Last week, my American studies professor, frustrated that her students were responding to provocative material with relativist essays, wrote “GO BIG” on the chalkboard in all capital letters.
She was right about my paper — I was frustrated with the soft-pedaling piece I had turned in that day. But I was uncomfortable with her proposal, and voiced my feeling to the class. As a straight, white male writer, should I really “go big” in response to material in a course about LGBTQ film and literature?
I am aware I have considerable power to do harm, and as such must write with particular caution. I often see people in my position dominate discussions about other people, and write without regard to the real life harm their opinions can render. White men sent so much hate mail to my fellow Daily Tar Heel columnist Ishmael Bishop, simply for being a black man with an opinion, that he was driven to quit.
In response to my question, a chorus of white men in my class complained about feeling silenced when discussing issues about the oppressed. Having your feelings hurt is in no manner equatable to oppression. Let me be clear — this column is not a call for a pity party on behalf of the privileged.
Yet, a dilemma exists for people of privilege who are legitimately interested in fighting for justice on campus. How does one act justly when they possess considerable power to do the opposite? At Carolina, friends and classmates have suggested that in times of doubt, I should defer to the perspectives of the oppressed. I often follow this notion because no one understands the hardship of systematic abuse better than those who actually experience it.
At times I find myself at odds with that advice. I remember participating in a Ferguson rally in downtown Durham last semester, watching a leader in the Nation of Islam speak to an audience of several hundred people. He challenged the white people present to disown their friends and family members who were not down with the cause. I realized that although his feelings were warranted in this time of tragedy, I could never take heed to his calling.
So how do people in power hold themselves accountable in pursuit of justice? I have learned that I will never be fully just, or anywhere close, and that will always be the case. This is not meant to be fatalistic, but rather to emphasize that the moment you convince yourself that you have the answers is the moment you stop trying to do better.
This past year, I have realized that I have a long way to go in my own pursuit. I have especially struggled with the imbalances in my relationships with the women in my life. Whether my mother or romantic interests, women have given me a lot more love and care than I have in return. But confessing my ills does not solve them — tempering my power to do harm will require a lifetime of deep soul-searching and practice.
