I do it on a regular basis.

I’ve said and done things that hurt friends, hurt enemies, hurt people I don’t even know. And no matter who it is, it matters.

I just want to acknowledge that yes, I have heard your criticisms. And yes, people have made a lot of important points in response to my mistakes. And yes, I am trying my best to listen, to take it to heart, and incorporate these perspectives into my work and interactions going forward.

I won’t always do it perfectly, but dammit. I want to try.

These things sit on my shoulders for a long time. I don’t want to keep doing the same fucked-up things over and over again. If I have to do them at all, I’d at least like to use them as a kick to my own ass to actively improve my approach to writing and conversing and criticizing and playing and living.

I appreciate it that people feel comfortable enough, and see value in, raising objections or even just offering refinements. It makes our community more vibrant and our work more just.

I’ll keep trying to be better and I hope you’ll keep working with me.

quadmoniker at PostBourgie, “Hurting for Female Directors” (emphasis mine):

His answer was that he simply hired the best writers, whether that led to any sort of fair representation from women or non-whites. What he didn’t realize, of course, was that his definition of ”best” probably excluded, intentionally or not, all but white males.

He added that he didn’t want to sit around and count quotas because he felt that was condescending. But it’s not just about parity; making sure his organization was more representative was about realizing there are varied points of view that his history as a white male might prevent him from immediately understanding. When you’re talking about writers good enough to get an assignment from Harper’s, there isn’t just one best. After a certain level of quality, distinctions from one writer to another become a matter of taste, and this particular editor was showing his bias toward white males. Pulling in other perspectives would enrich Harper’s voice.

[...] I’m not going to say that [The Hurt Locker's different emphases] was due to Bigelow’s special woman-sense or anything, because we don’t know why she was able to make it so good. That’s kind of the point. The excellence of the movie speaks to Dargis’s point and the problem with Harper’s at once. If we leave out half the population from movie-making, we’re leaving out half the perspectives that might be able to bring something new to the table. The major studios would be better off if they brought it, because I’d love to see more movies like The Hurt Locker.

The last point in particular makes a lot of sense to me: some people would assume that, well, when it comes to imagining new things and taking things from new perspectives, white men can do it too — that white men are capable of providing any perspective or creative direction that humanity could possibly provide — and therefore there is no need to necessarily seek out a diverse creative class, because there is nothing a Muslimah or gay Filipino could bring that a white male couldn’t, and it’s an insult to white men to imply that they do not hold the entire world in their mind’s hands.

But they don’t, because no human being is capable of tapping into the entire universe of perspectives available. We all see the world through unique, specialized lenses that were formed and shaped by our experiences as the person we are. The place we grew up in, the family that raised us, the way the world treated us, the distinct qualities of the culture we are part of, the choices we make as adults as far as the direction of our lives, our careers, our relationships, our hobbies and passions. All of these things change the shape of our particular lens in their own unique way, and we all have a unique combination of these things which forms our own unique perspective of the world.

But those lenses have limits, they necessarily have limits, and we do not always even know what those limits are. Those factors we share with others will create a lens shape quite similar to their own, and when we are surrounded by like people we might often begin to believe that our shared lens is not a matter of our shared experience, but rather a matter of universality.

This is what leads us to believe that there is nothing the white male cannot achieve, cannot bring to the creative table: his experience is shared by so many, and especially shared by so many in power, that he, and we, might begin to believe that it is not a particularly-shaped lens anymore, but rather no lens at all.  And when we believe that he has no lens at all, what benefit could there be to paying attention and inviting participation from people who do have differently-shaped lenses? No creative benefit, certainly, because there is no difference between what those different perspectives see and what the white male could see if he felt like trying. Because he can see all.

And so we wind up where we are: it is an insult to creativity itself to suggest that it is worthwhile to drink in a diversity of perspective, and it becomes not a matter of improving the depth and quality of creative offerings, but rather a matter of personal benefit to the creators.

And we can see where a white male might prickle when confronted with a person who appears to be suggesting that he does not deserve to sit on his side of the conference table, that someone else who can do no more than he could do has some greater worthiness of sitting where he does based on factors outside hir creative potential, and that he should actually willingly give up his seat to make room for hir. It becomes a personal affront, rather than a pressure to improve the greater craft. And, in fact, might become an affront to the quality and depth of his craft, to specifically invite participation from people who bring with them one perspective, but only one — while he brings all.

So he will invite only those different people whom he favors for personal benefit. And he will continue to scoff at the suggestion that diversity is wealth.

How it might be changed? I don’t know. But one place to start is to make everyone aware that they can only see the world through their own personal lens, and that their lens has borders, limits, boundaries. That no one can approach the world without a lens, and that every lens is malleable, not set, not infinite, but formed in the first place by one’s personal experiences.

It’s going to take some time.

So many people have complained that it is asking too much of abled people to stop using words they consider trivial: crazy, insane, lunatic, idiot, moron, dumb, blind, etc.

I beg to differ.

You know what is really damn easy? Erasing these words from your vocabulary. All you have to do is stop saying them.

You know what is really hard?

Confronting people on their use of same language.

We aren’t even asking you to do the hard work. We aren’t asking you to tell other people to stop using that language. We aren’t asking you to confront other people on their use of that language. We aren’t asking you to explain why it is problematic, to answer people’s questions, to deal with their redirection tactics, or to handle the attacks on and harassment of the people negatively affected by that language that such confrontations always seem to draw.

You don’t have to take the brunt of it. You don’t have to deal with the negative consequences. You don’t have to face employment discrimination, street harassment, caretaker abuse, and other people’s general cluelessness about our lives. You get to sit tight in your privilege, enjoying it without even realizing you’re doing it.

All you have to do is cut a few words out of your speaking and/or writing vocabulary. That’s it.

We’re the ones who are putting our safety on the line trying to change the cultural system that oppresses us.

Two seconds to reconsidering what you’re really trying to say? Easy.

Changing other people’s deep-seated attitudes? Really damn hard.

How do you think we feel when you complain that two seconds is just tooooo haaaaard for you to take on?

(Cross-posted at FWD.)

Melissa wrote “The Terrible Bargain We Have Regretfully Struck,” which resonated deeply with many in the feminist blogosphere:

Not every man does all of these things, or even most of them, and certainly not all the time. But it only takes one, randomly and occasionally, exploding in a shower of cartoon stars like an unexpected punch in the nose, to send me staggering sideways, wondering what just happened.

Well. I certainly didn’t see that coming…

These things, they are not the habits of deliberately, connivingly cruel men. They are, in fact, the habits of the men in this world I love quite a lot.

All of whom have given me reason to mistrust them, to use my distrust as a self-protection mechanism, as an essential tool to get through every day, because I never know when I might next get knocked off-kilter with something that puts me in the position, once again, of choosing between my dignity and the serenity of our relationship.

Swallow shit, or ruin the entire afternoon?

Now a couple months later, she has followed with a clarifying piece, “The Bargain, and Its Alternative.” And this post struck me much more deeply than the first, because in this one, Liss turns around to the other side of the bargain — the behavior of the privileged person in question. And remember, here, that Liss is speaking mainly about men she loves, men who are important to her; her husband, father, closest friends — not about some random jerk who presumably “doesn’t matter” when he treats her poorly — but those closest men who on occasion say or do something that really stings, that brings to mind the power imbalance hovering over them:

Even though, intellectually, he knows I’m not accusing him of deliberate maliciousness, and knows I understand he doesn’t intend to hurt me, and knows I’m telling him because I want to be able to trust him, and because I already do, and knows down to his very bones that I wouldn’t even bother if I didn’t already believe and know him to be decent and good and capable of even more, despite all that, being challenged on his male privilege, when it’s such a rare occurrence, makes him viscerally defensive.

And it’s taken a good long time for him to wrap his head around the fact that another part of that privilege is having control over which direction we go when he says/does something sexist and I point it out to him.

There are infinite possibilities of how to react: He could be defensive. He could refuse to hear me. He could try to insist I judge him on his intent, rather than the actual effect of his words/actions. He could accuse me of imagining things. He could imply that I’m crazy. He could turn it around on me. He could behave belligerently, childishly, furiously. He could storm out. He could stand in one place and stomp his feet. He could shout. He could demand a divorce. He could buy a one-way ticket to Rio. He could throw spaghetti. He could challenge me to a duel.

Or he can listen. Take on board what I’m saying and acknowledge how I feel. And then we can get on with the day.

It is a privilege that he gets to decide. And it is a privilege I recognize, because it is also operative for me, when my privilege is challenged—my white privilege, my straight privilege, my cis privilege. I have the same privilege, just in different situations.

Listen, or ruin the entire afternoon?

Here, it is not the unprivileged person’s responsibility; it is not on hir shoulders to decide whether to speak out, and if so, how. It is, instead, the privileged person’s responsibility to decide how sie will react to the challenge — no matter how phrased or presented, whether meek or forceful, whether diplomatic or accusatory — it is on hir shoulders to determine the course of the rest of the afternoon. It is hir privilege to decide.

Until our focus in a conflict turns first to the nature of the privileged party’s reaction and not the unprivileged party’s challenge, we are going to have a very difficult time righting this unjust world.