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On
Political Struggle
When is
Patience Really Cowardice?
By Kil Ja
Kim
If
there is one word I hear constantly repeated among
activists, it is the word struggle. The idea of
struggle is central to political work, or at least in the
multiple spaces I am in or have entered and in the political
work I read. I have used the word on plenty of occasions,
or have nodded my head when it has been said. Yet as a
person who takes seriously developing analysis and practice
rooted in it, I am really confused about what it means to
struggle.
It is not that I
don’t know what the term struggle means. Or at least I
think it means to be committed to dialogue and to working
through shit instead of running away. At least that’s
what I have been told when I have decided to end dialogues or
run away from a relationship. That is, it is usually when
I am leaving the room, hanging up the phone, or cursing someone
out that I am told that struggle is a key part of social change.
And sometimes, when I
have walked out of a meeting, threw my phone across the room in
exasperation of what I am hearing from the other end, or have
yelled at people, some of whom I care about, I know that I
don’t feel right. In my heart, I know I am not treating
someone well, and I come to regret my actions later.
But at times I am not
sure if I am just over-compensating. Meaning, I am
genuinely confused about how to struggle with others. I am
having a hard time figuring out when struggling becomes non-liberatory
and non-humane. Lately I have been wondering, when does
struggling politically with others become hypocritical and
contribute to violence I claim to be opposed to?
I don’t use these
words lightly. I am genuinely confused.
As many already know,
political slogans, statements or theories do not always
translate so neatly into actions. For instance, I get
confused about what it means to struggle with really sexist and
homophobic activists. How much is my willingness to
struggle with them really just me sympathizing with them?
How much is it me trying to hide the fact that I share similar
views? How do I contribute to the centering of straight
gender-appropriate people, particularly men, in the movement?
How do I provide sympathy or support for people who engage in,
defend or perpetuate violence towards women and LGBT people?
Basically, when does
struggling with some people’s issues really mask complacency
and investment in particularly violent ideologies and behavior?
Why is it that we put so much energy into struggling with
certain people but not with others, and what does this reveal to
us about our own political commitments? When is
struggling not so much about trying to work towards a common
ground where all people are equally valued but rather an act of
cowardice?
I have been struggling
(ah, that word) with these questions for a while. As many people
who know me can attest to, I can be impatient, cocky and quick
to judge. I often ask myself, when am I giving up on
someone too early? When am I unwilling to give to others
what has been given to me in terms of patience and support so
that my analysis can change?
I am still trying to
figure this out, but I do know that along with my personality
characteristics, I avoid struggling with others because I want
to avoid pain. Especially because as much as I try to
resist it, I am involved in politics not only because I think
the world is fucked up, but also because I am searching for
community and somewhere to belong in all of this mess. And
so my impatience with others sometimes reflects my desire to
connect, quickly, immediately, and without tension or pain.
And I know this is silly because as activists we come together
from so many different points of vantage with the common
denominator being that we have all experienced, albeit
differently, some kind of violence, isolation or marginalization.
And so I know that when there is so much shit to work through,
patience is necessary.
And yet as clear as it
is to me that patience is part of struggle, I know that
sometimes I am patient for the wrong reasons. Many times I
am patient not so much because I have faith that we’ll work it
out, but because of I don’t want to make decisions. And
I know that I have difficulty making decisions because of fear.
While this may sound
goofy, my fear comes from experiencing, witnessing and learning
about people’s isolation for speaking out about issues in the
movement. And it is this fear of becoming more isolated
that scares the shit out of me.
For example, in
regards to my gender and sexuality politics, I know that I have
been scared to speak up against sexist and homophobic men and
women. There are times when I, even as aggressive and
assertive as I can be, will find myself shrinking, especially
when it comes to standing up to men, some of whom I care very
much about. And this is especially the case when it is a
group of men, some of whom will talk louder or become more
assertive in their speech or begin to feed off one another’s
energy, resulting in a group dynamic that can be very
overwhelming.
So I shrink. I
become this over-compensating person. As surprising as
this may be to people who know me, I have great difficulty
dealing with tension. I tend to, as one person pointed out
to me recently, take stuff on, some of which is not totally of
my making or that I don’t have much control over. So I
get nervous with the idea of being the “bitch,” and to avoid
the pain, isolation and violence associated with this position,
I find myself trying to comfort or joke with people, some of
whom just said some really violent shit or whose energy, words
and action reflect a deep-seated hostility towards people I
profess to show solidarity with or who, on an inter-personal
level, I love and care about a great deal.
And later, I kick
myself for not being stronger. I try to convince myself
that I am struggling with others, but I have a sneaking
suspicion that I just have no guts, that I am just trying to
avoid being treated like those whom I am supposedly trying to
show solidarity with.
And yet I know my fear
of speaking up has consequences. I get rewards for not
speaking up. Drawing from the example I just gave, not
speaking up has allowed me to be “respected” by political
men, a “respect” contingent on my willingness not to be too
“bitchy.” Not speaking up has allowed me to be the
“strong sister” speaking out against gender and sexual
oppression in a forum or at a rally but a “sister” who,
unlike a “bitch,” is willing to struggle with men in the
meeting room, the office or riding in the car to an event.
It has basically given me access to a man’s political world
because I don’t really disrupt or distract from it.
Overall, struggling with others has allowed me to resist
particular forms of violence and isolation inherent to some
peoples’ realities.
I know these rewards
are coupled with losses for others. There is a reason I
find my own voice faltering or getting less audible when I try
to explain to a lesbian friend why I continue to work with
people who are homophobic, or when I tell a Black friend about
hanging out with a non-Black person whose political work is
anti-black. I can hear myself say that I am struggling
with them, but I am aware that my voice gets smaller and that I
have less confidence as we talk. And I know why.
It is not
because I am being “silenced” or “bullied” but because I
am being challenged to actually live up to the friendship and
solidarity I profess to want to give. I am being
questioned, with a glance or an audible silence, by friends and
fellow activists why I am invested in people who are committed
to political views that are not just different from theirs, but
that are destructive to their lives because they’re
perspectives and practices whose coherence is rooted in an
opposition to their humanity.
And so I am struggling
with what it means to struggle with others and how this may be
not only hypocritical but also contributing to the violence
towards people, many of whom I care about for personal and
political reasons. I wonder how many times I should try
talk to others about their jokes and snide comments, their
organizational practices, or the way they treat people?
When do I know it is time to walk away, not just because
someone’s politics are “not on point” but because they
contribute to the violence that particular people or communities
continuously experience? When is it time to realize that I
can’t have it both ways, that I can’t be friends with both a
perpetrator of violence and the victims of it?
As goofy as this essay
may come off, I write from the heart as someone who is genuinely
confused about what it means to struggle with others, especially
because in a theoretical sense, I do think we have to be willing
to struggle it out if we really want to change shit. I am
just at a loss for understanding how to do so in a way that
doesn’t confuse cowardice with patience.
1/25/04
kiljakim2003@yahoo.com |
