July 2020: A Question That Asks A Lot

This month my learning started with, like most things, a question. 

I’ve been having an insightful exchange with a Black friend who’s involved in racial justice activism. We mostly express our frustrations with social issues and share helpful resources when we can. But then in one exchange about having frustrating conversations with friends & family, he said,

“It’s a big ask, but we need people to consider: what relationships are you willing to sacrifice to get people free?”

I’ll share some of my thoughts on that, and I’ll also talk about how I’ve applied the root of that question—sacrifice—to writing.

But first, let me tell you what initially went through my mind.

A few years ago, my husband Stephen and I were at a bougie children’s store in Santa Monica buying some presents. We were making small talk with the sales rep, a white lady about our same age, lamenting about why we couldn’t take our dogs onto the huge beaches in LA.

I said something like, “I guess people are just worried about dog owners not cleaning up the poop.” But then she responded: “Yeah, but I mean, we let homeless people on the beach—and that’s way grosser.” 

At the moment, I couldn’t even process and respond. I don’t remember what I said, but I know I didn’t acknowledge her comment. I’m pretty sure I laughed it off and proceeded to hand over my credit card as she wrapped up presents for my niece. She didn’t have any idea how shocked I was.

When we left the store, I asked Stephen, “Did she really say what I think she said?” We walked back to our apartment, trying to unpack things. We got home, talked more, and that’s when I realized how conditioned I was to diffuse any and all conversational discomfort. 

Making someone feel uncomfortable is a cardinal sin in ‘polite society.’ It’s default. Practically in my DNA at this point. Don’t react, be pleasant, smile, move on.

And this goes deeper. 

If you’re like me and grew up in a white, middle class, midwestern (or southern) environment, then you know an unspoken equation: expressed pain = complaining + ingratitude. Which should be avoided at all costs. Because if something is raw and difficult, it makes people feel uncomfortable. So we sanitize terrible realities, wonder why people are so angry, and murmur for shame if ‘profane’ language is used. 

But the problem there is that we can learn from other people’s pain. That’s what builds empathy. All the better if it’s real and raw. Building empathy is almost always uncomfortable, emotional, humbling, exhausting and even embarrassing. That’s why we often avoid it and that’s why you hear about ‘allyship fatigue’. But we need to hang onto our empathy to be allies. 

I wasn’t an ally or an accomplice that day in Santa Monica. After I processed what happened, I couldn’t even muster the courage to go back into the store and say, “Hey there, you know I was thinking about what you said about homeless people on the beach. And I just wanted to say that I have friends who are experiencing homeless, and I was very shocked and sad that someone would speak about them in that way. I know you probably did not intend to sound callous or demeaning, but you did. I just needed to let you know, because I would want the same feedback.”

Which is what I should have done. But I knew that, before talking with my friend.

So back to what he said: “What relationships are you willing to sacrifice for people to get free?” 

This added an important layer that I’ve been missing ever since that day in Santa Monica. Thinking about advocacy like this—thinking about anything I do with this question in mind—has reframed so much for me already. 

As far as I can see it, empathy is the way to become an ally. But sacrifice is the way to become an accomplice. And in the same way, perhaps sacrifice is what makes a writer, a good writer.

The truth is, when it comes to my writing, I have yet to ask myself, what am I willing to sacrifice? And I think this is an important question for any creative to ask of their work. Both if it doesn’t succeed, but also if it does.

Sure, I’ve already asked myself what I lose if my book does not get published. (Some answers include: confidence, respect, credibility, and a lot of time.) But I’m not sure I’ve fully outlined what I’m willing to sacrifice if this project does succeed. If this book makes it out into the world, what then is at risk? 

And if I can’t come up with a good answer, then that should lead me to wonder if the book is worth it at all.

If any of us want to call ourselves writers, creatives, or decent human beings, then something has to be at risk. We have to be willing to sacrifice something to make our work known. And if our work is known, that too should demand something from us.

Epictetus said: “You are not some disinterested bystander. Exert yourself.”

It’s easy to look my book in the face and wonder “what’s it all for?” and become completely defeated. Ask any writer—this is a daily occurrence. But outlining what relationships and comforts I am willing to sacrifice for my book in all outcomes is helping me recommit to it. Because if I can come up with a list of sacrifices, then I can come up with the reasons why I’m still trying to do what I’m trying to do.

Real sacrifice. That’s what BIPOC people need from white people. That’s what poor people need from billionaires and corporations. And that’s what society needs from its artists, creators and writers. 

That’s always what we need to do something real. 

- Tess Canfield, July 2020 via The Latest