A hard look in the mirror

I was looking at the Skepchick blog, particularly at this post about feminism, racism and skepticism. I followed some of the links in that post (and the comments to that post) to other sites, where I found other links to other sites. Basically, I ended up spending a few hours reading about feminism, racism, and privilege. As I read, I recognized some parts of myself that I don’t particularly like. I also faced the question of whether I am actually going to change.

When I created this blog, I hesitated in calling it One Man’s Journey. I like the anonymity of the Internet. I don’t often refer to my own gender, race or age. I don’t say what country I’m from. Over at the de-con blog, I’ve stated that I’m not from the United States of America, but that doesn’t really narrow things down. Sure, there are clues in my post that let you build an image of me, but with the facelessness of the Internet, people are forced to judge people by what they say, rather than any other criteria. You may or may not have noticed that I only refer to my time and training as a pastor when speaking of my own struggles. I don’t bring them up in the midst of a debate to give greater weight to my words as if my formal education means I’m more likely to be correct than someone who’s simply read a lot of books or otherwise taught themselves with information available on the Internet, in libraries and in conversation with other people. I try to respond to people on the basis of what they say. I try to judge arguments on the basis of the argument, not on who presented it.

I’d never thought about how, even in that, I come from a position of privilege.

Let me say it now: I’m white, male, somewhere between young and middle-aged, and overweight. I own a car and a computer, have a Master’s degree, and am not particularly worried about being currently unemployed and having to move (somewhere) this month. I don’t tend to think of myself as privileged because I don’t ask for things I’m not willing to work for. I also don’t value much of what I am and have. But, on the Internet, I judge people by how they write, as well as by what they write. And I have done so without recognizing my own advantages on this playing field.

I am fed, well-rested and warm. I live in a neighbourhood where I do not need to fear my neighbours. I was born in a country where almost everyone knows English. My parents spoke English at home, as did their parents. My parents each had a job, and an income as I was growing up, and still had enough time and energy to read to me regularly. My parents only had a small number of children and could spend time with each of us, teaching me how to read before I started school. My parents could afford to buy me books for Christmas, Easter and my birthday. Some of these books were filled with riddles and logic puzzles, giving me a foundation in certain sorts of thinking. I was able to see a speech therapist at the public elementary school I went to, who helped me with my lisp so that I often forget I ever had one. I had access to libraries and a mother who worked out of the home who made certain I did my homework, including writing speeches that led me to winning awards in grades four, five and six. My parents could drive me to Air Cadets, where I took communication classes. My parents could afford drama classes for me and drove me to them, then to my roles in Community theatre. I was able to get many part-time jobs which allowed me to pay for my tuition at University, where I majored in English and took many Education and Drama classes. I lived in a city with a University, which allowed me to save on rent and food costs as my parents continued to feed and house me. I wrote many essays while at university, polishing my communication skills. I took a class in Logic and a few in Philosophy. I got to speak with others who had similar backgrounds and were accustomed to communicating similarly to the style I used.

I am loud, well-spoken and articulate. Quieter people often ask me to express their ideas for them. I have often done so, without realizing that most of these quieter souls were female. Unless they ask me not to, I usually credit the source, but it is still my voice that is heard. If I disagreed with what I spoke aloud for them, after all, I would have quietly discussed it with them, so that I would not embarrass them by arguing about the points loudly and in public. I had intended this to be courteous, but it has had the effect of increasing the odds of only ideas I agree with (or am brought to agree with) get heard.

When in small groups, I often look around to see who is trying to say something, but is having a hard time being heard, and I step in to give them a chance to speak. But this relies on my consciously looking and recognizing cues from shared body language. If the person’s body language cues differ significantly from my own, or I get too involved in the conversation to look, myself and my fellow loud people can take over a conversation. Even when I do look, and do recognize, I maintain control of the conversation by inviting and allowing the quieter ones to speak.

I’ve been blind to my position of privilege in this arena, and now that I see a little more clearly, I have no idea what I should do about it. This bothers me, but not as much as it probably should.