I know I said I'd completed my blog makeover weeks ago but what had happened was...I lied.
As you can see, things are a little different around here. I think the changes are for the better but I'll let you guys be the judge of that. Let me know if my tinkering made things better or worse.
I also owe you guys an apology for completely flaking on my blogging schedule. Long story short, I'm on a new medication for anxiety and it made me really, ridiculously sleepy and unmotivated for the first few weeks. I'm adjusting and feeling a lot better the past couple of weeks so hopefully that continues.
With all that out of the way, let's dive into this blog post.
If you go on my Twitter one of the first things you see is my pinned Tweet:
I'm not saying queer, Black, and female is the sum total of all I am. What I am saying is my sexuality, race, and gender are intersecting social identities that have a substantial impact on both how I view the world and how the world views me. I'm all of those things (and more!) so if you're my friend or ally, you have to acknowledge, accept, and respect all of me, not just the parts of my identity that serve your agenda or support your narrative.
From personal relationships, to professional opportunities, to regular smegular things like which drugstore brands of foundations I can use in a pinch (because with some brands, like Almay, if you don't pass the paper bag test they're like "No foundation for you!") one (or two, or all three) of these parts of my identity generally factor into *most*of my decisions and interactions, be it consciously or unconsciously.
For me, an unfortunate reality of belonging to more than one marginalized community has been being targeted with overt acts of bigotry and violence. I've been called the n-word to my face. I've been told I'm going to burn in hell for having relationships with women. I've experienced street harassment and been called names for refusing to give out my phone number. I've been called a whore for having a number of sexual partners greater than zero and no husband.
Whenever I relate the specific stories behind those incidents I'm (typically) allowed to express the full range of emotions I experienced. My anger at being called the n-word is deemed justifiable. My shock and disgust that perfect strangers hated me enough to spit on me and wish me straight to hell is valid. My fear of the guy who followed me yelling obscenities b/c I wouldn't give him my number is understandable. I'm allowed my feelings about those situations, in part, because it's clear my identity as a member of a marginalized community made me a target. I'm allowed my feelings about those situations, in part, because it's clear the goal of each interaction was to cause harm. I'm allowed my feelings about those situations, in part, because the perpetrators come off as "bad people".
I'm allowed my feelings about those situations, in part, because the perpetrators intentionally caused me pain.
On the surface this doesn't seem problematic. These are all intentional acts of physical or emotional violence so being supportive, understanding, and validating my feelings is the empathetic/sympathetic (and decent) thing to do. Where it becomes problematic is when we dig into when there are empathetic/sympathetic (and decent) responses to the pain of marginalized people and when there's not. Once you actually start looking at the responses people get when they say "This happened to me and it hurt" or "This hurts me" you realize the difference between being supported, validated and understood and being questioned, dismissed or further demeaned often comes down to a question of intent.
When a marginalized person says "____ did this and it hurt me" more often than not, the intent and perceived character of the perpetrator receives greater consideration than the impact of their actions. If there's an absence of intent to harm and they are seen as a "good person", the resulting trauma or pain experienced is minimized, questioned, or dismissed.
I'm going to say that a little louder for those of you in the back.
When a marginalized person says "____did this and it hurt me" more often than not, the intent and perceived character of the perpetrator receives greater consideration than the impact of their actions. If there's an absence of intent to harm and they are seen as a "good person", the resulting trauma or pain experienced is minimized, questioned, or dismissed.
Let me say that one more time because I know some of y'all still can't hear me.
When a marginalized person says "____did this and it hurt me" more often than not, the intent and perceived character of the perpetrator receives greater consideration than the impact of their actions. If there's an absence of intent to harm and they are seen as a "good person" the resulting trauma or pain experienced is minimized, questioned, or dismissed.
I know some of you have a hard time believing that. Would you believe me if I said that one of the most painful, humiliating, hurtful experience I've ever had as a result of being who I am was the result of a good person's attempt to do what they believed was the "right" thing? Still no? Maybe after this little trip down memory lane you'll change your mind.
When I was fifteen my father retired from the military, moving my family from Washington State to a very small town in Texas. Overnight, I went from a high school with an incredibly diverse student body to being the ONLY Black girl and one of three POC in my class.
You think you know where this is going. You don't. Just listen.
I had a rocky start but after a year or so I found my place in the high school hierarchy, largely due to the efforts of one of my teachers, Mrs. G.
Mrs. G. was kind, supportive, patient and made learning fun. She never allowed bullying in her classroom and encouraged everyone to consider multiple points of view before taking a side on an issue.
On a personal level, Mrs. G. and I got along like a two peas in a pod. She was only a few years older than me, had grown up a military brat as well and moved to Texas from Oregon. We shared a lot of the same interests and she believed in me and my writing so much she resurrected the school paper and named me the editor. When another teacher and I got into an argument about whether or not the Confederate flag was a symbol of racism and oppression, she acted as a buffer between me and the administration (the other teacher was the principal's wife) and made sure I wasn't punished for speaking out. She was the first adult I ever came out to and she responded with warmth, acceptance and unconditional support. Mrs. G. was a great teacher and a good person but even more than that, for myself and a lot of other students, Mrs. G. was a safe place (she even had one of those Safe Place signs on her classroom door and she put a little rainbow sticker on it.)
My junior year I had Mrs. G. for two classes: English and Newspaper. I was ecstatic because that meant I ended my day with my favorite teacher and my favorite subjects.
Mrs. G. was one of those teachers that made her students take turns reading out loud. This was never much of a problem for me until we started The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. If you're familiar with the book, you know that the n-word is used over 200 times throughout the text. As you can imagine, this maycreate uncomfortable situations in a classroom where there's a small number of Black students (small in this case meaning one) and a history of racially insensitive remarks and actions by three or four other students in the class (Not directed at me but at another student).
Mrs. G.'s solution was simple: Whenever a student reached a part in their reading segment where the n-word was used, they would stop and I would say it for them. After I did my part, they'd continue reading from there.
I'll give you a minute. I'm sure some of you need one right about now.
Y'all back with me? Okay, then let's carry on.
If she'd come to me privately before class and told me her plan I could have explained how uncomfortable this scenario made me and maybe she could have come up with something else. But that didn't happen. She announced at the beginning of class what would happen and that was that.
Here I am sixteen, an "outsider" for various reasons, and I've just had one of the things that made me "different" singled out and put on display.
If that wasn't bad enough, sixteen year old me didn't say the n-word. My mama believes the n-word is violent, oppressing, dehumanizing, represents a loss of freedom and no one should say it. Sixteen year old me agreed with her, so the n-word wasn't something I felt comfortable saying in any context, let alone that specific situation.
So, I'm in class, we'd started reading and we come to the n-word. The student reading stopped and looked up at me. Everyone was waiting on me. In my head it was like "I don't wanna do this. I don't wanna do this" but when you're sixteen, it's hard to stand up for yourself while carrying the weight of someone else's expectations on your shoulders. It's even harder to stand up for yourself when that person is someone you genuinely care for, respect, and want to like you.
I said it. Then I said it again. Then I said it again. And again, and again and again. Repetition didn't make it any easier. I hesitated every single time. I mumbled. I didn't make eye contact with anyone. I slid lower and lower into my seat. I heard people whispering and giggling. I felt myself shrinking. I felt diminished.
And then it was my turn again.
I shook my head.
Mrs. G. came over and rubbed my shoulders. One of the students sighed really loud and said, "C'mon. It's just a word. Stop being a drama queen." I looked up at Mrs. G. and she was glaring at him. She told him "Nothing is ever just a word. This particular word has been used to justify unimaginable cruelty and inhumane brutality. This is hard for her and you will respect that or we can go see Principal W., call your parents and explain to them and Coach C. why you'll be spending the rest of the week in D-Hall (detention)." Then she looked at me, gave me a reassuring pat on the back, and said "It's okay. You can do it. Take all the time you need."
I felt trapped and completely alone. I figured I should just get it over with so I went on. And over the next 30-35 minutes I got smaller and smaller but I almost made it y'all. We had about ten minutes or so left in class when I just...broke. My voice shook, my eyes burned, my throat closed up and I started crying.
Mrs. G. reacted immediately, but not in the way I needed her to. She gave me a hug (which I did need) but then turned back to the student who spoke earlier and said "Do you understand now that words have power?"
He stumbled his way through an apology. Meanwhile, some of the other students have started crying too. One of my friends got up and hugged me. Which, somehow, meant that everyone had to get up and hug me. Mrs. G. comforted everyone the best she could while explaining how we all just learned a really important life lesson.
When the bell rang I ran out of there like Cerberus was at my heels and fled to the (relative) safety of the girls bathroom.
A few seconds later my friend came into the bathroom and asked if I was okay. I told her no and that I couldn't believe Mrs. G. had done that to me.
She stared at me and asked "But what did she even do?"
So I explained it to her. I explained how uncomfortable I was. How unfair it was. How much it hurt and how betrayed I felt. How angry I was.
She hugged me and told me she was sorry I felt so bad.
Then she told me to let it go because I knew Mrs. G. didn't hurt me on purpose. She also pointed out Mrs. G. couldn't be racist because she stood up for me when that whole rebel flag deal went down, plus her husband was Mexican.
By this time a couple of my other friends have joined us in the bathroom. They pretty much said the same thing. They were sorry I hurt but it just was a misunderstanding. Mrs. G. was a good person. Mrs. G. wasn't a racist. That I needed to let it go. That there was no point in being mad about it.
My pain was minimized, rationalized and justified away. By my friends. Because I wasn't hurt on purpose. Because Mrs. G. was a good person.
I wanted them to understand. So I just kept repeating myself. I was like "But she hurt me. She should at least say she's sorry."
They didn't get it. They wish I felt better but she didn't mean to hurt me. And maybe I should remember that before I make her feel bad by asking for an apology.
The warning bell rang. We had two minutes to get to class (this whole convo took a whopping three minutes, y'all.) They left me alone. Which was fine with me because they weren't exactly helping. I didn't move, though. I was NOT leaving that bathroom until it was time to go home.
A few minutes later Mrs. G. came into the restroom (I was supposed be in her class, working on the paper.) I looked at her. She looked at me. She gave me a hug and said how proud she was of me for being brave, then she thanks me for helping her.
Once again, I start crying.
This time I also start cussing.
Ugly crying.
Loud cussing.
I told her I wasn't okay with what she did. I told her it was racist. I told her it was unfair. I told her it hurt me. I told her I was mad at her.
She was stunned. She legitimately thought we were in on her "teaching moment" together. She was horrified that I was so hurt but more than that, she was upset that I was so angry at her.
And she simply couldn't fathom how I could think she was a racist and told me as much.
I corrected her. I was like "No, I said what you did was racist."
She...let that go in favor of explaining why she did what she did.
She didn't want to give anyone an opportunity to be hateful.
She didn't want me forced to listen to white students using a racial slur.
She knew there were students in her class that wouldn't feel comfortable saying the n-word in my presence.
She was trying to make reading the book easier and safer for everyone.
What she ended up doing was making it easier and safer for everyone except me.
She apologized. She cried. She said she was sorry her actions hurt me and she hoped eventually I was as proud of myself for helping my classmates learn a lesson in tolerance as she was. She asked me to look past my own feelings and see the bigger picture.
The bigger picture being the impact the class had on my peers, what they learned, what they experienced, how it *presumably* helped them.
What I want you to understand right now, in this moment, as you're reading this is how earnest she was. She truly, to the depths of her soul, believed she'd made the best decision for all of her students, including, no especially, me. She was truly sorry I got hurt.
What Mrs. G. didn't understand was part of the reason I hurt so badly was because I'd trusted her.
She was my teacher, my mentor, my friend, and my ally.
She'd told me, she'd promised me, that she was a safe place. (There was a sign and everything!)
In a hostile environment, Mrs. G. was my safe space.
And she'd unexpectedly, humiliatingly, publicly, kicked me out of it.
And then, as part of her apology, placed greater value on the potential lesson her privileged students learned than the damage teaching them that lesson had done to me.
Mrs. G. was right, though. I did learn that day.
I learned it takes more than a sticker, a sign, and good intentions for a safe place to remain safe, especially for marginalized people.
I learned those in privileged positions feel entitled to evaluate whether the pain a marginalized person feels is valid and "justified".
And when the school secretary walked in on us red eyed and sniffling, I learned one more lesson.
I learned for many people, the sight of white tears is more distressing than the presence of Black pain.
Because Mrs. M. (who everyone knew hated Mrs. G. because of ~reasons~) took one look at both of us and immediately went into "Defend the fragile white woman mode." She positioned her body between us, put her arm around Mrs. G., and asked HER if SHE was okay and if she (Mrs. G.) needed help.
Please note that Mrs. G. had at least four inches, a few years, and about 50 pounds on me.
And I was the student, the minor, the person whose care they were responsible for.
And that I was also visibly upset.
But her first response was to see me as a threat, protect Mrs. G. and ask if she needed help.
Now, I know what some of you are thinking. You're calling shenanigans. This can't be true. No way, no how. Because how on earth could a teacher be that obtuse? How could that happen to a student?How could no one intercede? How could no one be on my side? To you, I say talk to POC students who attended PWI's (predominately white institutions). You'll find out rather quickly that while what happened to me was traumatizing and horrifying, it's in no way unique.
I'm not sharing this with you guys so you'll feel sorry for me.
I'm sharing this with you because in the past few weeks there's been a lot of conflict between authors, readers, reviewers, fans, and friends surrounding various issues. Throughout that conflict one thing that EYE have seen happen over and over again is marginalized people saying "This hurts/harms me" and people in positions of privilege dismissing, disregarding, and disrespecting their pain and questioning the value, merit, and truthfulness of their lived experience.
EYE have seen people saying "this hurts me" called toxic.
EYE have seen people saying "this hurts me" called drama llamas.
EYE have seen people saying "this hurts me" told to hush because it isn't about them.
EYE have seen people saying "this hurts me" implored to let it go and move on.
EYE have seen people saying "this hurts me" straight up told "no it didn't."
EYE have seen people saying "this hurts me" asked to prove it or asked to educate on demand.
EYE have seen people saying "this hurts me" told "Maybe, but let's talk about this other issue instead."
EYE have seen people saying "this hurts me" told they just need to work harder.
EYE have seen people saying "this hurts me" told it's their own fault for being so sensitive.
EYE have seen people saying "this hurts me" reminded that "it's just fiction."
EYE have seen people saying "this hurts me" informed it can't possibly because another person from the same marginalized group is just fine with it.
And from what EYE have seen, most of the people saying hush, stop the drama, prove it, but, maybe, ect. aren't bad people.
In fact, several of them that EYE have seen saying these things are (imo) good people.
No tea, no shade but a couple of them I might actually fist fight you over if you try to hurt them.
They don't intend to add to or cause anyone's pain.
But they are. They have.
And that pain is real and valid, despite it being caused unintentionally.
Unintentional pain is still valid pain and even good people can cause harm.
Mrs. G. was not a bad person. She did not intend to harm me. But she did. When my friends tried to comfort me by reminding me how good of a person Mrs. G. was, advising me to let it go and asking if it was really that big of a deal, ect. they didn't mean to make things worse, but they did. When Mrs. M. ignored me to comfort and "protect" Mrs. G. she wasn't trying to make me feel unimportant and unworthy, but that's what happened.
None of them meant to, but they all did.
So the next time someone (especially someone vulnerable or marginalized) says "this hurt me", if you feel the need to point out why it shouldn't, or explain that no one meant to cause them harm, or talk about how ___ is a really good person and therefore can't be problematic, or question the validity of their pain, or call them dramatic, or remind them there are other, more important issues, or ask them why they have to rain on the Privileged People's Parade, or do anything that might make things worse for them just...don't.
Listen.
Just...listen.
It can't hurt.
XOXO,
Dylan
P.S.
I'd love to talk to you on Twitter, you can follow me here.
We should totally be Facebook friends! You can friend me here.
Hey, do you have a Tumblr? Cause I have one and you can follow me right here
Wait, you've got a Pinterest? Me too! You should follow me and my boards here.
Do you like to read? Cause I love to read. Let's be Goodreads buddies. Friend me here.
