By Abby Claytor

Our progress will depend on strong foundational concepts grounded in being self-reflective, deliberate, and evaluative. Taking time to develop and strengthen our foundations—individually and institutionally—is essential, no matter how progressive or rudimentary we may be in our thinking and actions.

Jane Larsson, Executive Director, CIS

What started as a quest for me to understand myself and others has turned into a deep dive into the complexities of identity and diversity. Subtle influences have molded my existence, the nuance of culture, and the invisible forces guiding my thoughts and actions became apparent. Growing up specific influences strongly shaped my beliefs. Unmasking my true self-involved questioning those ingrained ideas to align with my evolving morals and values. Here is a portion of my personal exploration in terms of my racial identity and values associated with working towards racial justice.

I have spent the past couple months working at the Women’s Center at UMBC. I learned more about myself and others than I expected to, especially demographic similarities and differences individuals share.  Individuals’ differences are often highlighted rather than their similarities, especially when most similarities happen to be invisible to the eye. I am a female; I am white; I am middle class. While these aspects certainly hold relevance, they do not encapsulate the entirety of my life’s narrative. What is not seen impacts me more than the visual appearance I hold. Because of this, I feel strongly that issues surrounding race, gender, and culture are inherent in the research questions I wish to pursue. But to what extent does my identity as a white middle class woman preclude me from writing critically about these issues? Who am I to write about race?  

Troubled by how my “savior” approach has patronized so many parents, students, and friends, I felt paralyzed. Cancel culture anxiety had taken my inquiries and buried them behind the fear associated with this. I have been unable to find the words that best fit my intentions. 

I understand now that I was lacking in my approach – the realization that race and racism are not things that occur outside of me. Working toward racial justice by “helping” others ignores the ways in which I, as a white person, continually benefit from systems of oppression and privilege. Asking who am I to write about race, implies that I have no racial identity and that I am somehow outside institutionally racist systems. Writing this blog has provided space for me to reconsider what it means for a white person to engage in anti-racist work. I do have a role to play in the fight against racial injustice. The first step in assuming that role is to engage in self-education and self-reflection about systems of race in America and my place in them. 

I would also like to mention that the concept of white people talking about race can seem wrong or threatening. Because of this inherent fear, white people often wait to talk about race until interracial dialogues. This is problematic as many white people are frequently hindered in such conversations by inexperience discussing race, ignorance about the legacy of racial injustice in the US, and underdeveloped racial identities. Many people of color, on the other hand, arrive at interracial dialogues with an intimate understanding of racial dynamics and experience talking about race with friends and family. From a personal account I can attest that this was a taboo topic with my friends and family.

Starting at the Women’s Center was part of what forced me to confront my fears associated with my ignorance. In staff meetings or one-on-ones with my field instructor, topics associated with race have come up. My prior approach of avoidance was not effective.  It is impossible to deny that white privilege has impacted my life and the lives of others daily. However, I have now learned that continually examining one’s race and its role can be described as reflection as a form of action. (Indeed, avoiding this path is part of the dangerous lethargy of white privilege). While it may occasionally prompt discomfort, I do recognize the validity of this reality. This recognition is not found upon personal gain in any specific circumstance but rather on an awareness of systematic predispositions within society.

Being forced to confront my fears shattered barriers of avoidance. Now with my newfound insights and commitment to continual self-examination, I can embrace the uncomfortable but imperative journey towards unraveling the knots of racial injustice.

By Tanzila Malik

Growing up as a second-generation Pakistani-American, I never had a strong connection to my culture. My dad’s family immigrated to Nebraska from Pakistan in the early 1970s when he was just a year old. My mom lived in Pakistan until the age of eight. Then she moved to England, and then later to Germany. Neither had many memories from their time in Pakistan, so I was never exposed to my culture or in touch with that side of me the same way as other Pakistanis I know.

I grew up around my dad’s family, who had spent their whole lives in the US, chasing the American dream, and leaving behind their lives in Pakistan. They assimilated themselves into American culture, including religiously watching Sunday night football like most other American families I know. But I’ve always felt too Pakistani for the Americans, and too American for the Pakistanis.

I grew up in a predominantly white neighborhood, and my elementary school was the same. Although I made really good friends throughout my years there, I was still always made to feel like the “other.” Whether it was the fact that none of my teachers looked like me, constantly having to correct peoples’ pronunciation of my name, or that people would automatically assume I was related to one of the few brown kids in the school. The list is endless. Because of this, I always felt ashamed of my background, and like I had to prove that I was a “normal American” like my peers. The one attempt my school made to be culturally inclusive, was the annual “Family Heritage Night.” During this, people set up tables with artifacts from their cultures including clothes, food, games, etc. Despite my opposition, my mom insisted that we set up a table to showcase our Pakistani culture. She tried to make me wear our traditional clothing, but I refused and tried my best to be anywhere but where our table was.

These feelings continued throughout my years in elementary school but shifted once I got to high school, where the population was significantly more diverse. I met so many people from different cultural backgrounds, including my own, and felt empowered enough to begin reclaiming my cultural identity. This feeling didn’t last long though. Soon, I began to realize that I didn’t fit in with my South Asian friends either. People would poke fun at me for not knowing their references to Bollywood movies or other aspects of Pakistani popular culture. I began to feel like an outsider again, even among people from my own culture and I projected their perception of me onto myself. In my head, I thought that since I couldn’t always relate to my culture the same way as my Pakistani friends, that must mean I’m not really Pakistani.

As I’ve gotten older, and have been exposed to different cultures and ways of thinking in college, I’ve realized that there is no “right” way to “do” culture. Culture is constantly changing, and is whatever we make it. This is still something I work through every day, through my interactions with other people, experiences at school, work, etc. But I’m learning that I don’t need to force myself to fit in with one group or the other and that how I perceive my identity is the only thing that matters.

By Ash Acuña

When I first joined the team at the Women’s Center, one of the very first things we covered were Brave Space guidelines. The three core tenets of Brave Spaces—challenge yourself, respect others, cultivate community—invite curiosity, learning, and safety to improve. Brave Spaces, at times, feel like a replacement for what educational spaces are supposed to represent. Growing up in a time of social media, it feels like everything is at risk of being recorded and put on the internet for others to dissect. Having Brave Spaces reminds me that real life is often not like that—and yet, the anxiety carries over.

I find it odd that my peers will often soften their opinions in class. Classrooms should be a place for learning, but I have heard classmates say, “I don’t want to get canceled for this,” far too many times (and on relatively cold takes, too). They share their thoughts with hesitancy, putting literal disclaimers out ahead of their speech, afraid they will be ostracized for participating in a discussion that is intended for all of us to learn from. Rather than be wrong and grow from it, we live in an age where being wrong in the wrong place can send a hurricane of hate your way.

I feel the same anxiety my classmates do. I see the same people they do get canceled on Twitter and fear my words could also be virally twisted to the point that nobody will listen when I try to defend myself. My own fears stem from the physical world; in 2020, stuck in quarantine with my family, I was verbally attacked by loved ones for what was perceived to be performative activism (rather than burnout and the personal trauma I was sorting out). Unable to defend myself, isolated from a support system, it felt like one wrong move would send me straight to hell. If I didn’t act the exact right way, or didn’t say the exact right thing, then I was a performer, a bad person, a liar who cared more for themself than for the people who they claimed to want to help.

I know I was not the only one who experienced this kind of anxiety; many of my friends stayed silent for fear of saying the wrong thing and getting blasted on Facebook or Instagram stories. I watched as people who seemed to be making honest efforts to improve got dragged for posting about their learning. I have found myself to be in the position of a crusader, having shamed a past partner for not voting when they were able (shaming someone is different than sharing different values; voting was, and is, important to me, but it was not to my partner. Rather than understand that, I tried to coerce—shame—them into believing what I wanted them to). Even though situations are often more nuanced than they appear to be, nuance is not, it seems, easily translated or understood in mob thinking. The social pressure to think like everyone else, at risk of ending up on the side of the attacked, is great enough to cause an emotional spiral.

What I know now is that shame does not work to create change. It is a spiteful, coercive tactic to manipulate people into doing or believing what you want them to. It also does not leave room for learning. Rather than understand why what we did or said was wrong, when we are shamed, we fixate on how to avoid being rejected by our community. Cancel culture necessitates that we publicly shame others into believing they were wrong, but it does not actually teach the wrong-doer how to change their behavior. Cancel culture is operating under the name of “accountability” when it is in reality just a substitute for public shaming. Shame, as Brené Brown puts it, is the feeling that something is wrong with ourselves. Remorse, on the other hand, is understanding the harm our actions have caused.

Cancel culture is often justified by suggesting that the person being canceled should know, or is old enough to know, better. But how do we judge that, without knowing all that a person has experienced? Knowledge is not inherent; we all learn it from someone or something. With my personal experience of having grown up in a highly conservative area, I have seen how the echo chamber of the community you live in is one that could very easily never challenge your beliefs. Let us not forget that higher education is a privilege; even publicly available literature is often inaccessible to those not familiar with academic jargon.

We cannot cultivate community when we are looking for reasons to oust people from it. We are not respecting others when we don’t give them the benefit of the doubt. We cannot challenge ourselves when we don’t feel safe enough to do so.

People are wrong. Frequently. What matters isn’t that we are wrong, it is how we handle it. It is impossible to know everything, especially when the world changes so quickly. A community that will guide us and continue to treat us as humans when we are led astray is the best way to combat ignorance. It helps no one to launch into an immediate attack, throwing inflammatory labels onto someone who, for all we know, may have been truly misguided. And if we are so easily ready to throw stones at those who are wrong, it may be worth looking inwards and treating others with the same grace we should be affording ourselves.