Allyship or Appropriation?
Information about how to be an ally of members of marginalized groups is easy to find on the internet these days. And that’s a good thing. But it’s not without pitfalls, as I found out.
Many of the guides tell us to own the fight, even as they remind us it’s not about us. To be an ally means taking person-ally (so to speak) the racist words and deeds we witness, and countering them by pushing back, centering the person being attacked, and refusing to turn a blind eye for our own comfort.
During a recent presentation (available here: On the Horizon) to colleagues in my professional association on how women can advocate for each other and why it’s important, I received and interesting question: “Are allies empowering or disempowering?”
It took a second to understand her point, and it’s this: when we act as allies, we exert our privilege, effectively empowering ourselves. But what about others? By using our privilege on their behalf, aren’t we really leaving them on the sidelines? Aren’t we dis-empowering them?
By exerting our privilege, aren’t we appropriating the experience of marginalized individuals rather than empowering them? What does it mean, then, to own the struggle of marginalized groups? As women, we should know this, since we ourselves are so marginalized in American society.
I am reminded of a Medium author who discussed Toni Morrison’s book, Beloved. She received a comment from a white woman who said something to the effect that she felt the book was written for her personally. The author was both horrified and infuriated at what felt like an appropriation of experience that few if any white women in this country ever had — slavery. Admiration, appreciation, empathy — yes. But that experience was not ours and we have no right to claim it as if it were.
So, is that what an ally is? Someone who steals the fight of another — someone who appropriates the struggle and makes it her own?
Yes, if the ally feels entitled to respond for the other individual — to interpose her voice, not the other’s. We can’t speak for another person. We can’t say, for example, after the manager dismisses Jennifer’s contribution and moves on to another person, “Jennifer thinks we should do so-and-so.”
We can say, “Wait, let Jennifer finish. We should hear what she has to say.” An ally centers the person, turning to that person in the conversation. An ally acts to show a person she belongs in the conversation as an equal contributor. Then the ally exits the stage, because it’s not about her.
When we own the struggle, we take on not the identity of marginalized groups. We stand up for their right to be included, heard, believed, respected, and acknowledged and act when those rights are threatened. We don’t go along to get along. Even when there is a price for us to pay.
Allies make room in the center for people pushed to the margins. We amplify their voices, not our own. It is our struggle to make it about people sidelined by racial, gender, LGBTQ+, ethnic, and other policies — but it is not about us.
What is about us is the work of anti-racism. It is the most important job we can do and like many jobs, it requires effort, training, and practice. Kristen Ivey-Colson and Lynn Turner developed the AntiRacist Table as a 30-day learning tool for everyday anti-racism. They say:
Metaphorically and physically speaking, at the table you learn, celebrate, grieve, fight, and live in community.
Let’s all go get a seat at that table. There’s plenty of room for everyone.
