Shiny

When I was young, I proudly held the principle of judging someone by what I’d seen of them, not by what I’d heard. Wasn’t I my own best judge of character? I saw that value as so sterling that it was something I intended to pass on. Doesn’t it sound like the kind of thing a good mother would counsel? Perhaps my own good mother even did.

Because what does that principle encourage but honesty and truth? Instil that value in children, and they might think twice about gossiping and ganging up. They might even go the extra length to get to know the unpopular kid whose only crime is cheap sneakers and a stutter. Help him finally find a friend.

So, so shiny.

But here’s the rusty underside:

“I wasn’t there, so I can’t say.”

“I never saw anything like that.”

“He never bothered me.”

The very words that people cling to when a woman comes forward about sexual harassment and assault. Or when a colleague or a fellow student or a whole group of people declare that they have been discriminated against, or their lives put in danger, through racist acts by individuals or institutions, like social services, or the police.

Then it’s:

“Stuff like that doesn’t just happen.”

“They’ve never given me a problem.”

“If you get in trouble, there’s got to be a reason.” 

And people can say they’re being principled, when they’re only privileged.

I don’t recall when, exactly, I learned that “only judging for myself” was part of the problem, and that so was I. But I know I learned it too slowly, and a bit at a time, and some of it I learned because I myself was treated badly by people who went out of their way to show their best selves to others. Others who would say, when I told them what had happened: “Well, they never did that to me.” And even after that, I didn’t always believe it when people told me their experiences, things that had happened to them when I wasn’t looking, or was looking and didn’t even see. 

I see differently now. I see that people and institutions that have been good to me can have another side—a dismissive, or exploitative, or violent one—that will never be turned my way, when I have more privilege and power. I see that my own eyes aren’t the only lenses to see through. That they aren’t even the clearest ones. And you know what? Back when I thought that I was the world’s best judge, life was easier. Shinier. Because it wasn’t really life at all, but only my own small reflection.

In this difficult week, I’m watching the incredible protests going on around the world in support of Black Lives and against police and other state violence. I’m making my husband sandwiches so he can meet his deadlines on his commentary about how he sees this time, as a person of mixed race. And I’m listening particularly closely to visionary Black women, including Nana aba Duncan, Gachi Issa, Garvia Bailey, Nam Kiwanuka, and Jael Richardson, and giving to the Media Girlfriends Scholarship Fund, The Fold Festival of Literary Diversity, and the Hamilton Centre for Civic Inclusion.