Jul 14, 2009

Dancing on the Razor's Edge: Judge Sotomayor, Sexism, Racism, and the Confirmation Hearings

I've just sent my fourth email to a U.S. Senator today--all in response to what I've heard at Judge Sotomayor's confirmation hearings. While most of my day has been spent writing my upcoming book on teaching and spirituality, I watched part of the hearings over coffee this morning and more over a late lunch this afternoon. Those brief exposures to the questioning sent me straight to my email (and now, this blog).

Politics is hard for me. It's not good for my blood pressure. I know that things are often said "for show" because there's another agenda that these comments will support, but I find it troubling nonetheless. Distortions disturb me.

My first email was to Senator Jeff Sessions regarding his questioning of Judge Sotomayor's "wise Latina woman" comments in a speech. What disturbed me most about Senator Sessions' line of questioning is that he either refused to hear or really just didn't understand Judge Sotomayor's explanation of her comments. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume the latter.

I believe that the difference between Senator Sessions' poor understanding of Judge Sotomayor's comments and her (to me, very clear) explanation of them lies in an unamed core assumption about the belief in pure objectivity, which underlies most of our knowledge tradition in many fields of thought. However, as a feminist science studies scholar, I know that this assumption has been challenged by many. Notable among them is philosopher of science Dr. Sandra Harding who argues that our subjective experience must be considered in our judgments if we are ever to even approach objectivity.

Our experiences shape our perspectives, attitudes and beliefs in many ways, and lead us to form (often hidden, but deeply held) assumptions about many things. Without illuminating and naming the ways in which our hidden assumptions (based on past experiences) may influence our current perceptions, we are even less likely to make truly objective decisions.

It is not enough to merely assert that one is unbiased and is making objective judgments. In fact, to determinedly ignore the ways in which our subjective experience may influence our judgments leaves us even more prone to biased judgment. For example, for Senator Sessions not to name the ways in which growing up as a white male in a rural town of then racially-segregated Alabama may influence his perception of race and gender is to leave himself open to precisely the type of determined misperception and misinterpreation of Judge Sotomayor's comments that he has engaged in.

This is the very thing that most who operate from a position of race, gender, and/or class privilege miss in these types of conversations. Pretending that racism and sexism don't exist will not end them. The fact that we live in a hierarchically structured society that still institutionalizes difference influences how we all move through our world. If we don't honestly examine those differing influences and bring them to the light, we may never really eradicate racism, sexism, classism, and all of the other members of what Gloria Yamato calls "the ism family."

My next two emails were to my Minnesota Senators Amy Klobuchar and Al Franken. I hoped that sharing this language and way of thinking about this discussion of Judge Sotomayor's comments might help them make a better case in her favor.

My most recent email was to Senator Lindsey Graham. I found his seemingly warm and friendly questioning even more offensive in content than that of Senator Sessions. I was actually physically pained by the contradiction in his thinking regarding the focus of his questions.

On one hand, he implied that Judge Sotomayor may be biased regarding race and/or gender based on comments from speeches, not on her record (in my experience, actions speak louder than words). On the other hand, he demonstrated condescendingly sexist bias himself in instructing Judge Sotomayor to "tone down" her personality in her court. This "advice" was inspired by evaluations of her as a judge by New York attorneys that referred to her as "tough" and a "bully."

Sadly, this so-called data may offer a classic example of a sexist (or racist) double bind. In our hierarchical dominator society, we've defined leadership largely in terms of characteristics that almost directly correlate with how we define "maleness"--assertive, strong, task-oriented, etc. However, women in leadership must dance on the razor's edge--attempting to be assertive may get you labeled as arrogant, attempting to be strong may get you labeled a bully, and attempting to be task-oriented may get you labeled uncaring. It is far more likely that an assertive, strong, task-oriented woman will be criticized than any of her male colleagues who display the same behavior.

It is also not trivial to report that 17 of Judge Sotomayor's other 20 colleagues on the Second Circuit Court are male. Clearly, attorneys rarely have to come before a woman judge. When they do, they are far more likely to be critical of her behavior. If she doesn't walk the razor's edge carefully enough, she'll bleed.

We will never have more women and people of color in positions of power in this nation, until those who are already in leadership positions take the time to really educate themselves about how we keep inviting the dysfunctional "ism" family to the dinner table. We must engage in ongoing learning about the insidious ways in which we all participate in keeping this flawed social hierarchy in place.

Just saying "I'm not sexist or I'm not racist" is not enough. We each have to daily scrutinize our own behavior. If you want to understand more, I recommend Allan Johnson's wonderful little book Power, Privilege and Difference or bell hooks' Feminism is for Everybody.

Apr 30, 2009

Permission to Grieve: The Healing Power of Public Art

My tour of duty began shortly after my 14th birthday when my father arrived home from his job in the Pentagon’s Office of Southeast Asian Affairs to announce that he had accepted a two-year assignment in Vietnam. My parents began discussing where Mom and I should move in order to see Dad more often. Our choices were to remain in Virginia (and see Dad once a year), move to Hawaii (and see him every nine months), move to the Philippines (and see him every six months), or move to Thailand (and see him every three months).

On August 24, 1969, we boarded a plane in San Francisco bound for Bangkok. Twenty-four hours later, I looked out the window as the plane descended toward an expanse of bright green rice paddies. Thus began what remain two of the most remarkable and challenging years of my life. Mom and I lived in Bangkok while Dad was in Saigon. For two years, we flew to Saigon or Dad flew to Bangkok every three months or so. During that time, I volunteered for the Red Cross at U.S. Army hospitals in Bangkok and Saigon.

On one trip to Vietnam, Mom and I flew with the American Red Cross “donut dollies” to several fire bases within chopper distance of Saigon. Every time I hear a helicopter now, I’m transported to vivid memories of that day. They flash by in snippets. A young American soldier strapping me into a seat next to the doorless opening in the helicopter. Another soldier climbing up behind me to man the machine gun pointed out the door. The relief of the hot air rushing through the open cabin as we cut through the suffocating tropical heat. Banking to turn over dense green jungle after we were diverted from visiting a fire base currently under enemy fire. The awareness that the “enemy” might be below in the jungle and that I should be afraid. But, I wasn’t. I wondered why, but couldn’t explain it for many years.

I was a young, white, middle class, U.S. American girl travelling on a diplomatic passport which meant “special” treatment. I assumed that just being my father’s daughter would protect me. I assumed that race and class privilege would protect me. In my ignorance, I assumed many things. But, the experience of living in Southeast Asia was the beginning of the end of such ignorance. I remember Edna Cohen, a well-travelled neighbor in our apartment building who had moved to Thailand from Iran, saying “You may not understand it now, but in a few years you’ll begin to see all that you’ve learned from this experience.” Edna was right. And it didn’t take very long.

As soon as we returned to the U.S., I realized how different I was from other teenagers due to my experiences in Southeast Asia. The differences cost me. But, as is often true in life, the greater the sacrifice, the greater the benefit. The problem is that you have to recover from the sacrifice, before you can appreciate the benefit. It took me years to recover.

Over the years, I’ve pondered how to write about it without sounding like a whiner. After all, I didn’t have to carry a gun and I wasn’t asked to risk my life or to take anyone else’s. But, I did experience death. Like all U.S. Americans, my Vietnam experience consisted of many deaths—the death of my unchallenged patriotism, the death of my unquestioned idealism about democratic government, the death of my unwavering belief in my father’s infallibility, the death of my high school years, and the death of my innocence.

I had never grieved any of these losses until I visited the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. nearly 20 years later. In the presence of Maya Lin’s black modernistic gash through the capitol city of white classical marble, I realized that I had always felt like a Vietnam veteran, too.

What made Lin’s memorial so powerful was its color and placement among the other monuments to U.S. history. Lin’s simple black memorial was buried in the earth, unlike the classical white memorials that towered over it—disrupting the orderly relationship of the monuments to each other. So, for me, Lin’s memorial felt like an honest and moving tribute to the Vietnam experience that similarly disrupted and left its scar across the heart of so many U.S. Americans.

And, then there were the names, the names, the endless walls of names. Was one name the soldier who helped me into the chopper that day? Was one name the solider who manned the machine gun that day? Lin’s wall, buried in the earth and reflecting a sea of losses, made it impossible for me to continue burying such questions and my own losses rose up like the tide and crashed on the shore.

As the tide of my losses ebbed, I looked around and saw how Lin's black gash helped so many honor their different losses. Some lost their lives. Some lost their limbs. Some lost their lovers. Some lost their brothers. Some lost their sisters. Some lost their fathers. Some lost their mothers. Some, like me, lost their innocence to the grief of a nation. Like the rest of the country, I needed to mourn that loss. Maya Lin’s art gave me permission to grieve.