Speaking from privilege

As I learn more about privilege and engage with communities of people who also think about the subject, it is sometimes brought to my attention that I use words and phrases that are oppressive to people of one marginalized group or another. Luckily I never picked up the most obvious or commonly sited examples of these, and as an educator have worked to convince my students to stop using “gay” and “retarded” as negative terms. I am guilty, however, of using many other words that refer to specific groups of people in similar ways: lame, crazy, spaz. This topic came up among friends at a recent Feminist Potluck, and I walked away with that disdain so often felt by people thinking from their privileged identities: Why should I have to change my behavior because other people are “overly sensitive?” Do gay men really care if people use “pansy” in a derogatory way if it’s not directed at them? How can I be expected to learn which terms are oppressive to one group or another, when they are used so frequently outside of their original context or intent? Don’t I do enough for social justice causes? I don’t think I can handle this further inconvenience.

I don’t have these thoughts consciously, but when I examine my reluctance to put the work necessary into changing my speech, this is what comes up. I realize now that I’ve thought of these changes as some kind of sacrifice that I’d be making for people with whichever marginalized identity is applicable, as if I’m Such A Good Person for putting in the (really very minor) effort necessary to change my speech patterns.

Then I read this passage in “A History of Women in the West”: “Thinking about [women] stemmed from a common episteme or conceptual matrix defined by men who referred to themselves as ‘us’ and to women as ‘them.’ Listen to Rouseau: ‘Let us begin, then, by examining the similarities and differences between her sex and ours.’” Rouseau clearly did not intend for women to read his work. When we use language that is oppressive or offensive for a group of people to which we do not belong, we are marking out an “us” and a “them.” Perhaps it is not as clear and purposeful as Rousseau’s language in this quote, but it is in effect the same. As feminists, most of us are probably aware of instances in which we have been on the receiving end of this Othering, but we may not spend much time considering how we might be doing the same thing to other groups.

When a feminist blogger makes an ableist comment, even unconsciously, the message is, “I am speaking from a place of privilege and my intended audience is people who share that privilege.” When a media outlet provides coverage of the wealthy classes with no mention of the system that gives them that privilege, they are in effect saying, “Don’t bother to read our work if you don’t share this privilege; we’re not talking to you.” Likewise when someone refers to a transgender person by the wrong pronoun. Now, there is nothing wrong with choosing to address people with your same privilege—it’s okay for a man to write specifically for other men, or a wealthy person for other wealthy people—but one should state that that is the intention. The problem is that when we use privileged language when addressing an audience that includes people with and without that privilege, we are perpetuating the idea that the privileged group is the Universal and the Normal, the actual (if unstated) intended audience.

It can seem overwhelming to have our privilege pointed out regularly, or to realize that we’ve been engaging in this kind of speech thoughtlessly our whole lives. It’s frustrating to make mistakes. It is a privilege to feel this way, to have the option of tossing up our hands and refusing to think about it. It is a privilege to be blissfully ignorant. It is our choice whether to address the problem within ourselves, to be open to criticism, to apologize when necessary, and to learn how to be as inclusive as possible in our speech and actions. -Adrienne