Guest-time

In the last 2 weeks, I’ve had a couple of guest posts published at much bigger blogs, so I thought I’d try to extend my 15 seconds of fame by telling all 3 of you loyal readers about them.

Both posts are about the National Equality March, and my take on it as a queer Jew.

Marching with the Torah, at Jewschool:

Our text teaches that Simchat Torah is an occasion when women are welcomed to carry the Torah even in some observant communities – a noteworthy difference between this day and the rest. But what of the genderqueer, gender non-conforming, and trans people within our communities? Can Simchat Torah be their day as well, or is it a day reserved for those of us who fit comfortably within traditional definitions of “man” and “woman”? These aren’t easy questions to face, for those of us for whom dignity and justice are everyday battles. The text in those scrolls both welcomes us, celebrates our efforts to live ethical Jewish lives, and also is too often used to remind us of our place – at the sidelines, or worse.

And also, at Bilerico, What I Learned from Isaiah, or: A Queer Jew Returns from DC:

I’ve been reminding myself, if I can learn from Isaiah’s mistakes, and make sure that fiery demonstrations and powerful words are backed up by authentic relationships and strategic plans – maybe we can take even greater strides toward our ideal world, toward justice. The march can be a tool we use in our work at home.

Enjoy! And feel free to leave me some love in the comments section, too.

Links & love

I’ve been absent, I know. I just went through one of the more abrupt transitions I’ve had to date, and though it’s been from one great thing to another, and I feel pretty ridiculously lucky for that, I’m still trying to pull myself together and keep my life in order. I’ve been pretty good at keeping the kitchen clean the last few days, at least. That’s something, right?

That being said, 9/11 was last Friday, and so I wanted to direct you to this post by Elián at Queers Against Obama. An important reminder that 9/11/01 was not the first act of terrorism on September 11th, and in the past, the US has been *directly* responsible for that violence.

On 9/11/73, the U.S. government helped overthrow Salvador Allende, the democratically-elected President of Chile- and replaced him with one of the most brutal dictators in history: Augusto Pinochet. Sure, he massacred countless people, but he was a staunch ally of corporate America. And that’s all that really matters, right?

Even if you’re not of the anarchist/feels-uncomfortable-with-overt-patriotism/icked-out-by-statemaking type, I think it’s really important to remember that beneath the US’ posturing about democracy and freedom, this country has engaged, again and again, in the overthrow and undercutting of peacefully, democratically elected leadership it disagrees with. And that’s sort of just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to US imperialism. But that’s all for a longer post, for now, go read Elián’s.

Also… I just have to say, I found Elián’s blog because he was linked to me by Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore at NOBODY PASSES, darling. Yes. Mattilda linked to my little blog. I have a pretty unabashed writer/activist crush on Mattilda, so that makes me feel a little light-headed, to be totally honest. One of her books, That’s Revolting: Queer Strategies for Resisting Assimilation , has a permanent place as the only reading material in my bathroom, because I think it’s important that everyone who comes through my house is exposed to it. Seriously. As backwards as that may seem, it’s a place of honor. I want it to be read by everyone I know, and most of them will be in my bathroom at some point, so that’s where it is. People comment on it more frequently than they comment on Stitch & Bitch or the Postsecret books on my coffee table, so I think it’s working.

on ‘woman’

Because, woman is a mythology embedded in the collective consciousness of our respective cultures, and anyone who has ever identified, or been identified as a woman has had to face this mythos. It is those individuals who have had the story of ‘womanhood’ written on their bodies, consensually or not, that Art XX is providing a space for.

We believe that feminism is innately transgendered, as it works to discomfit and expand the historical categories of ‘male and ‘female.’ Feminism is or should be- about gender equality, regardless of what that gender is. But until gender equality exists, ‘woman’ demarcates a condition from which we struggle, thrive, and create.

- Francesca Austin Ochoa, editor of ART XX Magazine

Emphasis mine. Source.

on hiding/privilege/guilt/shame

“Still, Gyan was absolutely sure that she was proud of her behavior; masqueraded it about as shame at her lack of Indianness, maybe, but it marked her status. Oh yes. It allowed her that perverse luxury, the titillation of putting yourself down, criticizing yourself and having the opposite happen–you did not fall, you mystically rose.“

From The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai

this and that

Sometimes I wonder if the familiarity with which I approach the bloggers I read is weird.

When someone whose writing I appreciate talks about any sort of challenges, and it occurs to me that someone I know might have insight, knowledge, or help – my inclination is to say “Hey! Let me put you two in touch! Make something happen! I’ll put in a phone call.” I suppose it’s sort of like networking, but I’m not really well-connected enough to get people jobs or anything like that. But you need ladybugs? Well, my grandmother is an avid gardner, and lives relatively nearby – I’m sure she’d be happy to let you come by and catch a few!

But then I try to pitch that to anyone, and I can’t even say “my friend” because I’m not necessarily talking about anyone I have ANY sort of relationship with. Not even someone with whom I conversate regularly online, even in blog comments. Just someone I read, sort of lurker-like.

I just think we should be helping each other out, especially when it’s so easy, and I like facilitating that. ::shrug::

Also, my life’s gonna get kinda crazy starting like, tomorrow. WAM (the Women, Action, and Media conference) is this weekend, and so is my kinda intense interview (maybe multiple) for a really awesome fellowship program I’m applying for. And I have lots of homework to do. And a house to clean because a good friend (also applying for said fellowship) will be crashing with me for the weekend. And I need to, ya know, keep working because rent is due next week.

Busy busy busy.

Probably little blogging. I’ll be tweeting from WAM, though, you’re free to follow!

pulling together

There are some things I’m trying to pull together that might just remain entirely disconnected, but this is how I’m present right now, so it’s just going to be this way.

*****

I was in a bit of pain, tonight. I think I have a tendency to downplay or minimize my own pain or suffering, for a whole host of reasons, some that I’m okay with and some that I’m not – recognizing that with health insurance, my family’s financial stability, my grasp of english, my access to a car, my race, etc. whatever the problem, it’s going to be easier for me to address than it would be for someone without those privileges (I’m okay with those things as a reason for minimizing my own pain, a healthy does of humility & perspective, that perhaps works to offset an oppressive, internalized, inflated sense of my value in relation to others); recognizing that, as a woman, I’ve internalized all sorts of really problematic lessons about pain and suffering, and about being a caretaker and prioritizing my own needs (I’m not okay with those things as a reason for minimizing my own pain) – but tonight I was hurting. I still am, really. My job makes me sore. I don’t know what it’s about, because I basically just carry a clipboard around for 5 hours, but some combination of the cold and the walking and the clipboard always on my left arm – makes me really sore.

I’m not sure I have deep conclusions about this, but I’m trying to sit with the pain.

And I’m thinking about the other kinds of pain people are forced to sit with, on account of their jobs. Of the personal bodily risks people take to sustain themselves, their families, and their lives. And, again, of how minimal my sore shoulder is compared to all of that. I’m thinking about how our capitalist system organizes people by our means of employment, and about what it means that the bodies that are placed at the greatest risk of harm are so often the bodies of people of color, of women, of the poor.

*****

I might have the opportunity to work on a building crew this summer. I’d be working for a friend, for his  natural building company – at which he prioritizes giving queer and trans folks, and cis women greater access to the trades – and every time I think about this opportunity I get more and more excited. It might not happen, for a whole host of reasons, but I’m simultaneously optimistic & trying not to be too invested. Mixed in with that are ideas about the kinds of productivity that I value, and that I perceive others to value; also about working in the trades, and with wood – the degree to which this is and isn’t something that feels like “my” space.

Physical labor, particularly as a means of supporting oneself, was not part of the upper-middle class world I came of age in. My friends’ parents, and my own, all had advanced degrees and were “profesionals” in that way that usually connotes an office, desk, and maybe even a secretary or administrative assistant, although some were doctors and nurses and I never pictured them having desks like those that were accountants and lawyers. My dad’s office used to have a popcorn machine, which was the only thing that seemed relevant about his job for most of my childhood.

And yet, despite all of that, I strongly associate carpentry and woodworking – and the attendent skills & self-reliance – with my father. A good chunk of our garage is taken up by his tools and workbench. I love the smell of sawdust, and I always thought it was SO cool that he built the house my grandmother now lives in.

I received my first hammer at a pretty young age. It was one of those little ones with a handle that screwed off to reveal a screwdriver, with a handle that screwed off to reveal an additional (smaller) screwdriver, and so on and so forth, until you got to the really small cute one in the end of the handle. That one was my favorite. Nowadays most of the hammers I see like that tend to have flowery designs printed on them. I suppose that makes them more girly? On the one hand, that’s annoying, that tools need to be pink to be appropriate for girls, but on the other hand, if one girl picks up that flowery hammer and finds use and power in weilding it that she wouldn’t have otherwise- awesome.

Floating around my parents’ house somewhere, there’s a picture of me ‘helping’ my dad build the cabinets in our kitchen. I can’t be more than 2, and I’m literally sitting in the cabinet, holding up a tool of some sort (maybe even that little hammer), so proud and excited to be helping my dad build.

One year, for Christmas (that year it was definitely a Christmas present, not Hanukkah), he made me a really beautiful bed. It’s still my bed when I go home, and I love it. The stain is a beautiful deep shade, and there are built-in drawers underneath, painted dark green, with cream colored ceramic knobs. I remember so vividly the weeks that I wasn’t allowed to go into the garage when he was in there, and when I’d finally sneak in (while he was at work, or in the shower, or otherwise preoccupied) I would mostly just stare with wonder and excitement at the nondescript tarp-covered bulk in the middle of the garage. Once I peeked under a corner, but I couldn’t bring myself to pull the tarp back far enough to see more than a deep, warm, red edge. Christmas eve, I slept in the guest room, and I spent the night wide awake, listening to my dad and my uncle carry the massive bed upstairs, and then listening to my dad finish building it IN my room.

It is the most vivid Christmas memory I have from my childhood. I’m pretty sure that says something about what my subconscious values.

All of these things are swirling together as I think about this summer. Mostly I’m excited, and it feels like a really ideal way to spend the summer. I get this huge grin on my face when I imagine working outside, really feeling my muscles strain and grow; inhaling fresh, crisp New England summer; harnessing power tools beneath my fingers; creating sustainable, responsible, natural environments; how my hands can help give form to structures, and shapes, and milled pieces of lumber – and also how that lumber will shape and toughen my hands.

Hands. Soft, smooth, silky hands seem to be so strongly associated with class, and so I also feel the weight of my ability to choose to toughen my hands; to welcome callouses and roughness.

*****

My mom is really awesome. Today, she sent me an email with a couple of grant and/or funding opportunities highlighted. She does this occassionaly, she’s connected to development, funding, grant-writing/-giving circles, and so sometimes she passes on interesting calls for proposals. But this time, it wasn’t even for me. It was for my friend, the one I might be working for, who she’s never met. It just struck me as incredibly thoughtful, and I feel really lucky to have had a woman like that in my life for, well, all of it.

*****

I’ve been reading and digesting people’s thoughts on radical love, community building, organizing, sustainability, and accountability.

I had a conversation with a friend yesterday about someone she is growing close to. She worries about introducing him to some of her friends, to the people she loves and cherishes, because he hasn’t necessarily had exposure or access to the language & frames of analysis many of us employ with one another. And then I read these words today, by Nadia, at Now Snow Here:

feeling alienated in these conversations because of the emphasis on words and specific word choices – that is a conversation for writers, academics, people who spend time with pretentious adults. don’t want it imposed on me right now, it bothers me how judgemental people are when others don’t know or have the language for the *right* way to say things. hard to engage when its so easy to be misunderstood, not feeling like we give or get the space to make mistakes but maybe i’m wrong and just overwhelmed with the intense dialoging.

And between that conversation, and this paragraph, and all of the dialogue happening on Jess’ post at BFP’s (the “people’s thoughts” hyper link, above), I’ve been thinking about the tension this all brings up. About creating spaces to honor and affirm everyone, especially because of what Nadia is describing, but also even for people you don’t necessarily like or agree with, because it is important to honor and affirm their humanity. And I’m also holding on to accountability. I think it’s important to allow for vulnerability and not-knowing; to allow for that instability and uncertainity – I think within moments of uncertainty there’s great possibility for growth. But what do you do when affirming one person’s not-knowing and growth means allowing the negation of another? How do you balance competing, and conflicting, needs or truths? How do we both allow space for potentially screwing up, and simultaneously hold one another accountable?

*****

There’s so much more I want to say on this, but it’s late and I really need to sleep. Hopefully I won’t be as sore tomorrow.

growth and springtime

I should be running out the door, and don’t really have time to blog.

But… I’ve just been reading awful horrific things – most recently, this, at The Curvature (Serious Trigger Warning applies).

So I wanted to share happier thoughts.

My sweetie and I decided to start a balcony garden, and made quite a day of collecting gardening supplies yesterday. We have a little raspberry seedling started, and I can’t wait to watch the rest of our tasty and beautiful seeds grow. I’ve never been much of a gardener, but all sorts of people are talking about how exciting gardening is, and all of the revolutionary and radical (especially BFP at flipfloppingjoy) possibilities – and so I’m giving it a shot.

I have to find worms.

I can feel spring coming in my little corner of JP, and it has my whole heart a flutter.

the price we pay; tight balls of anger and sadness; tiny broken pieces

Some days, my heart feels like it is being torn into many tiny broken pieces.

Every week, it seems like more people I love and care about are making aliyah. Many of them are joining the IDF.

In those same weeks, other people I love and care about are mourning, or filled with concern, for their loved ones and friends injured and killed by teenage boys and girls wearing tzahal uniforms.

Because even when those friends making aliyah are liberal and thoughtful, even when their words aren’t filled with racist bile and their hearts are just full of love, even when they do not wish harm on others – they may still be standing on the other side of the uzis, and the tear gas canisters, and the tanks.

And even from thousands of miles away, I feel caught between, and my heart is breaking.

I can’t even quite put words to why I am so uncomfortable with this statement:

“I don’t support everything the Israeli government does, but I feel like I need to join Tzahal, I need to make aliyah now, when I’m young enough to join, so that I’ll be a real Israeli. I want to have an authentic experience in Israel, so I need to be in the army.”

It’s not just that I’m uncomfortable with that level of militarization in society (although I am). And it’s not just that nationalism like that makes me squirm (which it does). It’s really the tight ball of sadness and anger in the pit of my stomach that there are people I love who will hold and shoot guns at innocent people (because unless you think all Palestinians and their allies are inherently evil, you must concede that some, if not most, are innocent of anything but doing their best to survive perpetual devastation), who will – either by their own hand, or by aiding another – facillitate death, and injury, and destruction – for the sake of a greater sense of belonging, for the sake of *authenticity* or acceptance, or so that their words will carry greater weight.

How is another’s destruction NOT too great a price to pay?

On Foucault and Sex Work

I just had a “whoa” moment. Or maybe a “duh” moment, I dunno. Either way, there was revelation.

Understanding the world and the self through a Queer, Foucaultian lens makes the condemnation of sex work really damn difficult, if not downright impossible.

The two bits of knowledge and thought that just connected for me:

1. Sexuality, by Foucault’s definitions and paradigms, is not personal. It is not, actually, something that we “own” or can lay claim to. It’s not just a personal, individual thing. My sexuality, and anybody else’s, can only exist in the context of our presence in a society that has defined sexuality in vary particular ways. I am not “bisexual” because I was born that way, per se*. My bisexuality is a construct that society defined – particular behaviors are assigned a particular signifier, and it is a signifier that is specific to our social contexts. (I don’t want to go into extensive detail about this point, but there’s a lot of really interesting writing that exists on, for example, male homosexuality in Latin-America or in the Muslim world, and how those religio-socio-geographic contexts alter definitions of and understandings of sexuality.) Homosexuality or bisexuality or heterosexuality don’t take the same forms around the world or in different times, and don’t mean the same things. (And it’s not just a matter of mistranslation, although language is also a big part of forming conceptions and constructions of sexuality.)

Thus, sexuality is neither individual nor personal. It is socially constructed and contextualized.

That’s thing #1.

2. This blog: Flooring and Whoring. This post, specifically, was when my “whoah/duh” moment occurred.

I’ve never been really vocal about my feelings with regard to the anti-sex work/pro-sex work feminist debates. I definitely feel more aligned with the sex-positivity end of the feminist spectrum, and I am profoundly uncomfortable with the way that a lot of “radfem” feminists berate and criticize sex with men, sex work, femininity, and other things in those realms as “anti-feminist.”

However, an anti-sex work stance assumes that a woman’s well-being (or the well-being of all women) is negatively impacted by selling sex. This, as I understand it, presumes an inherent connection between “self” and “sexuality,” as though sexuality is individual and inextricably a part of one’s self-worth.

I’m not trying to argue that they are entirely disconnected (one’s sexuality and one’s selfness), saying that sexuality is a social-constructions doesn’t mean that it is “fake” or “irrelevant;” social constructions have very real implications and impacts on people’s lives. However, recognizing that something isn’t “natural” or “inborn” allows us to also deconstruct it. And if sexuality, in the way we think about and define it, isn’t inborn or inherent, a person can, theoretically, have a whole and undamaged sense of self even if their sexuality has been commodified.

*pause*

So how do you reject sex-work, flat out, if not on the basis of it being inherently damaging to women? How do you reject and deny these women their agency, make claims about false consciousness or having been co-opted? Maybe for some women, their sense of self, sexuality, and the sex that they have aren’t all tied up together in the ways they are for someone else. And maybe that’s okay. And a part of all of us navigating this web of power, resistance, and oppression.

This, of course, isn’t to ignore or deny that there are women who are coerced or forced into prostitution or other roles within the sex industiry. And that’s beyond deplorable. And I don’t even feel good about calling what they are doing sex, because when it’s forced it’s rape. And there are economic circumstances in which women *choose* to do sex-work because it is their best option, and that’s not the same as those who make the choice unfettered by financial concerns and obligations. All of these things are true, and awful. I do not, in any sense, condone them.

But these are different issues. They happen in some of the same realms, but coerced “sex,” for money or not, is rape. Rape is not sex. Sex is something that people choose to do consensually, sometimes for money, sometimes in exchange for other things, sometimes in all sorts of arrays of negotiated power and control, but always because they want to. That which is not consensual is not sex. And the various kinds of sex that people have may or may not be fundamentally tied to their sense of self and self-worth, and it is not upon any of us to dictate to others in what ways their sense of self-worth and value is being compromised.

*I don’t actually identify as bisexual. I identify as queer. But talking about how society constructs queer sexualities is a much longer, more involved, and probably not singular, post. That’s part of why I identify with it. But, for the case of this example, we’ll go with “bisexual.”

On Vulnerability, Integrity, Blogo-splosions, and Bloviating

I’ve been thinking about that post I put up a few days back. About vulnerability and anti-racist work. It’s gotten kind of a lot of views, at least relative to the 4 people who read this regularly. And I’ve been trying to pin-down what I don’t feel like I really got to with what I wrote there, and why it felt incomplete. The answer I’m starting to formulate is sort of convoluted, but we’re going to see how it goes if I throw a couple of ideas out on the table and just try to put them in a meaningful juxtaposition.

****

Mandy Van Deven, of Feminist Review and co-author of “the post” – the one that has upset a lot of people over the last week and that I refuse to refer to as “drama” because that sounds really minimizing and real people with real feelings  and real lived-experiences of oppression were really hurt – sent me an email a couple days ago. She asked me for permission to link to my post in their apology. I said yes, and we had a bit of a back and forth about the recent goings-on in the feminist blogosphere. She mentioned a couple of things that stuck out to me. 1) That I might perceive her reaching out to me as an attempt to garner more white feminists to “be on her side” and 2) That I might not want to be associated with her at all, to “lean” away from the *bad*anti-racists in an effort to make myself look better.

Neither of those things occurred to me. Perhaps partly because I wasn’t planning on leading the charge in her defense (or “their defense”, I suppose, but only Mandy emailed me), and partly because I don’t know her or her writing, don’t read Feminist Review (not as a rule or anything, I just never have before),  and don’t feel particularly strongly associated with her as it is, so it hadn’t occurred to me to disassociate from her.

And I know that that last sentence could sort of be read as though I’m doing exactly that. Saying I don’t need to disassociate myself from her while pointing out all the ways in which I’m not associated with her. But my point is rather, this: I learned a long time ago to stop taking personal offense every time people, in critiquing whiteness and racism, railed against white people. I was taught – repeatedly – that if someone wasn’t talking about me or something I’d done, then they weren’t talking about me. The pretty basic “it’s not about me” message got through, or at least I like to think that it did. And it’s a good rule to follow to avoid jumping into hyper-defensive mode every time whiteness or racism is criticized. But the flip side of that is that constantly reminding myself “it’s not about me” can mean just leaving the blinders on, and not realizing when someone else’s behavior is something I *could have* or *would have* done.

This whole to-do in the blogosphere has reminded me of the myriad times and ways in which I have allowed my desire to “be a good anti-racist” get in the way of meaningful work and engagement. The times when I have been so focused on “getting it right” that I’ve completely screwed up, and hurt people in the process. I’m not necessarily saying that that is exactly what happened for Mandy and Brittany. I don’t know what is or was going on for them, personally, but this whole shebang has gotten me thinking, again, critically, about my own behavior, and about broader dynamics in play.

****

There are a lot of people who are doing anti-racist, and anti-sexist, and anti-heterosexist/ -homophobic trainings. I’ve been to some, and I’ve facillitated and/or lead some. There’s often talking about “unpacking the knapsack” and various methods for examining and critiquing our personal privilege and power. I think that this is all really valuable in a lot of ways, and has certainly been useful for me in informing an analytical framework and worldview.

But there’s also a fundamental limitation anytime we start talking about “trainings” (which, btw, I keep mistyping “trainights” – which I think is a sign that it’s too late*). Because you can learn things like how to identify offensive language, common racist stereotypes, and a few guidelines for “good ally behavior.” But the real challenges that white people trying to be anti-racist end up facing don’t come out of a handbook. There’s isn’t an easy choice between option A) B) or C) in any given circumstance in which one is confronted with racism or the opportunity to critique whiteness. It seems to me that it is, fundamentally, about integrity and responsibility and humility. And yes, the ability to identify the ways in which oppressive power manifests itself is important to identifying *WHEN* a situation is problematic, but it doesn’t necessarily always point to the correct path. There isn’t always one “correct path.” There usually isn’t an easy answer, and it is absolutely a question of exercising judgment.

And on the note of answers, and exercising judgments – there will almost always be multiple of both.

****

As the recent ‘feminist’ blogo-splosions have demonstrated, even (or perhaps particularly) when it’s a question of the ways in which actions or events perpetuate racism, the critiques and opinions from every side are going to be varied. Even those coming from people of color, or women of color, or even radical women of color who may often agree with each other. Because – shock of all shockers – not all POC think the same. Which, I mean, should be really painfully obvious, but often is totally ignored by all stripes of white people – anti-racist, activisty, ally types included. Because if the goal is “don’t do/say/be/perpetuate racist/racism” and people have differing opinions on what constitutes racism or racist behavior – who do you listen to when there is no magical person of color to give you the ultimate wisdom and guidance?

Especially when we are SO used to the existence of a magical person of color able, willing, and ready to satisfy our need for easy answers and avoiding hard work.

I’m being a little snarky here, but know that the snark is also directed at myself. I’ve definitely been in that space: thinking that I was doing good anti-racist work, only to be confronted by the reality that individual people of color with whom I was attempting to work in solidarity disagreed on the value of the work I was (/we were) doing. And then, suddenly, I was really unsure if I should continue to do the work. And one specific instance I’m thinking of now was also complicated by sort of messy personal relationships between a fellow white ally/activist and some of those voices of criticism. Was the criticism about personal relationships? Was the work that we were trying to do eventually going to cause more hurt and pain than it would mend or repair or do good?** Was the bad outweighed by the good? Should we listen more closely to those who supported and agreed with us (and may also have been motivated by personal relationship dynamics), or more closely to those voices of criticism? When we, as allies, are trying to make sure that our work and actions are informed by the needs and desires of those with whom we are working in solidarity – what do we do when those needs and desires aren’t uniform or singular, as is so often the reality in the complex, multiplicituous world we live in?

Each and every time we face a personal-political quandry; every time we are challenged to enact our values, ideals, ethics, and politics in the real world – the behaviors and choices we make are going to be more complicated than anything that could be covered in a seminar. The decisions we are faced with are not going to be cut-and-dried and it is actually impossible for anybody to put forth a singular, fail-safe method for being a good anti-racist ally. It’s too messy and too complicated – and beyond really basic ideas like “don’t use racial slurs or call President Obama ‘articulate,” we are without easy answers.

****

And that’s sort of why I feel like my last post was really incomplete. And what I’m trying to put together from the jumbled thoughts in my head, and from the email conversation Mandy and I had.

Because *clearly* letting yourself be “vulnerable,” as a white person, or as any person with privilege, is not going to end racism. Or even make you a good anti-racist activist. Just doing X, Y, or Z thing that some respected person did or said was a good thing to do is not going to make any of us THE BEST ANTI-RACIST EVER.

But, at the same time, I think that some of the things I wrote in that post are important and relevant to doing any sort of allied anti-oppressive work. I know that one of the things that is often most frustrating and hurtful to me about conversations I have with men about sexism is that they can operate with a distance that I can’t. These conversations can be “intellectual exercises,” and they can walk away from a “healthy debate” about sexism without having had their souls crushed.

Or maybe it’s just important to living. Because power dynamics are uneven, and do necessarily engender uneven degrees of risk and vulnerability. But that vulnerability I was discussing isn’t just about laying bare enough details of your life that someone could attack you. What I was moreso getting at was the value of integrity and honesty in the work that we’re doing. And maybe that’s just too basic. Because you can’t package integrity and top it with a bow.

But the thing is, I don’t have the answer. Not just because I haven’t figured it out yet, but because it doesn’t exist. There is no single way to “do” anti-racism. There just isn’t an easy answer.

****

I spend a lot of time thinking about how to live my life with integrity. Not because I’m really good at it, but rather, the contrary. I think I screw up, a lot. Integrity, to me, means behaving and living in a manner that is in accord with my ethics and principles. And that’s not always easy, and I hold [what feel like] high standards for myself (that I pretty much *never* reach), and so I tend to think a lot about how to not screw up again.

And that’s where that thought about vulnerability and accountability come in. In those times that I’ve screwed-up, I’ve often felt very aware of the ways in which I can walk away from the situation relatively unscathed. I walk through the world with a lot of privileges, and those *undoubtedly* make it easier for me to brush myself off and walk away. But furthermore, when I’m the one screwing up, I’m probably not the one who ends up really hurt. In some manner, shape, or form, another being has been made vulnerable to me, and in hurting them, I have played upon the vulnerability. It’s very rarely intentional (I’m REALLY not a vindictive person. I screw up, but I’m not malicious.), but I’ve been thinking that perhaps a way to slow myself down, to keep from screwing up again, is to make sure that I am engaging with people on more even footing. And one way in which I can see myself enacting that in my own life is with greater intention put toward the vulnerabilities I expose to people.

But that’s a really personal thing. That’s about me, the way I present myself to the world, the walls I erect to protect myself, and the already-erected walls by which I am shielded. That’s not a recipe for being a good person, or a good anti-racist, that’s another item to add to my mental checklist. When I’m confronted with a situation that challenges me to live with integrity, it’s another way to make sure that I tread slowly down treacherous paths and live with intention.

****

I’ve written a lot already, and I’m tired of my own bloviating. I’m a really wordy person, but even I have limits. This post also feels incomplete, but perhaps that’s because of all those things I belabored above. Because there isn’t really a complete answer, and there isn’t a tidy ribbon, and living with that insecurity is just the way the world works. And if we’re going to try to undo centuries of f*ed up-ness, it’s gonna be hard. And living with integrity in a world that is SO beset with oppression and general shittiness is also a challenge, because the right thing isn’t often easy or readily apparent. So we’ve just got to live with the incompleteness, and keep trying to do better.

*I started to write this post at approximately 2am last night, because I couldn’t sleep.

** This particular instance actually ended up being something of a disaster, but not for any of the reasons raised by the initial criticisms, and not by anything we had predicted.