"It's Always About Me"
Has the world gone completely mad?
I suppose that's a comment that could precede the description of any number of travesties, but in this case I'm referring to the bewildering criticism of Jada Pinkett Smith by Harvard's Bisexual Gay Lesbian Transgender, and Supporters Alliance (BGLTSA), accusing her (of all things) of assuming a "heteronormative" stance because she inadvertently encouraged women (among other things) that they could have a "loving man, devoted husband, loving children, a fabulous career."
[BTW: Who coins words like "heteronormative" anyway -- someone scrounging for points during a game of Scrabble?]
It’s morbidly ironic that a black female (of all things) can successfully be accused of insensitivity, to the effect of triggering policy changes at an institution supposedly committed to free thought and tolerance of ALL points of view, rather than those of the self-proclaimed “victim class” of the particular moment.
While the complaint itself might not have been couched angrily enough to be perceived as an "attack," there's a certain pathology that accompanies such levels of hypersensitivity.
The curse of the perpetually narcissistic is to scan a supposedly hostile environment with impeccable vigilance, viewing every comment and incident as somehow directed at them personally (usually as an underhanded indictment of their character or a tacit rejection of their personhood) and then insist upon immediate correction.
“Narcissistic" is a harsh word, but I use it because that's what this is, in the most real sense: Not necessarily the blatant pomposity we all have come to associate with the word, but the more pervasive assumption that I should somehow be the constant consideration of every event or comment occurring in my presence and that others are obligated to comply to my personal sensitivities.
I understand it because, for many years, any comment (large or small, direct or indirect) was construed as a potentially negative assessment of me, a slur that left me cowering and stewing in isolation, ashamed and bitter.
The hardest lesson I had to learn was this: “It’s not about ME, stupid!”
Okay, so ignore the shrill blare of your PC meter for a moment. There’s simply no other way to describe the behavior: It WAS stupid and silly of me to act that way.
Was I so important that every conversation necessarily revolved around me, overtly or not?
Was it so imperative that every person constantly consider my thoughts and feelings in every word and action so as to stroke and affirm my fragile identity?
Did I always have to focus on my own painfully vulnerable interior world rather than directing myself outward into the world of others, to contribute rather than demand?
I was no longer a child to be coddled but an adult who could protect and empower others. Instead, like an angry three-year-old, I demanded that everyone dance around me on the proverbial eggshells, lest I withdraw – sullen and morose – into a corner somewhere to lick my painful wounds.
I find myself angry such a mindset. Everything is so personal, so all-encompassing. Relationships are habitually antagonistic.
Why is the solution always, "Heaven forbid you hurt my feelings or incidentally marginalize me," rather than "What can I contribute to a meaningful dialogue that, at bare minimum, puts others in areas of equal important to myself?"
I fear that it's because such a solution never demands that I give anything. I can remain the victim and insist that others provide me the affirmation I still don't feel.
Sometimes people hurt us on purpose. Sometimes people hurt us by accident. And sometimes we get hurt because we're weak and wounded in some ways.
But that's just part of life, and we learn as we go that it's possible to feel some pain, to carry some wounds, and still be able to lay ourselves aside instead of making our own needs and feelings the constant priority.
I wonder what Jada might have done if the situation had been reversed -- if she had been one of a few with her heritage in a crowd composed almost entirely of white people, overhearing a few generalizations made in the process of encouraging and empowering people to live better lives?
I do not know Jada, and I could be wrong, but from what I've seen of her, I would guess that she would consider the context and move on because she knew what the intentions of the moment were.
She'd be able to recognize a real spirit of racism (or sexism) as opposed to the equivalent of the all-inclusive "he."
And if racism was ever really the issue, she'd confront it at an appropriate time and place, in actual dialogue with those whom she thought were in the wrong, motivated not by fear and hurt but out of balanced purpose, without wielding a club to get what she wanted.
Jada's always been a classy lady.
I suppose that's a comment that could precede the description of any number of travesties, but in this case I'm referring to the bewildering criticism of Jada Pinkett Smith by Harvard's Bisexual Gay Lesbian Transgender, and Supporters Alliance (BGLTSA), accusing her (of all things) of assuming a "heteronormative" stance because she inadvertently encouraged women (among other things) that they could have a "loving man, devoted husband, loving children, a fabulous career."
[BTW: Who coins words like "heteronormative" anyway -- someone scrounging for points during a game of Scrabble?]
It’s morbidly ironic that a black female (of all things) can successfully be accused of insensitivity, to the effect of triggering policy changes at an institution supposedly committed to free thought and tolerance of ALL points of view, rather than those of the self-proclaimed “victim class” of the particular moment.
While the complaint itself might not have been couched angrily enough to be perceived as an "attack," there's a certain pathology that accompanies such levels of hypersensitivity.
The curse of the perpetually narcissistic is to scan a supposedly hostile environment with impeccable vigilance, viewing every comment and incident as somehow directed at them personally (usually as an underhanded indictment of their character or a tacit rejection of their personhood) and then insist upon immediate correction.
“Narcissistic" is a harsh word, but I use it because that's what this is, in the most real sense: Not necessarily the blatant pomposity we all have come to associate with the word, but the more pervasive assumption that I should somehow be the constant consideration of every event or comment occurring in my presence and that others are obligated to comply to my personal sensitivities.
I understand it because, for many years, any comment (large or small, direct or indirect) was construed as a potentially negative assessment of me, a slur that left me cowering and stewing in isolation, ashamed and bitter.
The hardest lesson I had to learn was this: “It’s not about ME, stupid!”
Okay, so ignore the shrill blare of your PC meter for a moment. There’s simply no other way to describe the behavior: It WAS stupid and silly of me to act that way.
Was I so important that every conversation necessarily revolved around me, overtly or not?
Was it so imperative that every person constantly consider my thoughts and feelings in every word and action so as to stroke and affirm my fragile identity?
Did I always have to focus on my own painfully vulnerable interior world rather than directing myself outward into the world of others, to contribute rather than demand?
I was no longer a child to be coddled but an adult who could protect and empower others. Instead, like an angry three-year-old, I demanded that everyone dance around me on the proverbial eggshells, lest I withdraw – sullen and morose – into a corner somewhere to lick my painful wounds.
…Annie, you think the whole world's been cruel
All the stars took advantage of you
Your mother was cold, your daddy'd no love
So you stomped your feet til they noticed
Stomped your feet til they put on the kid gloves
Now they're walking on eggshells, they're walking on glass
They sing you a lullaby each time you ask
Someday you'll pick yourself up off your ass and go...-- “Annie,” from the album Ten Cent Wings by Jonatha Brooke
I find myself angry such a mindset. Everything is so personal, so all-encompassing. Relationships are habitually antagonistic.
Why is the solution always, "Heaven forbid you hurt my feelings or incidentally marginalize me," rather than "What can I contribute to a meaningful dialogue that, at bare minimum, puts others in areas of equal important to myself?"
I fear that it's because such a solution never demands that I give anything. I can remain the victim and insist that others provide me the affirmation I still don't feel.
Sometimes people hurt us on purpose. Sometimes people hurt us by accident. And sometimes we get hurt because we're weak and wounded in some ways.
But that's just part of life, and we learn as we go that it's possible to feel some pain, to carry some wounds, and still be able to lay ourselves aside instead of making our own needs and feelings the constant priority.
I wonder what Jada might have done if the situation had been reversed -- if she had been one of a few with her heritage in a crowd composed almost entirely of white people, overhearing a few generalizations made in the process of encouraging and empowering people to live better lives?
I do not know Jada, and I could be wrong, but from what I've seen of her, I would guess that she would consider the context and move on because she knew what the intentions of the moment were.
She'd be able to recognize a real spirit of racism (or sexism) as opposed to the equivalent of the all-inclusive "he."
And if racism was ever really the issue, she'd confront it at an appropriate time and place, in actual dialogue with those whom she thought were in the wrong, motivated not by fear and hurt but out of balanced purpose, without wielding a club to get what she wanted.
Jada's always been a classy lady.
posted by Fortunato at 12:58 PM
