Friday, June 24, 2016
[Baijayanta Mukhopadhyay. A Labour of Liberation. Regina, SK: Changing Suns Press, 2016.]
This is the first book that I've read from Changing Suns Press, a new independent publisher with anti-authoritarian politics based in Regina, Saskatchewan. When they were crowdfunding for their start-up money, it was a no-brainer for me to choose this book as the thank-you for my donation, as I had interviewed the author last September (not about the book) and been very impressed by his radical, thoughtful reflections, as a physician who practices mainly in remote communities in northern Ontario and Quebec and who is active on issues of health justice.
The book itself is very short, and made up of a series of brief, thoughtful, readable meditations on practices and systems of medicine in today's world, and on how power pervades them. There is lots of specific content that I could draw out and reflect on, but I think I'll stick with making two main observations about what this book does that you don't often find elsewhere.
The first is the kind of insight it provides into questions of medicine and health. There's a lot of writing out there about health that claims to be coming from one or another sort of critical place, but in my opinion a lot of that, particularly a lot that aims for a lay audience, leaves a great deal to be desired in a number of respects. Often, such writing is very arbitrary in terms of what it is skeptical about and what it accepts on faith. It is also quite common for it not to have much at all to say about power, or to have things to say about power but to demonstrate relatively little understanding of how power works even in general -- so, for instance, to be rightfully concerned about the power that pharmaceutical companies hold within the health system, but to make claims about their behaviour that really don't make any sense with respect to how large capitalist enterprises work. Of greatest concern to me is the fact that such writing often seems to have little insight in particular into how health systems and practices work, and how that relates to social relations of power and oppression. Now, given the nature of the society we live in, the combination of an impulse to resist how medical systems subordinate us with a lack of knowledge about how they actually work is pretty understandable, and there is a tendency to be scornful in the face of such stances that we really do need to keep in check. That said, though, just because it is understandable doesn't take away from the fact that such approaches can easily translate into courses of action that aren't necessarily very useful, or that are even actively harmful. In contrast, this book is relentlessly critical and very accessible to lay readers, and it is grounded in a really solid understanding of how power works in general in our society and of how the practices, discourses, and relations that constitute the medical system work.
Part of how the book does this ties into the other feature I want to highlite: It models a kind of critical reflection that we all can and should engage in, but that we so seldom actually do, about the systems and circumstances we find ourselves embedded in. What better way to develop a radical analysis of the world than to follow the example of this book and start from where we are, from the systems and practices and encounters and relations that fill our everyday lives? The book combines careful attention to the author's own experience as a physician with an active openness to the experiences of people who are differently situated in the same contexts, particularly those with less power within the medical system -- both other professionals and patients -- as well as to a range of critical writings about it. Crucially, Mukhopadhyay demonstrates a tendency towards humility in situating his own experience with respect to these other sources of insight, and a willingness to admit his own complicity in systems that dominate, which I think is absolutely central to building a politically solid picture of how the world works and deciding how to intervene to change it. Both for those of us who are writers and want to develop knowledge for broader circulation, and also for those of us who are more focused on informing the decisions we all have to make about our own lives, this kind of situated critical reflection is an inspiring example that we can all learn from.
The book has a mildly melancholy feel to it, which perhaps not everyone would prefer, but which to me felt very appropriate to the content. My main source of dissatisfaction about the book was that I wish it was longer -- much longer! -- and I definitely hope that the author continues to find time in amidst his medical work and his political work to write. In any case, I hope it gets read widely, and that many are able to benefit from the way it combines being short and readable with presenting a kind of grounded radical insight into health and medicine that is far less common than it should be.
[For a list of all book reviews on this site, click here.]
Posted by Scott Neigh at Friday, June 24, 2016
Friday, June 03, 2016
[Craig Heron. Lunch-Bucket Lives: Remaking the Workers' City. Toronto: Between the Lines, 2015.]
Back in March, I was travelling far away from my new-again home of Hamilton, Ontario, and as I often do when I have a spare moment, I was reflecting (obsessing?) about the path that I want my work to take. I won't bore you with the chain of connections that got me there, but some part of this thinking about what I want to write led to me thinking that I might like to read more things about where I am and where I came from. Which does not point towards any particular interest in writing, say, local history, but it does point to a desire to read some. After I returned home, I did some poking around to find a relevant book, and this recent publication by a well-known Canadian labour historian jumped out immediately as an obvious choice.
Lunch-Bucket Lives is a massive, detailed look at the social history between 1890 and 1940 of working-class people in Hamilton. As I often find with the sort of methodical, detail-attentive writing necessary to do good social history, it managed to be both an interesting read and rather a slow one. I don't bring any formal disciplinary expertise to the reading of history, but I have read a fair bit of it and written some, and I was pretty impressed with this book. I really appreciated the rich and well-documented sense that it gave of everyday life for working people in that era. I appreciated the breadth of topics that it covered. I very much appreciated how thoroughly considerations of gender were integrated into the length and breadth of the book, and how central spaces of reproduction were made to the telling of this history, in contrast with how labour historians of earlier years might have focused purely on production and the public sphere. I appreciated how effectively some complex ideas about how the social world works and how power works were presented not with inaccessible language and abstraction, but with patient, detailed description of the actual course of actual events. For instance, I really liked the chapter on caring-work and health-related labour, and the one on education, and how they both showed the uneven but relentless push through which the state came to take a bigger and bigger role in working-class lives (or, to express it slightly differently, how working-class people were increasingly organized into state practices). I appreciate how in discussing working-class response to everything from education initiatives to popular culture, the book stressed the agency of working people in the face of social forces, and the active and negotiated ways in which they were incorporated into communities and lives.
There isn't much that I would ask the book to do differently or to cover in greater depth. Perhaps the only thing that stood out for me in this regard was the contrast between how gender was handled versus how race and sexuality were handled. As I said, the gendered character of experience and the gendered aspects of social relations were carefully considered throughout. Questions of racial background and white supremacy (not to mention settler colonialism) were much less thoroughly integrated. In part, I suspect this is a response to the major contours of social life in Hamilton in that era: Indigenous, Black, and Chinese presence in the city were, precisely because of how white supremacy and settler colonialism were playing out, very small in those years. The most palpably present Other against which dominant identities were formed in the Hamilton of that era were the much larger Eastern and Southern European immigrant populations, which are indeed given plenty of attention in the book. And certainly those three colonized/racialized communities were not ignored, nor was the role of what David Roediger wrote about in the US context as the 'wages of whiteness' in the identity formation of the Anglo-Celtic portion of the Hamilton working-class. But these things were not integrated nearly as thoroughly into the book as gender. And as for sexuality -- well, the book did give some consistent if low-key attention to shifts in heterosexual relationship forms and practices over the era in question. And I completely understand that historical resources for understanding manifestations of queerness in that era are not necessarily easy to come by, especially (as the book itself notes) outside of major metropolitan centres that had more developed networks and spaces for same-gender erotic practices in those years like Toronto and New York. On the other hand, I know from reading a few pieces years ago by Canadian historian Steven Maynard, things like urban planning in Canadian cities in that era were very much informed by the impulse to foreclose possibilities for men to have sex with men, so I can't help but wonder whether more attention than the scant few paragraphs it received in this book might have been possible. Anyway, as much as those are real questions, it is always easier to ask for more than it is to actually do it; this book does a tremendous amount and does it well, and I don't want to detract from that.
I think the last feature of this book that I want to draw attention to is one that is perhaps difficult for people committed to social movements and to struggle, but one that I think it is extremely important for us to be totally honest about as we decide how to engage in collective efforts to push for change. There was an earlier generation of labour history that focused very much on strikes and riots and union drives, and on other forms of confrontation in the workplace or the political realm. And, certainly, those are talked about in detail in this book. But they are talked about in a way that refuses to do what those earlier historians did, and detach these generally pretty rare instances of collective and confrontational mobilization from their context. This book is very, very clear that while such collective resistance mattered a great deal to a great many people in certain moments, most of the time the collective agency exerted by the vast majority of working-class people in response to crushing poverty, hostile capitalists, and an indifferent state was in the form of everyday resistance and mutual aid. This is not to dismiss the project of organizing -- of seeking to support the combining of moments of everyday resistance into more overtly collective and confrontational resistance -- but it is perhaps to encourage folks on the left to think more carefully about how to better relate to the just-as-collective but much differently organized responses to harsh conditions that working-class people have engaged in much more often than the sorts of movements we often treat as the be-all and end-all.
Anyway. This is a great book, and I'm very glad I read it, but I'm a little cautious about recommending it -- it is, as I said, physically massive and a slow read. If the themes I've identified in this review speak to you, though, and particularly if you also live in Hamilton, then by all means don't hesitate to put in the time it will take.
[For a list of all book reviews on this site, click here.]
Posted by Scott Neigh at Friday, June 03, 2016
Monday, May 30, 2016
How do we come to care about the things we care about, do the things we do?
Sometimes, about some things, it's a slap in the face, a punch in the gut, that makes us care. We care because the world makes us care, or at least makes the work of not-caring active and hard. Of course, within this caring, when the world seeks our blood or demands our sweat and we hate it, hate it, hate it, there isn't just one way to respond, so even then it's a question of how we decide what it makes sense to do. But we have to do something.
Sometimes, though, it doesn't hit us at all. For some of us, it's going on over there somewhere, and it doesn't seem to have anything to do with us, or at least not anything we can see. What makes us care about that? Especially, what makes us care enough to do something, to be open to seeing we're connected (and not in a good way), to re-think who we are and how we want to move through the world?
Over the years, I've had the chance to ask hundreds of people about how they started turning the impulse most of us have to push back in little, individual ways against unfairness in our own lives into more shared and deliberate efforts to change things. I've heard a lot of different answers, too, from people starting from a lot of different places. I was particularly struck by the answer I heard from Jackie McVicar in our recent interview about the work of the Atlantic Regional Solidarity Network -- not because it's an unusual answer, but because she articulated it so clearly, and because she started from a place very like the place I started: white, not-poor, and living in small-town Ontario.
She said, "Growing up in a rural community, I cared about people and I saw injustice ... but I didn't have the language or the understanding of how or why it was happening. I could see my own community's poverty, and so I might volunteer to, you know, help people, but it was hard for me, until I got to university, to understand how structural injustice impacts people, depending on class and race and gender and many other reasons." She did a degree in international development studies, with a minor in environmental studies, and she had "professors who helped [her] grow and learn a lot, in terms of that analysis."
Perhaps even more important were the experiences she had after she graduated, once she began work in the international NGO sector. That work involves spending regular time in Central America, working and building relationships with people in struggle, often against resource extraction projects being pushed ahead by companies based in Canada. It was, she said, "an opportunity for me to connect with people and see how injustice was happening in their lives ... [and] how people in their own communities are struggling for justice every day." These experiences and relationships were "a big part of my political formation" and a big part of "deepening that learning and deepening that understanding" to see how struggles in the north and south are "interrelated" and how decisions and institutions created in the north have "extreme impacts sometimes for people living in the Global South."
At the beginning, "There was still this image of, 'We're Canadian! We're the good people!' -- I definitely grew up thinking that. I think that was part of who I was." But time in Guetamala had alreay pushed her to start learning and thinking critically about such things, and then she returned to the country for a more extended stay. She was taking a bus from northern Guatemala, and all traffic on the road stopped because of a major protest blocking mining equipment from reaching a mine that communities were vigorously resisting. This mine was (as so many in the Global South are) owned by a Canadian company. The traffic was stopped for a long time, and eventually military and police attacked the demonstrators and initiated a riot in order to get the equipment through to its destination and allow this quest for profit by a Canadian company to push forward over the local community's clear understanding of its own interests.
"We ended up running into the cornfield. There was tear gas everywhere. People were hurt. There was a man killed that day." She went into a store to use the only public phone in the area, and someone asked where she was from. "I remember looking quickly up on the wall and there was this hand made poster that said, 'Canadians go home!' and I said, 'Oh, I'm from Canada.' I was trying to say it low and keep a low profile. He said, 'Ooohhhh, you must be the boss of this mining operation.' And he started to laugh. I was, like, twenty-three so obviously he was joking, but he said, 'No, but seriously...if anybody asks you, you should just tell them that you're American.'"
She continued, "I remember I looked down. I had this little change purse and I had one of those lapel pins that had 'Canada' and it was stuck on my change purse. I remember taking it off and putting it inside. And I feel like that has still been really symbolic to me about how I feel about my identity now as a Canadian. This goes much deeper, now, as I understand better so many things also that have happened in Canada -- genocide of Indigenous people here [and so on]. As I have grown and learned, I definitely have never taken that pin out of my change purse. I don't even know where that pin would be, but that idea of that national pride is not something I even really think about any more. It was transformative for me to think about who I am in this world."
One way to summarize this journey might be that she began her life in an environment that taught her values that included paying attention to and caring about the wellbeing of people around her. Then she had opportunities to develop tools for thinking about the world and about power as being social, and socially organized. Then she had opportunities to hear about the experiences and struggles of people very differently situated from herself, and not just in a way that involved learning information but in the context of building relationships and coallborating and that leading to qualitatively different kinds of experiences, all of which led in turn to a situation where not only did she 'know' new things in an intellectual way but that listening, and those relationships, transformed her sense of how the social world works and her sense of herself. The symbollic removal of the flag pin might have happened in a one-time encounter with a stranger, but it seems clear that the basis for the shift in consciousness and self-undertanding that it represented was laid in the longer-term bonds of affection and solidarity she was building on an ongoing basis with people in struggle in Guatemala.
I like the way that scholar Aimee Carillo Rowe writes about these things, in a book called Power Lines: On the Subject of Feminist Alliances (Duke University Press, 2008). She interviewed a bunch of women's and gender studies academics in universities in the United States, and used those interviews as a basis for thinking about things like the institutionalization of women's studies and about how power works in universities. In particular, she was interested in how women in those contexts do or do not enact alliances across the divide between those who experience racial oppression and those who don't. The details of that are a bit beyond what matters here, but what's important is her insight into how important our relationships and our affective investment in the "we's" we belong to are in shaping the things we care about and the things we do.
A neat way of framing part of this that I ran across recently -- it was in the context of an interview I happened to see pre-publication, so I can't link to it, but the interviewee attributed it to a scholar at University of Toronto called Alissa Trotz -- made the point that all of us have a root and a route. That is, we start out somewhere, but we also shift and change and become something else, someone else, along the way.
Partly, that route is about our sequence of experiences -- who we are changes as we experience different things. Those experiences aren't random, though. They have patterns, and those patterns are woven through with power. So, for instance, for me some part of my experiences -- likely reactions from police to my presence, say, or how much attention I'll have to pay on an everyday basis to risks of being targeted with sexual violence -- will always be connected to moving through the world as a white guy, and that will always shape my sense of myself and of the world. But some things will shift depending on where choices and circumstances take me, and those different experiences will sediment into a shifting sense of the world, shifting analyses, and a self that's not quite what it was before.
What I really value in how Carillo Rowe talks about this is her emphasis on the emotional part of that, on "belonging" -- both in the sense of where do I feel my place to be, but also where and what and who am I drawn to, where and with whom does love bind me. The spaces we'll end up in, our paths, the experiences we'll have, and therefore our selves are formed in these relationships; the active uptake and reflection that leads to our analyses, our sense of what matters in the world, come to be in the intense emotional field of who matters to us, of the relationships that shape our experiences, of who we are drawn to be near and to be.
Carillo Rowe writes, "Whom we love is political. The sites of our belonging constitute how we see the world, what we value, who we are (becoming)" (25). As well, "Politics, experience, consciousness, and subjectivity emerge as mutually constitutive moments" and it is important to "theorize experience and agency as collective processes" (10, emphasis in original). "The range of options available to the subject -- for experience, interpretation, and agency -- arise out of the collectivities into which we insert ourselves or are insreted" (ibid). This means (to use Trotz's language) that while we can't change our root, it is possible to intervene in our route, and (according to Carillo Rowe) to "cultivate a consciousness, a set of experiences and modes of agency that run counter to the social forces consititutive of [our social] location" (11). A big part of this for her is about the relationships and collective belongings we cultivate. She goes on to argue that the reified, simplistic, individualized way we have come to understand things like 'social location' and 'identity' erase "the relational conditions productive of that location" and she wants to "render these conditions visible" (28) and "reveal the daily practices and affective ties through which such categories emerge" (46).
In other words, how we come to care about the things we care about and do the things we do has a great deal to do with this path that is shaped by our relationships and our sense of belonging. McVicar's account of her journey illustrates some of this, I think, and it is easy to imaginatively fill in the finer-grained steps -- the dynamic interplay of "mutually constitutive moments" of emerging "politics, experience, consciousness, and subjectivity" along the way, and the "relational conditions" (and shifting senses of collective belonging) productive of each.
Often on the left, our default ways of talking about it imply that politicization is a trait or even a sort of possession of an individual, and a sign of personal enlightenment or virtue. But I think it makes much more sense to recognize that our caring and our acting in the world is not purely a product of individualized intellectual effort, nor purely an individualized yet mechanistic product of identity categories (understood simplistically and in reified ways), but an emerging property of the relationships and practices and collectives through which we come to understand ourselves and the world. Neither voluntaristic nor crudely determined, it emerges through our path of engaging with and taking up collective experience. Encouragingly, it is therefore something that we can (partially, sometimes) intervene in.
Posted by Scott Neigh at Monday, May 30, 2016
Friday, May 20, 2016
I read a lot.
I write, I think, because I have always read a lot. At some point, even prior to any explicit consideration of "What will you be when you grow up?", I decided that what I got out of reading was pretty great, and what could be cooler than doing that for someone else. There was a falling away and a return to that as an actual commitment, but the feeling itself has always been there.
My reading practices have changed over time, because of course. How, when, what, how much, for what purpose -- all of these things continue to evolve. Right now, it's quite a bit less bookish and more screenish than I'd like, and because of the state of my various writing and making commitments, it is less directed and more joyfully eclectic than at some other times.
In my making-things time these days, I do radio and I write. Without getting bogged down in backstory, the writing part of that currently involves a return to a trajectory of work set aside at the beginning of the year for a tangent now (probably) abandoned, and therefore a process of experimentation, play, and work on smaller pieces to build capacity for that larger project begun but paused because of uncertainty about how to do it. That means I'm paying lots of attention to "What do I want to say?" and "How do I want to say it?"
One piece of writing advice that I mostly agree with is that if you want to write, you should read broadly. Read lots of different writers doing lots of different writing, and learn about your craft and your tastes and yourself. Within that, be sure to read lots of the sort of thing that you want to be writing. If you want to write mystery novels, read lots of mystery novels. If you want to write personal essays, then seek out as many examples as you can. If you want to write poetry...you get the idea.
It came as a shock yesterday morning when I realized what a tremendously bad job I'm doing of following that advice at the moment -- not the "read lots" part, but the "read what you want to write" part. I realized that almost none of the many words I read each day is the kind of writing that moves me the most or the kind of writing that I most want to be doing myself. And of course there are good reasons for reading lots of different kinds of things, so it's not in any simple sense a waste of my time to be reading these other sorts of pieces. After all, I need to be reading news articles and current events-focused think pieces and different kinds of analysis centred on movements, because all of that is important and interesting and relevant to aspects of my work. I even write some of that, from time to time. But those are not the kinds of writing I most want to do. So what does it mean that I'm reading so little of that at the moment? How does that affect my ability to actually write what I want to write?
It's also telling that when I sat down to think of examples of writing that made me say, "Yes! That is what I want to be doing!" it took some effort to get there. What I came up with was mostly writing I had encountered in book form, and much less that I'd found online. I wonder if perhaps part of that disparity is that the books in question sit on shelves a few feet away from me and I can remind myself about them by turning my head, whereas a random essay in a random online venue by someone I'd never heard of before that I read three years ago is less likely to have stuck with me. So I'm not sure whether my sense of so little of my daily online reading consisting of this kind of writing is because I don't retain as much of it, because it is actually rare online, or because it's there but I just don't look in the right places and/or my online reading practices are aimed at doing other things.
I also want to emphasize again that these are very far from the only things that I find to be worth reading. There are lots of writers and lots of books and lots of shorter pieces that I find politically important or interesting or entertaining or worthwhile that don't make this list not because there's anything wrong with them, they just don't quite capture everything that I want to be aiming for myself.
So with all of that palaver and preamble duly noted, what I determined is that I am most moved by and most interested in doing writing that is:
- radically engaged, in a to-the-root sense, with the social world;
- thoughtful, which I mean in the sense of interested in exploring ideas and in embracing complexity rather than sticking with description or rushing to polemic or falling into simplification because it's politically easier to do so;
- attentive to writing craft, which might mean experimenting with how the writing is done or it might just mean taking evident care in what is produced as a writer and not just as a scholar or a thinker or a radical; and,
- embodied in some sense, which might mean writing that incorporates or flows from lived experience in a fairly obvious way, but which also includes a range of approaches that are more abstracted than that but that are still grounded somehow in real bodies, real lives.
This is a somewhat hasty and arbitrary list, and I'm sure I'm leaving lots of people out. Still, it encompasses a lot of different kinds of writers who do a lot of different kinds of writing. I am a little disturbed by the relatively high proportion of academics, though most of those manage to make the list precisely because there is something a bit different from standard academic writing in what they do.
What might it mean to spend more time reading this kind of writing? Do I want to make a point of shifting back to more bookish and less screenish reading? Perhaps. More importantly, I'd be interested in hearing other people's recommendations:
Are there any online venues where you consistently find writing that meets the four criteria above and feels like it fits with my list of examples?
Are there any writers or books or periodicals or essays that fit and that you would particularly recommend? Are there, in particular, any written by non-scholars, or by scholars but in a clearly non-scholarly mode?
Posted by Scott Neigh at Friday, May 20, 2016
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
When I look around me, when I tally up my own experiences with what friends tell me about their lives and what books and films and articles tell me about the wider world, it leaves me with no doubt that there are complex but consistent patterns of how different people benefit and are harmed based on who they are. Trying to figure out how it's all put together and how to act to change things, though, is quite a bit trickier, especially in situations where there is no obvious culprit to name and challenge.
Sometimes, of course, you can identify a single institutional culprit for a particular pattern of harm or oppression, often the state. It may or may not be a root cause or the only cause, but in these cases it organizes enough of what's going on to make it a reasonable focal point for efforts to make change. You're a married woman in Ontario before 1872 and you have no legal right to your own employment earnings? You're an African American in the US South in the era of Jim Crow? You're a dude who likes getting it on with dudes in early 1960s Canada? In all of these historical examples, state practices organized through the law were, while not the only source of oppression, certainly a central and visible one. If you look around today you can see plenty of instances where it's clear that the state plays a central role as well -- from the ways in which policing targets Black and Indigenous people, to the national security state's treatment of Muslims, to the ways in which migrant workers in Canada are organized into what organizer Evelyn Encalada recently described to me as a "parallel universe with limited rights" that makes them "virtually stateless" while in this country.
The role of the state has changed in a whole lot of ways over the last few decades. Often this is part of what gets called "neoliberalism," though that word tends to get used most often to point towards the economic or class-focused ways that things have changed -- the gutting and privatization of public services, de-regulation, and so on. The social world isn't easily broken into bits, though, so there have been corresponding changes in how other aspects of our lives and communities are organized as well, in terms of things like racialization, gender, and sexuality. As well, neoliberalism is sometimes treated as being a withering of the state, but in fact it is more accurate to think of it as a shift in role and emphasis. So, for instance, the neoliberal state in the US may have dispensed with explicit Jim Crow laws, but the immense and vicious prison-industrial complex that targets communities of colour -- very obviously, to anyone paying attention, but now without naming it as such -- has grown up along side. Writers who talk about things like homonormativity and homonationalism show how queers that meet a certain profile have their lives hemmed in by state violence to a much smaller degree these days than they used to, while queers who do not meet that profile because of nation or racialization or class still often face intense state-organized harm in their lives. So the state remains a source of great violence for a great many people.
There have always been, however, instances of patterns of undeserved harm and unearned benefit that don't work like that. There's a pattern, so it's clear that some kind of socially organized something is at play, but it's a lot harder to see some obvious, unitary institution at the heart of it. You can even make a pretty convincing case that, as part of the neoliberal transformation, there are more instances like this today than there have been in the past. So, for instance, many of the struggles by feminist organizers within the dominant society, both in the late-19th/early-20th century phase and in the post-1960s phase, focused on making changes in the law. They certainly didn't win everything they set out to win, but much of the explicitly discriminatory law -- law that restricted the rights of women in a way that was openly named as such -- was changed. Yet, somehow, in all the ways that feminists today continue to identify, women continue to experience various forms of harm, constraint, and marginalization. Similarly with white supremacy, you see fewer laws in North America now that are explicitly about subordinating some racial group. The changes in the social organization of white supremacy in the neoliberal era have been written about by people like Eduardo Bonilla-Silva (who writes about "racism without racists") and David Theo Goldberg (who writes about the privatization of racism and even "racism without racism") and I'm sure many others. The trajectory of lesbian and gay experience in Canada over the last 50 years also illustrates this very starkly, from the deciminalization of sex between (two) men (in private) in the late '60s, to inclusion in human rights protection, to access to state regulated relationship privileges. Yet even beyond the ways in which some queers continue to be targeted for state-centric violence, dispersed manifestations of harm like bashings, suicides, firings, disproporotionate youth homlessness, and so on continue. (This is true despite a growing mainstream tendency among liberal straight folks to presume that queer, though not yet trans, experience is mostly fine now.)
Or to give three examples I'll address in more detail below: There is no law banning African Nova Scotians from particular stores, but consumer racial profiling pervades the experiences of Black people and other racialized people in Nova Scotia and across the continent. No legislature in Canada has passed laws outlining the ways in which mothers (and other primary caregivers) are to be constrained in their living and their choices (and confined to significant social isolation), yet it happens. And sexual assault -- well, you can argue with this as with the rest of these examples that the state doesn't do enough to stop it from happening, and certainly some kinds of gendered violence (particularly against Black and Indigenous people) is deeply embedded in state practices, but there is also a significant element of sexual assault and the rape culture that supports it that is reproduced in a very distributed, de-centralized way that cannot easily be linked to any single institution.
Naming these differences in how different kinds of harm and oppression are organized is important, partly because I don't think you can change anything without understanding how it works. It's also important, however, because at least some of our movement spaces aren't always very good at thinking outside of the the situation where there's a clearly defined, singular institution that can be reformed, overthrown, or transformed. In some circles, any organizing that is not oriented in this way is seen as less important or even (to use that most dreadful of leftist insults) as liberal. I certainly wouldn't want to argue that we don't need to-the-root transformation of the core institutions of our society, because we do; rather, this is just another way of approaching the insight that many other people engaged in many different struggles -- particularly those experiencing and fighting against gender, sexual, and racial oppressions -- have had that we can't just wait until after some imagined future revolution to challenge the more dispersed ways that harm gets organized into people's lives, and we can't presume that some sort of institutionally-focused social transformation or revolution along one axis will then magically end all the bad stuff along other axes or things organized in more dispersed ways. We need to take seriously, right now, questions of challenging harms and oppressions organized in more dispersed ways.
Part of what's tricky about this is that it's not always clear how best to do it. I certainly don't claim to have any final answer, either. But as I noted towards the end of a recent post about something else, I think the most important place to start with all kinds of questions related to social change is with what people are already doing.
With that goal in mind, here are three different ways in which three differently situated collective efforts are challenging harms that happen in de-centralized ways.
I'm getting the first example from my experience of talking with Ann Divine and Pastor Lennett Anderson about efforts to challenge racial profiling that happens in consumer contexts. Divine used to work for the Human Rights Commission in Nova Scotia, and she was one of the authors of a study a few years ago which demonstrated what Black people and other racialized people in Nova Scotia and around North America already knew: consumer racial profiling is common and painful. Anderson talked about the case of Andrella David, a woman in his congregation, who experienced a blatant instance of racial profiling at a grocery store in 2009. From their accounts, there have been two parts to the response to that incident. One was David's efforts to navigate the long and challenging process of taking a complaint to the Human Rights Commission. One way to think about the Human Rights Commission is as an artifact of earlier generations of social movement struggles against racism and other forms of oppression that can, albeit not always easily or quickly and within certain limits, be mobilized to respond to some kinds of individual experiences of dispersed oppression. David won her case, but the store is appealing, which will prolong the burden for her, and in response Anderson's congregation mobilized in the form of a demonstration at the store to ask that they drop David from the appeal and address the Human Rights Commission only. This mobilization, it seems to me, is an effort to apply public pressure to a private institution, and also is a sort of public educational intervention that, according to what was said in the interview, may be the beginnings of a larger effort along those lines to change public conscioussnes.
The second example comes from my interview with Candida Hadley, Susanne Marshall, and Andrea Smith about the work of the Halifax Motherhood Collective. They are a small collective of mothers who have been working to start from their own experiences to develop radical politics around mothering. As I write in the linked post, these experiences include "an incredible weight of social isolation, personal constraint and intensely regulatory expectation." This work -- which has drawn on feminist writers like Maria Mies and Sylvia Federici to connect everyday experiences of motherhood to interlinked histories of capitalism, patriarchy, and colonialism -- amounts in part to figuring out ways to name and talk about these experiences and to understand them politically. They have also organized public events which have brought mothers (and other caregivers) with different sorts of experiences together to talk and to learn from each other. They talk about wanting, in the future, to challenge some of the social isolation that comes along with particularly the earlier years of mothering by engaging in a sort of direct action and having mothers (and other caregivers) and young kids occupy public spaces that they are usually excluded from. So in this case, because it is an area where we don't already necessarily have well developed politics in our movements and communities, the response has involved collective consciousness raising, and in the future may involve direct action to take up and at least temporarily challenge restrictive expectations built into public spaces.
The third example I want to talk about is responding to sexual assault. I recently interviewed Erin Crickett, who works at a sexual assxault centre. That organization provides direct support to survivors of sexual violence (of any gender) and engages in both individual and collective advocacy work. We talked in detail about the campaign that Crickett and a number of allies at other sexual assault centres in other places developed for the day that the verdict of the Jian Ghomeshi trial was to be announced, which included vocal support at the courthouse itself that foregrounded pro-survivor messages; dispersed small self-care events allowing folks having a hard time to hang out and support each other on a difficult day; a hashtag campaign organized around #WeBelieveSurvivors and #IBelieveSurvivors; a rally later that day in Toronto; and encouragement (plus resources) for people to offer support to survivors in their own lives. In terms of a longer-term vision for change, Crickett talked about going beyond changes in the legal system, which are of course necessary, to include fostering broader understandings of what healing and justice can mean; pushing for a transformation from a rape culture to a consent culture, through popular education and other approaches; and challenging organizations and institutions of all kinds to deal with sexual violence in ways that are more supportive of survivors. So in this case it was a combination of directly supporting people who have been harmed, publically visible interventions supporting survivors and calling for others to do likewise, a broad range of kinds of challenges to state and non-state institutions to change their practices, and an overall goal of changing the culture through educational means.
In these three cases, then, the collective responses to harm and oppression that is organized in dispersed ways include:
- mobilizing state resources against the harm in question, perhaps through channels shaped by earlier struggles;
- consciousness raising among affected people;
- demonstration or direct action in public space to both challenge particular instances of harm and to educate;
- direct personal support of affected people;
- more conventional pedagogical work (e.g. workshops, trainings) to try to push cultural change;
- multi-pronged challenges to institutions to change their policies and practices.
What do you think about these approaches? What kinds of organizing along these lines have you been involved in?
Posted by Scott Neigh at Tuesday, May 17, 2016
Friday, April 29, 2016
There is something heartening about just how much mainstream public outrage there is at the decision of the Liberal government of Justin Trudeau to finalize approval for the massive sale of armoured vehicles to Saudi Arabia. Notwithstanding liberal (and Liberal) mythologies that downplay and deny it, Canada has a lot to answer for (1, 2) when it comes to war, militarism, and empire -- from our founding on the basis of conquest and genocide; to our significant past and present of profit-making (and wage-earning) based on manufacturing machinery of war and death; to our support of or active involvement in overthrowing elected governments; to participating actively not in all, but in many, US-led imperial military interventions that have brought death and chaos to civilians. So, believe me, any active outrage at Canadian complicity in war and militarism is very welcome.
At the same time, there is something suspiciously selective about this outrage. I know that those who are most involved in this issue in grassroots ways are quite clear about their outrage at all manifestations of Canadian complicity in war, militarism, and empire, not just this one. I also know that there are features of the Saudi regime's behaviour that are distinct and that deserve to be specifically named and deplored. But why is Canadian complicity in the Saudi regime's oppressive violence met with an outrage that is expressed and resonates far more broadly than, say, outrage at Canadian complicity -- both direct and through all sorts of support (including arms sales) to the US -- in the horrific violence inflicted on the world by the Western bloc? (And why does even the act of making that comparison no doubt come across as ridiculous to so many Canadians?)
There's a lot going on there, I think. The violence and harm done by the West (including Canada) is organized quite differently than the brutalities of the Saudi regime. (Though, frankly, the brutalities of the Saudi regime definitely count towards the Western tally, as there is no way the House of Saud would've lasted as long as it has if it was not propped up by the West.) The violence and harm done by the West is also treated quite differently in the mainstream media, and much of it is ignored, so it shouldn't be a surprise to us that people regard it differently. But both bound up in those things and functioning independently are white supremacist and colonial reasons as well. The image of "barbaric" brown men has been a staple of the Western imperial imagination for at least a couple of centuries, so it's no wonder that violent, oppressive behaviour by them can be named more easily and evokes a more powerful response among many white Canadians than the substantially more impactful violent, oppressive behaviour by us. And it is also central to the imperial imagination that violence and harm done by us and by our allies is by definition at least given the benefit of many doubts if not automatically assumed to be justified, whereas violence and harm done by them -- and despite still formally being an ally, the Saudi regime has definitely fallen into enough disfavour with enough elite opinionmakers in North America to at least provisionally count as them, even without the racial, cultural, and religious othering in the mix -- is much more easily recognized as a problem.
Now, pieces like this that respond to some progressive or left initiative by saying "But what about...!" can sometimes feel like a form of posturing, and their impact can tend towards the demobilizing. I really don't want to be doing those things. So I want to be clear that I'm not saying we shouldn't be outraged by the Canadian sale of armoured vehicles to Saudi Arabia, or that we shouldn't do whatever we can to stop it -- we should, and we should. I also want to be clear that the question I'm raising is more than one of individual political rhetoric or choices, though it is that as well -- this flows from how the issues and the imagery and the ways we have readily available to us for responding to them are socially produced and organized. It's not just about us fish; it's about the sea we swim in too.
What I am suggesting, though, is that we pause for a moment and reflect. What does it mean that our quite reasonable and valid political goal -- stopping this arms deal, as we should stop all arms deals -- is getting a boost in this case from these larger oppressive narratives (and the social relations they exist in conjunction with), and therefore is also reproducing and reinforcing them? What do we need to be doing and saying differently, to take this into account and respond to it in politically responsible ways? How do we need to be framing Saudi crimes differently? How do we need to be framing Canadian, US, and broader Western crimes differently?
I have no easy answers to these questions, but I don't think we're doing anyone any favours by failing to ask them.
Posted by Scott Neigh at Friday, April 29, 2016
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Like so many of us, I feel a need to act, to do something.
I can pass this feeling through all sorts of screens and frames and analyses to give it specificity and detail, and I have years of practice of translating it into fancy words, but at heart it's a feeling – a matter of experiencing life, of seeing the world around me, of hearing stories, and knowing that things cannot stay as they are, that they can change, that they must change.
I know that I can act as I, and that acting as I matters. We all do it – without naming it, without separating it from "normal life" by calling it "political," we (some, by necessity, much more than others) resist little indignities and harms in little ways, and big indignities and harms in little ways, as individual people living our lives. Whatever else happens to make change, that everyday resistance, those little cracks in the social systems that organize injustice and harm, are the most basic building blocks.
I feel drawn, though, towards acting not only as I but as we. This is not to disrespect the individual and everyday, but a recognition that even a small we does so much more than the sum of the I's that compose it – even just half a dozen people moving in the same direction can accomplish far more than six individuals on their own, and for larger collectivities to be truly effective in pushing for change (rather than amounting to passive agglomerations of individuals), they must in some sense be built from active collectivity that happens at a scale we can directly experience. Our need, the world's need, is urgent, so we need we's. And it is a recognition of humanity as social: Contrary to liberal and libertarian fantasy, there is no I in the absence of or prior to we.
So I search for we's that I'm already part of. I look around me, examine the spaces and the moments that I move through, the encounters that I have and the relationships that they make. I see relations of reciprocity and care, relations through which the mostly-unwaged labour of life-making gets its expression. These are a form of we, and especially for those marked as disposable in our world, their role in survival and thriving makes them radical. And for all of us, as a clever person recently remarked to me, they are "the stuff of life," the very core of what it means to be human, and we all must participate in them.
I can feel the utter centrality of these webs of we; it's not just a cerebral nod, but a genuinely embodied sense of how meaning and joy and power in life flows from this sort of we, and how much of my energy and time is invested in them. Yet as necessary as they are, they are not enough. I feel the need for more.
So I keep looking. Soon enough, I see other kinds of we, more distant kinds, more dispersed kinds, some might say imagined kinds. Some of these I feel, but some are abstractly known rather than felt – membership in polities, shared identities, demographic groupings, populations of broadly similar interest. These, too, are we. They matter, both those eagerly embraced and those reluctantly acknowledged. They can even be a starting point for building the kind of we that I'm talking about here, the kind that can act together in a practical way. But they are not that intrinsically, and not without further work.
I look some more. Though I currently am not part of such a formation, most people I see around me are part of hierarchical collectivities whose actual activities they may or may not care about, organized via the wage relation and made compulsory by the logic of the market. This is not the kind of we I mean, or at least it is only occasionally and incidentally so. As well, many people belong to other sorts of collective formations that they have not necessarily chosen, exactly, but because of who they are – forms of we that at least in theory can be a practical basis for acting politically in the world against domination and exploitation. I mean, of course, collectivities like churches (or synagogues or temples or mosques) and unions. Yet even they are in decline, and because of the work that I do and the path I have led through life, I am not currently and not likely to become a member of either of those.
I continue to search, to reflect on things I have done and things I have heard about since moving to my new-again city. I look, I listen, I think, I feel...and I find little. There is not a complete absence of we's, but there are few, and none whose call evokes enthusiasm.
Is this landscape of we really it? It sounds suspiciously like what Margaret Thatcher once said: "There is no such thing as society. There are individual men and women, and there are families." Of course she posed it as descrpition when in fact it was her aspiration, her goal for the struggle in which she was immersed. But three decades later, has Thatcher's aspiration won out? Is this sense of lack of opportunities for collective political engagement a quirk of mine, a legacy of personal baggage or flawed perception? Or does it reflect something more?
Certainly it reflects left commonsense about the realities of life under neoliberalism. This doesn't necessarily make it accurate, but the breadth of this impression among a range of thinkers, writers, and do-ers that I respect carries considerably weight for me. As I've mentioned this impression to people that I know personally in the last few weeks, most have agreed with it. As well, the chance to occasionally interview people involved in various kinds of collective political projects in Quebec drives home for me how much more common they are there than in at least the white-dominated, English-speaking spaces of North America. There is some social scientific evidence too: My hazy memory of reading it 15 years ago is that there was a lot about how he tried to explain it that felt dubious, and he didn't particularly focus on grassroots political collectivities anyway, but Robert Putnam's careful documentation in Bowling Alone of the decline of voluntary collective life in North America seems relevant.
Still, I hesitate to turn my impression into a firm conclusion, and I certainly have no interest in just giving up on the possibility of a landscape richer in paths towards collective action. For one thing, while the majority of activisty types I've mentioned this sense to have concurred, not all have, and that dissent is worth paying attention to. More significantly, it is beyond common for people, particularly privileged people who think of themselves as rad in some sense or other, to look around and say "Wah! Nothing political is happening!" when really the problem is their narrow and self-centred definition of "political." Is this what I'm doing? My gut-level sense: Perhaps in part, but not entirely. But my gut is no more immune to such distortion than the rest of me, so who knows.
All of which has got me wondering about other people's experiences. I'm a firm believer in starting – whether you're talking about writing or analaysis or action – from what people are already doing.
Do you, too, feel that there are few opportunities to act collectively these days?
What do you already do in your life – however large or small, however shared or individual, however practical and material or imagination-focused and idealistic – that you think of as being in whole or in part to create change of some kind?
What would you like to do to make change? Most especially, what would you like to do to make change with others, if you had the opportunity and if circumstances made it possible? What would those differences in circumstance be?
Posted by Scott Neigh at Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Thursday, April 07, 2016
I should start out by saying that there is no part of the title of this post that is actually accurate. I just like the sentence.
The first inaccuracy is the phrase "writer's block." While I have, over the last couple of weeks, been having greater difficulty than I expected in returning after a time away to a particular kind of writing, I'm not having trouble with writing in general, and I have no doubts at all that a little patience and a little persistence will get me back to where I want to be. Some people might use "writer's block" to describe this kind of experience, but at least as of yet, for me it doesn't go beyond the inevitable and entirely normal ebb and flow of writing, in which sometimes it is slow and painful to get words down while other times it's quick and easy. That's just how it works.
The other inaccuracy is the focus on "neoliberalism." As I'll explain below, the flash of insight that I had the other day about my writer's not-block – writer's ebb? – is based in features of how capitalism has constructed (privileged) subjects from the very beginning, and it is not unique to the current phase of capitalism. However, it does particularly relate to aspects of capitalism that have become even more pronounced in recent decades, hence my choice of wording.
But let me back up by quite a few years.
Fairly early in my journey of figuring out how I wanted to write about the world and how I wanted to act in the world, I came to place considerable importance on recognizing that all of us understand the world, write, and act to make change from some place, and that the specifics of that someplace matter to how we can and must know, write, and act. Some people describe this as "standpoint," other people call it by other names, and still others don't really name it at all but still value it in how they act. Recognizing this means understanding what that someplace is, how it matters in a given instance, and how it can and does and should shape what you do. In terms of writing, that means understanding where you're writing from, and it means figuring out how that can and does and should shape your words, and perhaps sometimes how it can and should become part of the content of what you say.
This is not at all a novel insight on my part, certainly, and I'm sure some of you have been aware of it as a matter of course for as long as you can remember, but I had to learn it.
As politically and epistemologically important as I think this understanding is when it comes to producing knowledge and writing about the world, it isn't necessarily an approach to writing that came easily to me. Some of this is connected to personal quirks, but a lot of it isn't. For instance, a lot of what we learn in school about writing, many mainstream definitions of 'good journalism,' and the work of many a lefty whitedude superstar, all can make it seem like the only serious way to approach producing knowledge and text is the "view from nowhere" that pretends that we can stand above the world and pontificate, unimplicated. The view from nowhere is really no such thing, of course, and is a very specific somewhere disguised as nowhere, and the farther your specific somewhere falls from that dominant specific somewhere, the more friction you experience in trying to write from that faux-universal place. I didn't feel a lot of that intrinsic friction pushing me to figure things out.
So it didn't come easily, but I've worked away at it over the years and done my best to get better at writing from (and when relevant, about) my own experience of the world. It's important to add, I think, that what this actually looks like varies a great deal. There are lots of approaches to knowing the world that fit under this umbrella, and lots of different kinds of writing. Self may be visible and obvious, or it may inform the writing in a much more subtle way. The piece may explicitly draw on one's own experience, as in memoir or memoir-informed theory, or it may allow experience to more delicately shape how other things are talked about. The writing may end up feeling polemical, thoughtful, descriptive, analytical, or a whole host of other possibilities.
Over the years, I've engaged in some kinds of writing and some ways of relating to my own experience that fall under this broad umbrella. So, for instance, I've done a lot of book reviews on here, and I long ago rejected the more traditional approach to reviewing where your main reference point for situating and reacting to the book is an externally defined field of study or discipline, and instead grounded what I write in my own uses for, reactions to, and reasons for engaging with the book. And you can also look at my own books, which in their final form include explicit discussion of standpoint and visible inclusion of some relevant aspects of me and my experience...after a long journey of trying different models that did not initially include either of those things. And if I were to page back through the decade-plus of this blog, I'm sure I'd be able to point to other ways that I have consistently written from, and sometimes about, the experiences that have shaped me. Even so, it feels like there is far more of this broad territory that I've avoided, especially the parts that involve more attention to embodied experience and to visibly including self in what I write, and far more I could do with a little practice.
Back before Xmas, I was putting effort into writing more, and more kinds, of short pieces – for the moment, mostly for the blog, though with a hopeful eye to expanded possibilities in the future, and for the most part with my larger project of writing for and about movements firmly in view. It wasn't very systematic and it involved a lot of following my nose and writing whatever came up rather than being strategic, and it's likely that someone going back and looking at what I was doing wouldn't see anything much different than what I've done many times before. In fact, an important part of how I was doing it was that it was kind of like play, not in the sense of being leisure rather than work but in the sense of being semi-random and exploratory. Anyway, in the course of that, one of the things I was playing with (again, not necessarily in ways that a reader would be readily able to perceive, because at least some of it was about process rather than outputs) was how experience and self connect with writing.
Since the new year, or at least since the second week of January, I've been busy with other things. Along with the radio show that has imposed its own weekly discipline for more than three years now, it has been a mix of projects and activities that range from the tedious to the exciting, but none of which are for immediate public consumption. As I said at the top of this piece, however, in the last week and a half I've been working to get myself back into writing more, and more kinds, of short pieces, and I've found it trickier than I expected.
So picture this: I'm sitting in my desk chair, but swivelled away from my desk. My feet are up on the little folding table I use for that purpose, pen poised above the notebook on my lap. I know from how much great writing I've read that does this that it is entirely possible to start from any moment of experience, any encounter with an object or a person, and move on from there through the socially organized interconnections that bind us all together to say something interesting and useful about the world. I've even been able to do a fair-to-middling job of it a time or two myself, but it is still one of the things that I want to get better at. I admit that I did think that it was low-hanging fruit in this instance – after all, what's the point of having things that you worry about, that you notice, that you think about, that occupy your attention in an everyday sort of way, if you can't turn them into a half-decent blog post, right? :)
Except I couldn't. My pen stayed poised, hovering half an inch above the page. Then it wrote down a few words. Then it scribbled them out again. And so on.
I mean, I could identify various things that had occupied a little or a lot of my attention over the preceding week. I could even see in an intellectual sort of way how those individual preoccupations were in one way or another connected to things bigger than me – again, everything is, so it's not actually that hard to see, with a little practice. But – and this is going to sound flaky – I couldn't feel that connection to the broader social world, and it was writing from/with/through that felt connection that really interested (and interests) me.
So I could look at my concern about how tired I'd been that week, I could reflect on my fretting about various aspects of non-normative relationship practices, I could bring to mind my irritation at L's line of ongoing patter as he played a video game the night before, I could really feel the deep mixing of anticipation and introvert's anxiety about the unusually dense sociality the following days held in store for me, and I could intellectually recognize how each of those things could be connected to broader social questions and social relations – to (respectively) questions of class and work and control of time; to any of a number of questions about navigating normalizing pressures when you know yourself to be especially susceptible to them; to questions of gender and gaming and pro-feminist parenting; to deeper musings on self-formation, sociality, and how best to be present in activism and organizing as someone who finds sociality to be deeply draining and very difficult, just for example. But what I wanted to be doing was not just using those focuses of attention as triggers and then writing about related things in the world, but writing from those experiences, in a way that felt embodied and affectively connected, to broader questions as I might be implicated in them. And that just felt impossible. It felt like there was this huge chasm: My experiences were trapped on one side, and I could see across to various indistinct shapes that my experiences pointed to on the other side, but they were just too far away to bridge the distance...I would've had to disconnect from the my-experience side, hop in a heilcopter or whatever to fly across, and start in a disconnected way from that other side.
And some of that is, as I already said, about personal quirk, and some of it is about my experience in this particular stretch of time – I have, after all, done similar things in the past. I'm less interested in what is different about this moment that is temporarily making it trickier, than I am in the features of the landscape that are always there that this moment makes it easier for me to perceive. That is, the chasm.
So the inspiration for this post (along with performing the neat trick of doing the thing even as I talk about being unable to do the thing) is the conviction that even though I was in an exaggeratedly sensitive moment that made it all feel much more absolute and daunting than it might have felt at other times, it is also a reflection in the body – in my body – of aspects of how the social world is organized all the time. In fact, of aspects of the social world that I have already spent a lot of time thinking about, but had not felt directly before in quite this way.
Again, let me back up a bit, though not quite as far as before.
So. A couple of years ago, I was toying with two different ideas for major writing projects. One, I decided to move forward with. Even the main strand of that work points towards something way different today than it did two years ago, and one of the things that occupied my writing energies in January and February was not even that main strand but an offshoot that, if I'm lucky, you'll hear more about later in the year. Still, it's all moving forward, if slowly and in unpredictable ways.
The other, I set aside, because I couldn't figure out how to do it. This path not yet taken (but not rejected either) was based on an insight into my own journey of...well, of politicization and of self-awareness and of thinking about the social world. I realized that the concept wasn't ripe enough after trying to explain it to two friends who are about as optimal an audience for this particular idea as I could hope for, and utterly failing to convey it, so bear with me. The gist is that one of the ways that I was taught to understand myself growing up (not explicitly, but in assumptions embedded in everything from school work to TV shows to newspapers) was as a self that is separate, self-contained, and complete – an individual that exists apart from and prior to anything social, which can then choose if and how and when to engage with the social world beyond itself. This notion of the atomized, individualized self is really the essence of the liberal-democratic understanding of the subject and its relationship to the social world, though it has come to loom even larger in the neoliberal era. The "I" of "I think therefore I am" exists (or so it is supposed) because it thinks, and it can then make rational and deliberate decisions about engaging with a social world that is entirely external and separate. Just look at the most readily available language we have for talking about ourselves, our choices, and our engagement with the world – it's mostly premised on this autonomous liberal subject, while deep interrelatedness is often awkward and cumbersome to put into words. Or look at popular culture – Hugh Grant's man-child character in About A Boy ("I'm bloody Ibiza!") or the romanticization of the Jedi of the Star Wars universe, say, may be more exaggerated than usual versions of this self-sufficient liberal subject, but they are hardly unique.
And I should add that this conception of the subject is not only something enthusiastically endorsed in classical liberal, neoliberal, and right-libertarian writings, but its presumption is also embedded very materially in many of the institutions of liberal-democratic capitalism. It is, as the guests on my show this week reminded me in the context of how children (and the mostly-women who are their primary caregivers) are so often excluded, embedded in our assumptions about who can and should occupy public space, and the appropriate ways for that space to be used. This is the kind of individual that our legal system, many other aspects of state practices, and institutions of capitalism presume, and anyone who for whatever reason cannot or will not pretend to be such a subject is treated by these institutions as less than a full human being. And because of this material basis, and because of how deeply down in language and in dominant conceptual repertoires this understanding of the subject is rooted, it shapes in a functional way the presumptions of people far beyond adherents of those strands of thought that explicitly embrace it. I think it is pushed on all of us, really, but not all of us take it up in equal measure: The more privilege you have, the closer your lived experience can be to this liberal ideal, while the less power you have over your circumstances, the more you have no choice but to recognize that you cannot be what the social world tells you is the proper way for a human being to be. Of course, none of us are really this kind of subject. We are all formed socially and we are all interdependent, it's just a matter of who gets to pretend otherwise and who can't.
So when I try to write and I feel that chasm between my everyday experience and broader social phenomena – and I want to emphasize again that this really was a visceral experience, not just some cerebral difficulty in choosing the right words or something of that sort – that deeply socially organized and ideologically inculcated gap is what I'm feeling. And as I said, what's interesting isn't really the fact that for a brief week or two more contingent aspects of my experience made it so starkly palpable, it's that even when it all feels a bit more manageable – when there are occasional rope bridges across, so to speak, or winding paths down one side and back up the other that a careful climber can follow – that chasm is central to the basic landscape of at least part of what I'm trying to do these days. It's not a personal block that can be wished away, or even worked away, though of course developing craft and capacities and insight can make a huge difference in navigating it. Rather, it's a feature of the social world that writes deeply on who we are, on what we feel, and on how we think of ourselves and the world.
That's what I mean by the title: It's not really neoliberalism, and it's not really writer's block in any normal sense, but it's this huge challenge that needs to be navigated to do writing that weaves self seamlessly into the social. Its source is not individual frailty but rather how selves and the social world are produced (and, consequently, experienced and understood) under white supremacist imperialist patriarchal capitalism.
Posted by Scott Neigh at Thursday, April 07, 2016
Sunday, January 10, 2016
Prime Minister Justin Trudeau
House of Commons
Dear Prime Minister Trudeau,
I am writing in support of John Moore, an Anishnaabe man from Serpent River First Nation who lives in Sudbury, Ontario, and who has been struggling for decades to clear his name of a wrongful and racist conviction. Though I moved to Hamilton, Ontario, in August 2015, I lived for more than a decade in Sudbury and was lucky enough to get to know Moore and the details of his case. I am writing to encourage you to ask the Minister of Justice to use her power to order a judicial review of Moore's conviction, or to find some other remedy for this decades-long injustice.
Moore was convicted of second degree murder in 1978. This happened despite the fact that he was not present when the crime was committed and had no role whatsoever in perpetrating it, and was based solely on him having spent time earlier that day with the individuals who committed the crime. Several other individuals, all of whom were white, had contact similar to John's to those who actually committed the crime – most of them were not charged, and none were convicted. Moore's trials were tainted with systemic racism. The law under which he was convicted was ruled unconstitutional in the late 1980s in another case, and no one would be convicted under similar circumstances today – that is, Moore did nothing wrong and his conviction was unjust. He spent ten long years in maximum security prisons before being released on parole, and lost more in those years than most of us can imagine. Still today he bears the burden of the stigma created by his conviction and the indignities of having his life supervised on an ongoing basis by the justice system.
At an earlier stage of Moore's struggle, a wide range of organizations and prominent individuals endorsed the call for a review of his conviction. The organizations include the Aboriginal People's Alliance of Northern Ontario, Sudbury First Nations Church, the Laurentian Association of Mature and Part-time Students, the Sudbury and District Labour Council, and the national level of the Canadian Union of Postal Workers. Along with a number of local activists, academics, and citizens, prominent figures from outside of Sudbury have endorsed the call for a review of John's unjust conviction, including the late Charles C. Roach, a long-time lawyer in Toronto's African-Canadian communities; Doreen Spence, a Cree elder from Alberta; and Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz, a prominent academic, author, and activist from San Francisco. Doug Millroy, former editor of the Sault Star, the daily paper in the city where the murder of which John was wrongfully convicted took place, has written repeatedly in support of John's quest for justice.
Moore himself has recently or will soon be sending you and other federal politicians more detailed information about his case and about what would be required for a just resolution. I urge you to pay careful attention to what he submits, and to do whatever is in your power to ensure that his unjust and racist conviction is subjected to appropriate judicial review and that Moore at long last finds justice.
Posted by Scott Neigh at Sunday, January 10, 2016
Thursday, January 07, 2016
A perennial question: How should I act next in the world to create the change that I need, that you need, that the world needs?
The shape of the question and the shape of the answer differ with the shape of the life in which it is being asked, of course. If you are born into a life in which just surviving requires a fight, and a big one, your answer has to do certain things. If you are born into a life where that is not the case, your answer (to the extent that you even have to give one) will look much different. That is, if the struggles you face personally are small enough, or the resources you have plentiful enough, you can pretend that your own fights are private and you can solve them mostly on your own – they aren't actually private, necessarily, and sometimes throwing (social or financial) resources at them is more like a buffer or just painful avoidance than a solution, but it is often the easier path. So in lives where fighting for survival is not base necessity, if – not when, but if – you take the step to asking this question in bigger ways, the potential shapes of your answers are likely to look quite different than in the former situation.
I'm in the latter camp, mostly. I wasn't born into a community-in-struggle. My nation isn't colonized, but rather colonizes. My people benefit more than we're harmed by how money and power flow around the world (though we're harmed too). I have clean water, food, shelter, and leisure. I'm not in prison. My experience of gender is one that makes my life easier far more than it harms me (though dominant forms of cis-masulinity harm those who enact them too). At this stage of my life, I'm able to do work that doesn't mean facing a horrible boss every day, and that I can largely define the terms of. For better or worse, the socially punishable ways I violate dominant norms are ones I've been able to organize into privacy, though not without stresses and strains and considerable political unease at that choice.
So how should I act next in the world to create the change that I need, that you need, that the world needs? And I ask this in the context of being a third of a year into living in a new town, where any answer is going to be new-to-me in at least some sense.
I've been thinking a lot, lately, about Staughton Lynd's idea of "accompaniment" as a way to frame my answer to that question.
Lynd is a veteran of the New Left era in the United States, from being one of the co-chairs of 1964's Freedom Summer in Mississippi, to doing years of work as a grassroots labour lawyer in a now-deindustrialized steel town, to more recent legal and movement support work with prisoners, as well as writing a number of books. His politics are an idiosyncratic blend of liberation theology, Wobbly-ish rank-and-file syndicalism, Rosa Luxembourg-inflected revolutionary socialism-from-below, an avid interest in anti-sectarian marxist/anarchist dialogue, and a resolute commitment to engaging with people wherever they might be at. I had the pleasure of doing an hour-long radio interview with him about 15 years ago, and I have read some but by no means all of the things he has written.
He has discussed accompaniment in a number of places, but in a very focused and accessible way in his book Accompanying: Pathways to Social Change, that I reviewed in 2013. Despite being an entire book on the subject, it does not offer a quick, quotable definition, but rather a series of meditations and illustrations from the decades that he and his wife Alice have been active and also from the life of martyred Salvadoran Archbishop Oscar Romero.
Accompaniment is about being present, about being in relation with people – with draft resisters, with workers, and with prisoners, in the last few decades of Staughton and Alice's work. It is not a specialized, part-time activity, but a way of orienting a whole self. It is about being in relation over the long term, about practicing equality and listening, about neither imposing an external agenda on others nor renouncing your own vision and politics, principles and self. That is, it is not top-down organizing as has been historically practiced in North America, which has generally resulted in "a complex and restrictive institutional environment that stands in the way of creative and spontaneous action from below (as in the labor movement), or (in the heartbreaking case of the civil rights movement) a situation such that when the organizer leaves, some of the worst aspects of the way things were reassert themselves" (1). But neither is it simply being present in a community over the long term and engaging in a sort of activist self-effacement that denies one's own agency, responsibility, and politics. It is, rather, a horizontal, active, walking-together. In particular, Lynd argues that when you are someone coming from a place of privilege, it helps a great deal to enter into accompaniment with some sort of practical skill you can offer, beyond just an ability to organize and certainly beyond vague declarations of an abstract "solidarity." And despite the emphasis on actions that emerge organically from relationships and on horizontalism, as opposed to more utilitarian and hierarchical ways of thinking about organizing, it is not an approach that is against activities which might result in enduring organizations – not at all. It is just suspicious of pre-defined organizations and organizational models that enter communities with claims to have answers and that end up either subordinating autonomous activity or abandoning people, and it leans towards organizational forms that emerge within communities in the course of struggle.
I should say that I feel a bit of trepidation at publically taking up this notion of accompaniment. To me, the way that it brings together long-term commitment, listening, honesty about privilege, an explicit willingness to be part of struggle without having to be at its centre, accountability to those at the forefront of struggle, and deployment of movement-useful skills is very appealing. It is my sense that there are actually considerably more long-time activists/organizers/lefties out there – people I know, people I've interviewed – who do something like this than would actually recognize the term. But I also can hear anticipatory echoes of the scorn that, for instance, some socialists who have very different ideas about organizational form, or anarchists who are wholehearted partisans of the 'cult of the militant', might say about this way of framing involvement in struggle. And I also know that in among the unhelpful (and often patriarchal) radical posturing that underlies that scorn, there are also probably some criticisms worth listening to.
I also appreciate that there will inevitably and entirely legitimately be skepticism by marginalized folks of anyone who doesn't share the experience of marginalization in question, who is newly arrived, and who seems to want to be involved somehow. Lynd doesn't directly address questions of colonization and resistance to it, but it makes me think of the piece that has circulated in the last two years that instructs us to be accomplices with rather than allies to Indigenous people. As far as I can tell – and I'm open to being corrected – accompaniment taken up in the spirit in which Lynd intends it looks a lot like being an accomplice rather than an ally, in the sense of that piece. At the same time, it would also be incredibly easy to check off boxes and think you were engaging in accompaniment while doing all sorts of the politically destructive things that piece associates with "ally" identity. So skepticism is warranted, just as it is for any other framework for becoming involved in struggles to abolish oppressive relations from which you benefit, and starting from the framework of accompaniment doesn't inoculate against the possibility of engaging in harmful behaviours.
Nonetheless, I still think there is value and wisdom to be found in Lynd's approach. It feels relevant and useful to my situation.
My political involvement during the final few years of my time living in Sudbury, Ontario, looked something like accompaniment. Now, I'm not sure what Lynd would make of that claim. I'm not sure the kinds of writing/media/research/knowledge skills that I had to offer are really as practical as what he has in mind. And though the Sudbury working-group of The Media Co-op provided me with opportunities to build organic, lasting relationships, and to offer of those skills -- both through their direct use and via opportunities to build the skills of others -- to people in struggle in different ways in the city, I know full well that it never fully realized whatever potential it had in theory as a means of enacting accompaniment. Nonetheless, it was for me a site of potential, a site from which I could ask and answer "How should I act next in the world to create the change that I need, that you need, that the world needs?" within a framework that seemed to me to bear some family resemblance to accompaniment, even if I was never fully satisfied with my answers.
And now, of course, I'm back in Hamilton, a city I lived in for most of the decade before I lived in Sudbury. I miss specific people in Sudbury rather a lot, but I had largely been taking the long view in terms of the change in communities -- there are lots of things I like about Sudbury as a political and social community, but there are also lots of things I like (and missed!) about Hamilton, so there was loss in this transition but also gain. But as I've been reflecting on these questions, and as I have reflected on accompaniment as a framework for thinking about engagement in struggles for social change in a more explicit way than I had for a couple of years, I realize that there is something concrete that I have lost in leaving Sudbury that I cannot directly replace: that context for accompaniment. I won't get into the details, but because of differences between the two cities, it does not make sense to try and duplicate here what we were trying to do in Sudbury.
Don't get me wrong: As I said, Hamilton is wonderful, and I'm happy to be living here. There are some interesting grassroots things that are happening, and I've done my best, in the last few months, to go to things as an attendee and participant. But I have thus far hesitated about committing to be a member in an ongoing way of any local group or initiative. Partly that's because I'm enjoying having a bit more time for the non-locally-focused movement-related writing and media work that has stayed much the same for me before and after the move, and for the time being that might continue to win out. But partly -- and this may be completely backwards -- it's because I'm hesitant about plunging too much of myself into something local, urgent, and immediate before I have developed a better sense of how I can be usefully present in Hamilton over the long term.
Given what I bring – the skills, the quirks, the strengths and weaknesses – how can I most usefully position myself for long-term contribution to struggles for justice and liberation in Hamilton and elsewhere?
Posted by Scott Neigh at Thursday, January 07, 2016