silence certainly can be violence, but often it's really just silence

In the late spring of 2020, I received a well-meaning text from a loved one asking me how I was doing, as black people in America faced a series of deadly assaults at the hands of law enforcement, for the entire world to watch. There is obviously much to say about this fact alone, but my focus here is actually the text I received. It was something like: "I can't imagine what it must be like for you to witness so much violence against black people.” I love this person dearly, I know he loves me too, and again, there is no doubt in my mind that his heart was in the right place. Still, it didn't feel like he was writing me out of sole concern for my well-being. Something tells me he might have read somewhere on social media that reaching out to your black friends at this time was a sign of true allyship, the brand new and shiny gold star many were suddenly coveting. He might have wanted to contribute something genuine, but the contribution itself seemed motivated by his desire to be seen as a good person. Generally speaking, there is nothing wrong with wanting that. But as far as I am concerned, receiving this text did not improve my perception of him. I believed in his goodness before he sent me this text, and I would have still believed in it, had he not sent it at all.

This is the same reason why, around the same time in 2020, my Instagram feed and yours were flooded with black squares. Many users who had never used their platforms to speak out against social injustice before, who had never even referred to their platforms as platforms, now believed that if they didn't overtly express their support in this exact way, they would be perceived as out of touch, ignorant or worse, racist - when in truth, it would have probably been fine for them not to post anything at all. To be clear, I understand why they did. I'm not blaming them for it. The fear of being rejected by the group for not rallying around a cause is a powerful one. It will cause many to react by doing or saying things they don't mean nor understand, because if everyone else is saying it, then it means they should too. But should they? And if they do, who is it really for?

Since then, there is a permeating sense of collective responsibility for using our digital profiles to speak out against injustice and react to the news in real time, to the point where those who consciously choose not to do so are being questioned, accused or cancelled (whatever that means, at this point). But as the social media use policing unfolds, there is also the shared awareness that social responsibility is not the only incentive to use our "platforms" to "speak out". Now, if you and I have a platform, it actually means we are standing on some sort of stage in front of an audience ready to praise and blame our actions, or lack thereof. We might speak out to prove something to them, to prove something to ourselves, or maintain this sense of responsibility. In this case, the underlying motivation is really the fear of being perceived as irresponsible, leading someone to do something, say something, anything to avoid the hypothetical yet terrifying fall from The Platform.

Me, I'm usually not saying much. I do not feel compelled to prove the depth of my love to the stranger who thinks they are entitled to it. I do not care to perform a righteous act for the eye of the one observing me through their black mirror. This isn't to vilify the black mirror either. I look at myself and at others through it daily. I love the internet, I love social media. I am amazed by their potential, I am aware of their limits. I use them knowing they're an unreliable tool to make a fair and objective assessment, and that if I try I will always, always miss something, for digital portals are mere windows into our complex realities. I find it both fascinating and eerie, this willingness to settle for a glance at someone's online profile in order to determine who they are at their core, and whether or not they're worth engaging with. Disagreement is not a dangerous thing to experience. It doesn't have to signal the end of an encounter or an exchange, on the contrary. Courteous interactions led by curiosity for foreign ideas have the power to foster closeness, even if in the end, you still disagree.

The other day, I saw a post by an artist I admire that said: "I hate a neutral-ass bitch" and I had to laugh. Honest amusement. And while it is clear by now that I do not share the sentiment, I understand it. At the same time, this post reveals an interesting paradox. It seemingly condemns the lack of passion and depth in certain people, while itself failing to express nuance or any kind of substance. And it got me thinking: is it ever really possible to be neutral, anyway? I would argue that the vast majority of people are not neutral at all. Most people have opinions and often strong ones, they may just choose not to express them online. And despite the discourse that tells them otherwise, they really, really don't have to. So while "hating a neutral-ass bitch" is in and of itself an OK thing to do (I mean, it's really just another opinion, as long as you don't try to harm said neutral-ass bitch), it actually admits to more than a mere disdain for neutrality. This is a statement charged with a strange pride in judging another for the way they have chosen to express themselves, for the words they use and those they leave out. I hate a neutral-ass bitch is a social media-savvy (i.e. very effectively satisfying the simplistic design of the internet) way of expressing how unsettling it can be to witness a response different from our own, perhaps a response were unsure how to use. But different doesn't mean wrong or inadequate. It doesn't mean dangerous or undesirable. It just means different. Right?

It's interesting to see how the outspoken rejects the quiet for choosing the "easy" route of silence, when in fact it's so much easier to repeat things we don't really mean, to dismiss the things we don't actually understand, and assume we know what another person's experience is although we've never even asked. A solid and sustainable movement does need pro-active energy, it does require passion and participation, but it also needs careful consideration, introspection and tolerance for conflicting perspectives in order to move forward efficiently. Hard to do this when stuck in a constant feedback loop. A solid and sustainable movement also needs the diverse skills and roles of its community, not only those of the loudest voices in the room. My voice admittedly isn't loud, but it's clear and steady, and when I speak, you can hear me.

It wasn't always the case. Self-expression has always been my sore point, which is why this topic is an especially complex and layered one for me. Most of my life, I believed that expressing myself openly was unsafe, so I hardly ever did. By a strange paradox, I'm also an artist, and I'm fully immersed and grounded in my practice which means that communicating ideas and feelings is the only way I know how to be. For me, honest and open self-expression usually means saying things in a language I'm building from scratch, with my thoughts and with my hands, a language that speaks to the subtler parts of the one who hears it. This is my offering. This is the role I am here to play. Art is the tool which I am devoted to using and refining in the service of truth, my truth. Who is to tell me that my truth is untrue? Who is to tell me that my way of speaking is not the right way to speak, when I'm constantly met by those who hear and understand me with so much clarity?

I am not an activist and I have no interest in pretending to be one. Activism is a meaningful purpose, to be sure, it simply isn't mine. And it doesn't have to be yours. It's really okay. You can support someone's quest, while being on another. Some of us are mere witnesses, collectors, explorers. And I'm telling you this from the perspective of a witness, a collector, an explorer who also finds great value and necessity in interacting with activist perspectives, especially when conveyed with poise, openness and intellectual humility. Still, I have no desire to engage in a way that is unnatural and dishonest to myself, let alone to convince you that I support a cause, whether I do or don't and however serious and significant the cause may be. If I suddenly started speaking to you with a voice that isn't mine, you could tell. I cannot fool you.

Shaming someone into repeating after you without granting them the right to reflect, question or challenge your perspective is intimidation. It is unfair and unethical. And isn't injustice what we're fighting against? How can we effectively oppose the violence perpetrated by some if we use it in more subtle yet salient ways against others? I am genuinely wondering.
To wonder genuinely, passionately, incessantly, is what I do, whether I choose to speak or remain silent. Sometimes I say nothing because the grief is too deep for the words to grasp, to even touch. I am silent when enthralled by the mundane, when immersed in the passing moment, the one which isn't lived for a camera to capture. I am silent when feeling so deeply that there's simply nothing to say. And sometimes I'm silent, and it means nothing at all except that I'm silent. Silence certainly can be violence, but often it's really just silence.