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| Better Safe Than Sorry by Teacher's Media |
The never-ending onslaught of
offenses, catastrophes, violations and disasters that pepper my social media
news feed is a testament to the state of our world. As a life-long progressive
activist, I am largely exposed to the posts of folks with similar views and
politics. I stopped watching television news years ago, filtering my exposure
to current events through the interpretations and actions of reporters who are activists
and change-makers. This decision meant I no longer yelled at the screen or
turned it off in a fury over the biased, offensive slant of patriarchal,
capitalist, racist, sexist, homophobic "news" reporters. It did not,
however, protect me from being affected by each horror in a never-ending loop
of traumatization. While I freed myself from exposure to the infuriating biases
of the news media, I have still been bathed in the injustice of each atrocity.
Often I go through several days of depression, anger and grief upon learning
the details of yet another violation. From Orlando
to Oaxaca,
the domestic and international reign of terror, force, control, violence and
dehumanization never ends. And while I don't click on each article, analysis,
protest announcement, or petition, I see the headlines and learn the basic
facts of dozens of such events every week. And then there are the ones that I read
in-depth. The ones that touch me too deeply to avoid, the ones that catch me at
a moment of weakness, the ones that keep coming up over and over and over as I
scroll down the screen.
Most recently I became ensconced
in articles and protests and community responses to the deaths of 50 mostly
Puerto Rican, mostly LGBTQ young people in Orlando and the campus rape of a woman at
Stanford. In both cases, the more I read and the more details I learned, the
more triggered I became, and the more these atrocities took me over. In some
ways, my rage and grief about these incidents connected me to others,
reinforcing my sense of solidarity and community with folks committed to
dismantling the systems of oppression that cause such violence. On the other
hand, I lost sleep, lost peace of mind, and increased my sense of vulnerability
and fear.
While I believe it is crucial
that we understand the big picture of how oppression, power, and violence
function in our world, I am rethinking my exposure to each new example of these
larger forces. This is what I know: powerful men are allowed to violate
whomever they wish, however they wish, with minimal consequences. Women are
raped with impunity. The US
legal system is set up to maintain the wealth and power structures of this
country, to target oppressed people and protect privileged people. The
particular details of the Stanford rape trial reveal nothing new about the
objectification of women and the perversity of rape culture. And yet, I am
infuriated by the media's lauding of the perpetrator's athletic prowess, their
use of his friendly, innocent, cute headshot rather than his mug shot, his
refusal to acknowledge any guilt or offer any apology even after being found
guilty, his father's letter in his defense, and the insult of a 6-month sentence
to "protect his future".
In the case of the Orlando massacre, I
already know that queer people of color are targets of hatred, that gun
violence is rampant, that anti-Muslim sentiment and cries of terrorism are
prepared by the media and politicians regardless of any facts, and that
internalized homophobia is deadly. After learning of this massacre, I
participated in a vigil in a tiny town in the South where I was able to offer a
Spanish-language reading of the names of the dead for a mostly monolingual-English
community mourning ceremony. This felt like a meaningful contribution, and an
important honoring of the lives of those who were killed. And yet, what about
the days I spent in a fog before and after the vigil, the disconnection I felt
from my own sense of love and belonging? And what about the angry days and
restless nights I spent after reading about the victim-blaming trial and
light sentencing in the Stanford rape case?
Choosing to learn about these
current events did not hone my analysis of inequality or increase my capacity
to offer love and healing to the world. So, I am left wondering what this
anger does for me. It does not make it any easier to face each day or to sleep
at night. It does not make each personal brush with these power structures less
troubling. It does not connect me more strongly to the vast majority of us who
are oppressed by these truths. It does not explain my life's purpose more
clearly. In fact, reading the details of these events is triggering and painful,
causing greater physical harm to my body, already ravaged by decades of
over-production of stress hormones. And it causes me great psychic strain,
uprooting my emotional well-being as I read the troubling details of yet
another instance of police brutality, war crime, or climate chaos
disaster.
As an activist, I have always
believed that it is important to know what's going on in the world of social
justice, to be informed about current events and to have an opinion about
politics. I now believe that my understanding of rape culture, gun culture, and
the impact of patriarchy, capitalism, racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia,
and all the other forms of inequality is sufficient to inform my actions and
activism in the world, and that learning the details of each new atrocity is
actually perpetuating the violence on myself. When I consent to expose myself
to each offense, I victimize myself. And while it is a privilege to choose not
to know about every oppressive act, I believe that we all deserve it. Rather
than sacrificing my own mental health because of the sickness of my
communities, I want to uplift myself and those around me by spreading love and
light in the best ways I know how. I may no longer be able to discuss current
events with outrage and incisive political analysis. I may no longer be able to
earn activist props for the stories I share on social media. But I will not
forget what I know about the power structures of our world, or lose my
conviction that they must be dismantled. I am curious to see how this will
affect my mental health, my ability to support others in my communities, and my
critique of the dominant culture.
