Stop Exploiting People's Trauma for Personal Gain

Every time I write something, I ask myself four questions:

  1. Is this my story to tell?

  2. Why do I feel compelled to share it?

  3. Who will be impacted by it and how?

  4. What do I stand to gain from sharing it?

It’s rare that the answers are clear and I’ve chosen not to share some potentially impactful stories because I can’t get clarity on these questions. I spend even more time wrestling with these questions when the story is traumatic or deeply personal to the people involved. Because I’ve been reflecting on these questions in my own life, I’ve become acutely aware of instances where someone is sharing a story that isn’t theirs to tell.

Often it’s well-intentioned. The person sharing the story is trying to bring awareness to an issue. Perhaps they think they are relieving the emotional burden of a marginalized person by doing the emotional labor of sharing the story. Usually they are trying to rally people around a cause. Regardless of intent, it’s important to recognize that when we re-tell a story that is not ours to tell, we insert our own interpretation, we filter it through our own lens, we inevitably use it to promote our own agenda, and ultimately we are the ones who benefit the most. As people in positions of privilege, we need to consider the ways we can elevate the voices of marginalized people rather than exploit their experiences for our own gain.

I’ve recently read several books written by people in positions of privilege where they share stories of people they’ve helped - families who have immigrated illegally, LGBTQIA+ homeless youth, etc. I can’t help but wonder if there was a way the authors could have empowered the people involved to tell their own stories. I wonder if the people involved share the same hopes and goals as the authors. I wonder what it feels like to read about the hardest moment in your life from someone else’s perspective. I wonder if the author is able to be objective about their own involvement. Most of all, I wonder what they do with the proceeds from their books. Do the people they are profiting off of see any of that money? Our nation was built off of exploiting marginalized people and profiting from their labor…is profiting from their trauma all that different?

Even when the intent is good, even when we are attempting to dismantle systems of oppression, we’d be better off to empower people to tell their own stories. When people with power or in positions of privilege choose to center themselves and share a story that is not theirs to tell, they inevitably benefit the most and end up upholding white supremacy culture rather than dismantling it. If we are truly committed to empowering others, if we truly want to dismantle white supremacy culture, if we truly want to share the benefits of our privilege, then we have to be willing to de-center ourselves.

profiting trauma.png

Interrupting the "isms": Doing Your Work Even When They Won't

Very few people are open to hearing that their behavior is problematic. If you’ve ever tried to give someone feedback that their “joke”/language/actions were racist/sexist/homophobic/transphobic, etc, you know exactly what I am talking about. Inevitably, the person who said the problematic thing immediately gets defensive and shifts the conversation...suddenly you are no longer discussing what actually happened, but instead you are discussing their intentions and how they would never do anything of the sort. I can almost hear the words now….“But I’m not a racist!”. Everyone suddenly begins to act as if the person who called out the problematic behavior is over-reacting. They downplay the entire thing or worse, say it just didn’t happen. Gaslighting is way too common. The script gets flipped so quickly that you begin to question if what you experienced was problematic at all or maybe if it even happened the way you remember it. You get emotionally exhausted so you disengage from the conversation. And, if this bizarre privileged dismissive defensive cycle has happened to you enough, my guess is you’ve backed off from having these tough conversations altogether. But can I challenge you to consider something? While healthy boundaries are important and your emotional well-being matters, your job, our collective job, is to keep showing up and calling out problematic behavior when we see it regardless of how that feedback will be received. We are not responsible for how people receive that feedback, we are just responsible for how we deliver it.

When I was in graduate school, it suddenly became very apparent to me how problematic a lot of my language was about race, class, gender, and sexuality. I loved putting people in boxes, boxes that I was learning were made up social constructs. My partner, Dustin, was gracious enough to learn alongside me. In the midst of doing this work, we found a handy tool in our apartment to help us recognize when we said over-simplified or problematic things. We had been gifted this tall heavy glass cylinder from Crate & Barrel as a wedding gift. When you thumped the top of it, it rang loudly like a bell…the sound echoing around the room. It became our “stereotype bell”. We started using it on ourselves first. Anytime we would notice the other person using language that was based primarily in a stereotype, we’d ring the bell. It was a non-threatening and disarming way to interrupt and communicate “hey, I think what you just said was problematic”. It was super effective. The bell was ringing loudly and often in our home. We were having hard and important conversations. Suddenly, we found ourselves introducing and utilizing the stereotype bell with most of our friends too. We were pushing back against social norms, challenging ourselves to think outside the box of what gender, sexuality, race, and class were. It was really productive and really effective and completely and totally not well received by some of our friends. They hated that damn bell. They hated that we wouldn’t let them make assumptions about people based on an identity. They hated being called out. They hated the discomfort of challenging their worldview. We literally lost friends over the stereotype bell. After one particularly heated moment with a dear friend, we stopped using the bell. We apologized, gave it away to a thrift shop, and backed off. We were in our early twenties and I am ashamed to say that we were more concerned with making people feel comfortable than with challenging norms. But that’s an incredibly privileged thing to be able to do…to say that my comfort is more important than progress. I know better now. I am trying to do better now. Even though I still retreat to my privilege at times, I am making a conscious effort to show up, to remember that I am not responsible for how the information is received, I am only responsible for delivering it. How I deliver it also matters, but that’s a discussion for another day.

Here are some things to remember when you’ve delivered feedback that was not well-received or if you are afraid to deliver feedback knowing that it won’t be well-received:

  • There is only one person you can control in this situation….yourself. You cannot control the other person’s reaction and you cannot force them to receive the feedback with grace. More often than not, their reaction isn’t even about you….it’s about their own insecurities and ignorance. Do the right thing. Show up. Interrupt racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, etc. Do it even when you know it won’t “go well”.

  • Even if you think it’s not going to matter if you speak up, speak up anyway. You never know what seed you are planting, what foundation you are laying, that may help someone do some harder and deeper work down the road. They may never come back around and say “hey, when you called me out, it really made an impact”…but that doesn’t mean you didn’t make an impact. This is often thankless work that we don’t get to reap the harvest of. Do it anyway.

  • Remember, intent and impact are different things and more often than not intent matters less than impact. I’d like to think that I am a mostly kind and thoughtful person. Yet, sometimes I say and do really problematic things. I hope I am surrounded by people who will keep calling me out even though they know my heart. Impact matters.

  • Take care of yourself emotionally and talk through these situations with someone who is committed to “doing the work” too. When you are being gaslighted, it’s important to have a third party to process things with. They can help you keep perspective when you are too far into the weeds of a situation.

Most importantly, the message I hope you walk away with here, is to keep showing up and interrupting problematic behavior when you see it. It will rarely be easy, but it will always be the right thing to do.

keep-showing-up--736x675.jpg

Social Justice Book Club: Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates

Every now and again we come across a book that literally changes how we see the world. Ta-Nehisi Coates’ “Between the World and Me” was one of those books for me. I suspect it had such an impact on me in part because it was released at a time in my life when I desperately needed it, but in many ways I think Coates’ words would have impacted me deeply no matter when they came to me because they are such a thoughtful and raw account of what it means to be black in America.

In August of 2010, I entered a doctoral program in sociology at Louisiana State University. We spent that first year of graduate school laying the groundwork for what would become our life’s work should we finish the program successfully and enter the world of academia. We were learning sociological theory, stats, and unpacking the social constructs that shaped our culture. I took whole classes dedicated to understanding race. I thought I had a decent handle on how race worked in our culture, but what I failed to see was that my understanding was limited to a solely intellectual understanding. Without the emotional understanding, the empathy of what it might feel like to be black in our culture, my understanding was dangerously incomplete. If I am being totally honest, my whiteness and privilege had allowed me to exempt myself from that work. Why should I try to understand the pain/fears/traumas/etc black people experience when instead I could stay safe and comfortable in my white bubble? Hadn’t I “done enough” by learning and acknowledging the reality of racism? It hurts me to write that now, but owning the ways in which I have used my privilege to exempt me from this deeply emotional work is a critical step in my never allowing it to happen again.

In early 2011, my husband and I started the process of becoming certified foster parents. During the application and interview process we were asked several times what sort of children we would be open to- age, race, gender, disability status, etc. It never crossed my mind to say that I was ill-equipped to raise a child of a different race because I very naively thought that I was in a much better position than most people given my academic experience. I thought I knew all that I needed to know about race. How deeply and dangerously naive of me. We were officially certified as foster parents in early August of 2011 and ready to start taking placements. Just two weeks later, we got a call about a baby being discharged from the hospital. I loaded myself into my car and in a quiet corner of the PICU, I met the tiny black baby that would one day become our son.

We brought him home and reveled in him, but it became apparent to me very quickly that I was not as prepared as I thought I was. I’ve written elsewhere about the racism I started to see when our son was a newborn, but I was thrown into the deep-end after having only stood in a kiddie pool. I know now how much work I had not done. I know now how little my academic experience and book smarts had prepared me for the lived experience of racism. I still know that I will only ever understand a tiny fraction of my son’s experience of the world. I am sorry it took me so long to realize those things, I am so sorry that it took me having something significant to lose to open my eyes, but I am committed to spending the rest of my life continuing to learn and listen.

Our son was in our care for two and a half years before we adopted him. In that time we had five different case workers, a common experience in the foster care system where turn over is high. I will never forget a worker we had for several months about a year and a half into the case. She was a middle aged black woman, kind but assertive (at least that’s how I perceived her at the time). She came to check in on our son once a month and every time she would spend a significant amount of time asking us how we were going to raise him in his culture, how we were going to help him navigate his blackness. And when she left, I was always angry. I felt like she didn’t trust us. I felt like she was questioning our intentions. I felt like she was calling us racist, that we were going to attempt to erase our son’s blackness. I was making a home in my white fragility. What I know now is that she knew what it meant to be black in America and she knew that there was no way I was going to ever be able to understand that experience. I know now that she knew it was inevitable that on some level our son would lose some of his blackness if he was raised in a white family, steeped in white culture. I know now that she was trying to be a really great advocate for our son, to protect him, to push us to think about these issues. I am grateful to her now. I wish I could tell her sorry for pushing back, for getting defensive, for just not getting it at the time.

We finalized his adoption in 2014 and the full weight of what it meant to raise a black boy in America came crashing down on me. Up until the adoption was finalized, it had not solely been my responsibility to keep him safe, and now it absolutely and undeniably was. I was terrified. About seven months after our son’s adoption, Laquan McDonald was killed by a Chicago Police Officer. In the midst of my undoing, Laquan’s murder broke me open. I suddenly realized that it didn’t matter how much I thought I knew if it wouldn’t keep my son alive. I suddenly realized that one day it could be my own son’s name in the headlines, his life literally taken because of racism. I suddenly had something of significant value to lose. I had to set my ego aside and open myself up to continuing to learn and grow, to recognizing how little work I had done up until then- owning the fact that hundreds of hours of reading and research and a degree would never help me to understand what it felt like to navigate our culture as a black person. And then, in July of 2015, “Between the World and Me” was released.

Coates writes this book as an open letter to his son, who was about to turn 15, detailing his experiences as a black person in America while tying those deeply personal experiences back to broader social issues. He reflects on coming to terms with his own blackness and outlines the hopes and fears he has for his son despite the many cultural changes that have happened since his own upbringing. I think it would be impossible not to be moved by Coates’ account. It is poetic and raw in a way that I haven’t seen before. Too often when we talk about racism in America, we fail to adequately account for the lived experience of black people. We spend a lot of time talking about broad structural issues and too little time making space for the emotion of what it feels like to be black in America, the experience of those structures. While Coates’ story is just one of many, it is a great place to start. In my opinion, we cannot forge a path forward until we acknowledge the pain and complexity of those who live this reality, until we engage emotionally as well as intellectually, until we (white people) stop hiding behind our privilege and do the work.

between-the-world-and-me-940x540.jpg