Have you ever been in this situation? You share something that happened to you, something that affected you, something that you can’t get off your mind, and the person you’re telling your story to sits back with a pensive expression. And you start to feel a minor dread. And then… ‘are you sure they meant it like that? It wasn’t a misunderstanding? Are you sure that’s what happened?’ Or, even if they believe you, ‘was it really that bad?’
Well, yes. That is a good portion of my life. And it’s a bizarre experience because the person in the best position to speak about their own experiences and emotions is the person who has them. And, personally, I find the desire to go over horrible experiences with a fine tooth comb, tease them out, decide – retrospectively, calmly, objectively – on an appropriate response, (an appropriate reaction is whatever I judge to be appropriate, thank you very much) to add a whole new sickening layer to what I experienced. And then there are those demands for more details and irrelevant details and painful details, because whoever is “listening” thinks they get to decide what’s important.
I think this starts from the automatic, often subconscious, assumption that the person higher in the social hierarchy is more trustworthy. Marginalised people just can’t be trusted, because they’re probably, uh, biased by their marginalisation so are probably exaggerating. Supposedly the person who has benefited from their privileges has no bias in the matter at all, and all the insights. It’s always this person who gets to wear the objectivity cap – after all, they’re not being unfairly biased by their identity politics agenda and their niche experiences.
Not so much, no.
A few months ago, I published a post called Memory, about the events surrounding a racist comment that was directed at me by a teacher when I was in high school. I didn’t specify what the comment was, nor my reasons for not specifying it. You should read the conversation that ensued in comments; here I’ll just say that there were some that asked that I post what was said so that readers could evaluate the appropriateness of my response and those of other people in these events. These were comments that took place even after multiple reiterations that my pain was not going to be exacted to the satisfaction of voyeurs. For the purposes of this post, I want to highlight what Queen Emily (of the truly marvellous Questioning Transphobia) said:
The point isn’t WHAT the teacher said and evaluating from your own perspective. It’s not Chally’s job to put together for you a handy-dandy guide to not saying racist shit.
Part of the problem is that as a non-white woman Chally is often going to be considered unreliable, disreputable even. So the point is not whether YOU consider something racist, but whether you can listen to her tell you a story and put aside your own privilege(s) and believe her when she says that it was.
And, in a comment further down the thread, Queen Emily continues:
Marginalized people tend not to have our privacy respected much, and it is definitely possible to have a discussion about racism and sexism without violating people’s boundaries.
So, yes, it wasn’t my intention with leaving the comment out, but what doing so achieved is that a lot of people didn’t get to control and shape and dictate my response. They had to approach my experience through my own responses and memories and such, hence the demands that I do divulge what the racist comment in question was. And isn’t that just privilege to a T? Folks who are privileged in a particular instance usually get to control these narratives, and when that power is taken out of their hands, they don’t acknowledge the entitlement in asking that they have that power, the power to alter people’s understanding of experiences of marginalisation, back.
I’m reminded very strongly of something the Scottish psychiatrist R. D. Laing (whose work I must admit to not being hugely familiar with) once said:
Jack may act upon Jill in many ways. He may make her feel guilty for keeping on “bringing it up.” He may invalidate her experience. This can be done more or less radically. He can indicate merely that it is unimportant or trivial, whereas it is important and significant to her. Going further, he can shift the modality of her experience from memory to imagination: “It’s all in your imagination.” Further still, he can invalidate the content: “It never happened that way.” Finally, he can invalidate not only the significance, modality, and content, but her very capacity to remember it at all, and to make her feel guilty for doing so into the bargain.
My friend T.R Xands and I were talking this over, and she got me thinking about how personal narratives aren’t taken very seriously; one has to adopt an academic or formal style to have a sheen of objectivity. The thing is, objectivity is impossible – and right here, undesirable, because there is value to personal narrative. As Xands said to me, on the other side of the narrative you’re encountering from the outside, there is a human being, and there is human cost with your response.
It costs one a lot to put out a personal narrative – be that for public display, as I do all the time in my writing and in my life more largely, or even one-on-one with someone you trust. There is a cost. Have a little respect when someone shares.