Saturday with an urgent message: Rioters had set fire
to the BP gas station just eight blocks away.
Bader, the manager, decided to close the store. He and a co-worker went to a friend’s
house nearby, where they passed the time drinking beer, joking, having fun.
Between 11:15 and 11:30 p.m., they heard gunshots — a lot of them.
The rioters were slowly moving toward the busy, six-point intersection of W. Fond du Lac
Ave., W. Burleigh St. and N. 35th St. Drivers struggled to weave their way through the
packed streets. Looters had broken into Jet Beauty Supply on the southwest corner of the
intersection and were holding up traffic, running out with boxes of hair extensions.
Bader smelled smoke, but could see nothing burning.
He drove his Chevy Blazer north to 35th St. and Townsend Ave. to check on a Hometown
station owned by the same company that owns the store where he works. He had to drive
up over sidewalks; there was no other way to get around the crowds.
The Hometown was undamaged. But by the time Bader returned to 35th and Fond du Lac,
he saw three buildings burning.
•••
At 8 a.m. Sunday, about six hours after the chaos subsided, Bader headed into work.
By then, eight buildings had been set on fire — one near the yard where Smith died and
three in sight of the District 7 police station, which had been closed for a time because of
gunfire and threats. The other four fires, apparent crimes of opportunity, occurred several
blocks away.
Six squad cars were damaged, four police officers were injured, and a 16-year-old girl was
wounded by gunfire.
Authorities estimated the cost of the destruction at several million dollars.
Less than 90 minutes after Bader opened his store Sunday morning, 15 to 20 people had
gathered, still angry about the police shooting of Smith.
Bader, who wears a holstered handgun on his hip and a large security badge around his
neck, asked them to move away from the door. They didn’t cooperate.
Feeling no desire to incite another confrontation, he locked up.
As he walked across the street, past the police tape toward his truck, he encountered a
uniformed officer, who asked if the store was open. Bader told him no.
“Just leave the store closed for the day,” the cop suggested.
Bader was happy to follow the advice.
“No problem,” he replied.
John Diedrich, Raquel Rutledge, Kevin Crowe, Ellen Gabler, Jacob Carpenter and Aaron
Mak of the Journal Sentinel staff contributed to this report.
How This Was Reported
This story is based on dozens of interviews conducted by Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
reporters, along with staff videos and photos; citizen videos posted to social media;
information released by city officials during news conferences; and the direct experiences
of Journal Sentinel reporters who were at the scene.
The quotes used in the story were either heard directly by Journal Sentinel
reporters, were overheard directly by a source who was interviewed by the Journal
Sentinel, or were taken from online videos.
In a few instances, a person’s thoughts are described. In all such cases, people described
their thoughts at the time to the reporters.
Multiple sources were used to reconstruct the sequence of events. Exact times were not
available for many of the events. Public records requests are pending for dispatch calls for
service received by the Milwaukee Police and Fire departments and were not available for
this story.
Melamed: White Milwaukee’s responsibility
Jodi Melamed3:36 p.m. CDT August 23, 2016 Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, Opinion
Why is it so hard for white Milwaukeeans (and white people in
general) to recognize segregation, mass incarceration, failing
schools and joblessness as the inevitable outcome of our
decisions?
(Photo: Calvin Mattheis, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel)
5CONNECTTWEETLINKEDIN 6COMMENTEMAILMORE
In a video circulating on social media that is painful to watch, Sedan Smith, the brother of
Sylville Smith who was killed in an encounter with police on Aug. 13, holds up his brother’s
concealed carry permit and speaks his grief directly into the camera:
“He carried this every day and this is what you do to us. You all give us the right to do this.
Come on man, you all setting us up…You all setting us up man.”
Sedan Smith is right, and in more than ways than one.
He is right that even though the Second Amendment right to bear arms theoretically
applies equally to everyone, for black men and women having a gun in the eyes of white
society makes you a criminal and justifies police use of deadly force no matter what. And
he is also right in a more general sense: It is all a set-up. Intense segregation,
disinvestment in schools and black neighborhoods, joblessness — all the conditions this
newspaper recently described as causes of an “unrest decades in the making” — were put
in place by the deliberate actions of a specific group of people with the power to determine
economic, social and political policy in Milwaukee: White residents of the city and of the
villages and suburbs who have walled themselves off from the city into municipalities that
are white by design.
As a white resident of Milwaukee for 12 years and a professor who teaches about race and
ethnicity at Marquette University, I have witnessed time and again the tendency of white
Milwaukeeans to treat the city’s crisis of race and impoverishment as a natural occurrence.
In my classes, white students are quick to recognize racial profiling, the school-to-prison
pipeline, and food deserts as hallmarks of oppression, but slow to note that where there is
oppression, there are oppressors, or at least complacency with an oppressive status quo.
Why is it so hard for white Milwaukeeans (and white people in general) to recognize
segregation, mass incarceration, failing schools and joblessness as the inevitable outcome
of our decisions? How can we fail to see that such “problems” will inevitably come to pass
when we remove ourselves and our tax dollars to white enclaves, decide to foster a prison
industry rather than demand government responsibility for job creation, and stop caring
about “other” people’s children? Philosopher Charles Mills explains that “as a general rule,
white misunderstanding, misrepresentation, evasion, and self-deception on matters related
to race are among the most pervasive mental phenomena of the past hundred years…
(and are) psychically required for conquest, colonization and enslavement.”
This is as true in Milwaukee in 2016 as it ever was. To tolerate and keep in place all the
“worst in the nation” records Milwaukee holds (worst black/white residential segregation,
income gap, educational achievement gap, etc.) white self-deception takes many forms
including willful ignorance, condescending “service,” outright hostility, and never-ending
experiments, which offer fixes but seldom redistribute real political power and meaningful
economic resources.
In the case of the police shootings of Sylville Smith, Jay Anderson and Dontre Hamilton,
white evasion involves silent consent for the intense policing of contact zones, where black
and white neighborhoods overlap (Sherman Park and Wauwatosa), in downtown parks,
and thoroughfares between outlying white neighborhoods and downtown (Burleigh
Avenue).
As Sedan Smith said in another interview, “We can’t make a change, if you all don’t
change.” That is a truth that white communities in the Milwaukee region need to keep in
mind right now in all we say and do.
Jodi Melamed is a professor in the Department of English and Program in Africana Studies
at Marquette University.
 YouTube video: “How the Milwaukee Riot Started… Video Footage of how it all Began”
As the investigation into the shooting unfolds, activists and angry residents arrive at the scene of the
shooting. Some of them hurl insults at officers. Several stream the scene online using Facebook Live.
The relatively new social media broadcast tool documents the event in real time and draws people to
the area.
Warning: some offensive language

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