I am heartsick. I want no part of what has been occurring in “my house” as of late.
When Abhi approached me about starting a group blog to highlight “brown” aspects of the 2004 presidential race, I immediately agreed to take part. Why wouldn’t I? This project would seek out and illuminate that which the mainstream media couldn’t be bothered with— discrimination against a journalist with a South Asian name, the disrespect shown to our culture by a state branch of a major political party, essentially, the desi angle to everything around us. We would light the political and social night. We could be a beacon to every other South Asian American who felt exactly what we felt, lived through what we had, questioned what we did.
As an Orthodox Christian, the concept of “light” is sacred to me; I stood with almost a thousand people last Saturday night, waiting for our priest to throw open the doors to the altar, holy fire held high. The altar boys would take bits of that flame for their own candles, then fan out and pass the light on to the first row of parishioners, who would turn and continue the cycle, one pew lighting the candles behind it until everyone was bathed in the glow that only comes from flame and wax. The ritual which had taken place for over a millennia demonstrated how consummate darkness would always be destroyed by light. Light, a symbol of hope, a symbol of truth. Light, a visual reminder of the triumph of good over evil.
Evil does live in the dark. It lurks in shadows where it ensnares victims of rape, gagging them with shame while concomitantly extinguishing their inner flames.
One of the reasons why rape survivors do not come forward is because they are terrified that they will be doubted. They will be humiliated again, this time by those who should know better, who work for justice. Bruised and broken, they are forced to relive their ordeal while relating it to cynics and skeptics. The burden is on the survivor and that isn’t right. Yes, sometimes people lie and manipulate sympathy but that never justifies being unkind.
Once, in my Freshman-year theology class, Sister Veronica was asked about whether one should always provide alms for beggars. “Sister…isn’t it true that these people are bums? That they are going to just spend the money on drugs or booze? That’s what my Dad said and that’s why I don’t give them money anymore.” Sister Veronica’s face became serene.
“Child, you have been taught since kindergarten to see the face of Christ in everyone you meet, no matter who they are. Yes, even those whom you refer to as ‘bums’ have a divine inner light because just like you, they are children of God. They deserve to be treated that way.”
“But sister-“
“No buts. Even if they are going to use the pennies you give them for something else, even if they are lying about how they need money for food, even if they plan to buy drugs, you must believe that they are truly in need. Only God is allowed to judge others. And that unfortunate soul really might be in need—how would you know if they weren’t? And wouldn’t it be awful if you let your preconceived notions, your assumptions prevent you from doing what is right? From helping someone who truly needs it? You never know someone else’s story, so don’t act as if you do. Act as if you don’t. And act as if the best, not the worst is what is true.”
I have carried those words, albeit imperfectly with me since that sunny California afternoon when I first heard them in 1988.
Maybe I am hypersensitive about this because I am usually the victim of people assuming the worst about me. At no less than three meetups, I have been approached privately by sheepish attendees who felt the need to identify themselves a second time—beyond the usual “hey, everyone say your name and if you comment, what name you comment under!”— this time with their “troll handle”. In each of those situations, they extended apologies and some version of the following: “I don’t know why I thought you were a such a bitch/jerk/asshole when it’s not like I met you or knew you and now that I have met you, I feel bad.” Right. Thank you. I’m generally left a bit dazed by such encounters, but I am always grateful for them; I get those Mea Culpas via email, too.
But at least I get them. I don’t know if others are as lucky. I noticed that a few of you—and that few includes people whom I considered friends— isolated a commenter, surrounding him and casting aspersions at him as if they were stones. What’s worse, even after SM Intern intervened to proclaim that the mutineer being pelted was INNOCENT, this unconscionable behavior CONTINUED. So much for “my house”, for Sepia Mutiny being a “safe space”. It is not right. And I will neither host nor participate in a community that behaves in such a vicious manner.
Who are any of us, to require that someone substantiate their life story? The person in question wasn’t asking for anything from us, beyond the usual respect and courtesy we normally extend to one another. If other commenters chose to express their sympathy or good will towards someone brave enough to bare themselves so totally and vulnerably (and yes, I know a little something about THAT, too, which is a huge part of why I’m livid) then it’s no one else’s business to insert themselves in to that emotional transaction.
I normally don’t get into personal lives and attacks, but had to respond to this since there was an outpouring of sympathy for you on this board. If there’s anything I cannot stand, it’s undeserved praise, criticsm [sic] or sympathy. [link]
Who among us is qualified to determine what another deserves when it comes to something as free and abundant as sympathy? We weren’t donating money or time or anything else to an unworthy cause, we were merely reaching out and offering comfort—was that so wrong?
I find it bitterly amusing that on a website where we rail against the ineffectiveness and injustice of profiling, some of us did exactly that. A few of our commenters posse’d up and attacked someone on the basis of their grammar, spelling, syntax. They decided that their quarry sounded female or FOBish or this or that. How does that possibly differ from my getting yanked out of the security checkpoint line at Dulles or JFK because my skin is brown and my name seems furrin? If it’s not fair to say I look like a terrorist than it is similarly uncalled for to say a commenter sounds like a __ .
Assumptions are a terrible, dangerous thing, aren’t they? Please, let’s all try and avoid them, if for no other reason than to sustain the existence of this precious, fragile community which means everything to me. If it means anything to you, join me in insisting on civility at the Mutiny and model it for all. None of us is perfect, I know I have a wicked temper, but I’m trying to be better and I hope you will, too.
To the person who was singled out for such undeserved treatment: my sincerest apologies. I hope you know you are always welcome in our home.
