Over-posting
I know I'm probably clogging up everyone's friends list. I'm sorry. Sometimes when stuff pops into my head, I feel I'd better get it down or I'll lose it.
Part of this whole debate on homosexuality has been that over and over again people try to define what discrimination is and what it isn't. We all like to think that our ideas are based in fact and therefore not discriminatory. We run a fine tooth comb over the law, trying to feel out "does this treat everyone equally?"
It doesn't matter. Seriously.
Every single person out there thinks they know what discrimination is. Nearly everyone thinks they've been a victim of it. I can't count how many times a straight white man has expressed to me how hurt he felt by a comment or a portion or a speech or the way someone looked at him. And I believe them. It hurt. They hurt. That's fine. But what we've all got to realize is that a lot of people out there are hurting. And for some of them, we just aren't going to be able to guess at their pain. We can listen to what they say. We can try to understand. But guessing at how it feels to be someone else--that really doesn't work. The guessing can help lead us toward empathy, so long as we can keep the distinction straight: we're not the other person, we don't think or live for them.
I know that on a few occassions I've felt discriminated against. Like when my VP made those comments to me. I know he's a nice guy, and I know he didn't mean to hurt me. But I know I felt like it sent me into a tailspin. I went home, crying, feeling like someone stuck their huge hand in my face and said "at this company we just don't take girls seriously, so stay in your place." The emotions go beyond what is actually said. To feel that you're held back for something you have no control over--it's devastating. Depending on the other stuff in our lives, our emotional state, how often this has happened, our support system, we might all react differently. Some people take it as a challenge and rise up fighting. Some experience quiet despair. What you feel is not right or wrong. It simply is.
When I was in early elementary school I was frequently seated next to an African American girl named Candy. I think this was because her last name was also Davis, or else close, like Davidson or something. I don't remember. My memories of her are fuzzy. I remember being mad because she purposefully broke my favorite pink crayon--we must have had a fight. I also remember getting in trouble for passing her notes when we were put in a new seating arrangement and weren't together anymore, so I must have liked her a lot too. I also remember she liked my hair and complained that hers was natty--that meant nothing to me at the time, but now I realize what she meant.
But the one memory that is seared into my mind is the day at lunch when she asked me if I liked being white. We were sitting down with our lunches and she asked "Don't you like being white? How does it feel to be white." Like many white people, I had very little concept of being white. And I was about six years old, so I'm not sure I really even knew that I was white (in appearance at least) at that time. I had nothing to say. Silence for a bit and I said "I guess it's nice... I don't really know." Candy replied "I wish I was white." I was taken aback by this information--like Candy was telling me she didn't want to be Candy. "Why?" I asked.
Candy said "If you're white, you're pretty." "I'm not pretty." I said. "You'll grow up to be pretty," continued Candy, "I watch tv and all the pretty grown ups are white. But I won't grow up to be pretty." I was a kid, I had no idea what to say. I stammered "No, you're pretty, really." Silence. "You've got pretty eyes." I tried again.
I don't remember how the conversation ended. I know that Candy wasn't in my class the next year, and eventually I switched schools and then I never even saw her at recess or anything.
It's just a cautionary tale of what we take for granted, our inability to experience someone else's life for them. Not every African American child feels that way, obviously, but it's horrible if even one does. Not every white child feels she's pretty, obviously.
This is only about the insidious ways that discrimination and prejudice seep into our souls, the hurt caused by little things, the ways people learn to not love themselves. This is about the huge amount of work we have to do to heal our culture.
Did anyone come out and tell that child that her ethnicity made her unattractive? Probably not. Were there any laws in place to hurt her? Probably not. Is it our responsibility as thinking caring human beings to combat the discrimination that hurt her? Of course. Because we want everyone to feel valued and to experience joy and to have the love and support to navigate this difficult world.
What does this have to do with homosexuality? A lot. When we talk about self image, self hatred, deep spiritual pain, it all applies. No, it's not the same thing, it doesn't have the exact same history, but it's pain nonetheless, and pain we have the power to fight.
Part of this whole debate on homosexuality has been that over and over again people try to define what discrimination is and what it isn't. We all like to think that our ideas are based in fact and therefore not discriminatory. We run a fine tooth comb over the law, trying to feel out "does this treat everyone equally?"
It doesn't matter. Seriously.
Every single person out there thinks they know what discrimination is. Nearly everyone thinks they've been a victim of it. I can't count how many times a straight white man has expressed to me how hurt he felt by a comment or a portion or a speech or the way someone looked at him. And I believe them. It hurt. They hurt. That's fine. But what we've all got to realize is that a lot of people out there are hurting. And for some of them, we just aren't going to be able to guess at their pain. We can listen to what they say. We can try to understand. But guessing at how it feels to be someone else--that really doesn't work. The guessing can help lead us toward empathy, so long as we can keep the distinction straight: we're not the other person, we don't think or live for them.
I know that on a few occassions I've felt discriminated against. Like when my VP made those comments to me. I know he's a nice guy, and I know he didn't mean to hurt me. But I know I felt like it sent me into a tailspin. I went home, crying, feeling like someone stuck their huge hand in my face and said "at this company we just don't take girls seriously, so stay in your place." The emotions go beyond what is actually said. To feel that you're held back for something you have no control over--it's devastating. Depending on the other stuff in our lives, our emotional state, how often this has happened, our support system, we might all react differently. Some people take it as a challenge and rise up fighting. Some experience quiet despair. What you feel is not right or wrong. It simply is.
When I was in early elementary school I was frequently seated next to an African American girl named Candy. I think this was because her last name was also Davis, or else close, like Davidson or something. I don't remember. My memories of her are fuzzy. I remember being mad because she purposefully broke my favorite pink crayon--we must have had a fight. I also remember getting in trouble for passing her notes when we were put in a new seating arrangement and weren't together anymore, so I must have liked her a lot too. I also remember she liked my hair and complained that hers was natty--that meant nothing to me at the time, but now I realize what she meant.
But the one memory that is seared into my mind is the day at lunch when she asked me if I liked being white. We were sitting down with our lunches and she asked "Don't you like being white? How does it feel to be white." Like many white people, I had very little concept of being white. And I was about six years old, so I'm not sure I really even knew that I was white (in appearance at least) at that time. I had nothing to say. Silence for a bit and I said "I guess it's nice... I don't really know." Candy replied "I wish I was white." I was taken aback by this information--like Candy was telling me she didn't want to be Candy. "Why?" I asked.
Candy said "If you're white, you're pretty." "I'm not pretty." I said. "You'll grow up to be pretty," continued Candy, "I watch tv and all the pretty grown ups are white. But I won't grow up to be pretty." I was a kid, I had no idea what to say. I stammered "No, you're pretty, really." Silence. "You've got pretty eyes." I tried again.
I don't remember how the conversation ended. I know that Candy wasn't in my class the next year, and eventually I switched schools and then I never even saw her at recess or anything.
It's just a cautionary tale of what we take for granted, our inability to experience someone else's life for them. Not every African American child feels that way, obviously, but it's horrible if even one does. Not every white child feels she's pretty, obviously.
This is only about the insidious ways that discrimination and prejudice seep into our souls, the hurt caused by little things, the ways people learn to not love themselves. This is about the huge amount of work we have to do to heal our culture.
Did anyone come out and tell that child that her ethnicity made her unattractive? Probably not. Were there any laws in place to hurt her? Probably not. Is it our responsibility as thinking caring human beings to combat the discrimination that hurt her? Of course. Because we want everyone to feel valued and to experience joy and to have the love and support to navigate this difficult world.
What does this have to do with homosexuality? A lot. When we talk about self image, self hatred, deep spiritual pain, it all applies. No, it's not the same thing, it doesn't have the exact same history, but it's pain nonetheless, and pain we have the power to fight.