Transcript pending.
Increasingly, I don’t post about major, tragic news events. In the media firestorm that follows, when most people seem to spend more time on social media, posting more frequently, I actively take time away from my phone and my computer. When I do engage with news coverage, I do so in small bursts, and I rarely share what I read. These are my choices, and – more and more – they are choices I make mindfully. They’re choices I make in spite of the fact that I’m usually very active on social media and that I share a great deal of “difficult” and “upsetting” content through these forums. They’re choices I make, in part, because immersing myself in 24-hour news coverage (of the kind of events that warrant it) floods me emotionally. Essentially, I make these choices because I have experienced the depression and anxiety that follows, for me personally, when I don’t make them.
I don’t opt for this response because I believe it’s an exclusive “right” choice. I absolutely believe these events need coverage, need sharing, expressions of solidarity and sympathy, commitments to action, and action. But if I post about a major news event, in the midst of that event unfolding, I’m likely to focus on resources for people experiencing that event as a trigger, the importance – for many of us – of taking media breaks, or the fact that none of us are less valuable or compassionate humans for choosing to turn off the reports.
As someone who absolutely believes in taking action, in not passively making myself complicit in these kinds of horrors, I’ve thought a lot about this silence, what it means, and whether – despite it being what I need personally – it aligns with my values for engaging the world beyond. Currently, I believe it can. I don’t believe it does, automatically, but I believe it can. Surely every RT of the same (often misinformed) news byte is not a necessary act of change. Why then, should opting out of the sharing process, be a de facto barrier to it?
(I don’t believe it is.)
Lately, I’ve had far too many opportunities to implement my new, evolving practice of opting out of these particular social media (and IRL) storms. Slowly, I’m developing some guideposts for myself and beginning to understand how to better do what I want to do – and can do safely – in these situations. I’m sharing them now, for whatever they’re worth to those of you in similar shoes:
I choose to opt out of the coverage, but strive to pursue the solutions. In other words, I think long and hard about the ways that our culture encourages these kinds of atrocities. Sometimes I think about this as the events unfold, sometimes weeks afterward. I investigate the campaigns and reforms I feel could make a difference. If I don’t know what those campaigns are, I find time to reflect on my sense of helplessness, to read, research, and generally search them out. And then I participate. These actions, unlike the content that brings them into my awareness, I share widely.
I try to pair my “silence” in the post-disaster conversation with critiques of how that conversation unfolds (or with clear alternatives). I’m increasingly aware that not RTing the standard meme or posting the standard status does not have to mean choosing to disengage from these issues altogether. This post is one example of engaging with these topics in different terms. Some others, which have meant a lot to me today:
- This morning, Angus Johnston (@studentactivism) interrupted my regularly scheduled Crisis Twitter Feed by live-tweeting an episode of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. The result was striking. Just as Fred Rogers feeding fish or tying his shoes for minutes at a time slowed the hyperactive pace of children’s programming, Johnson’s shared recaps recreated steadiness and calm, in the midst of a cultural response that can easily mirror and exacerbate the chaos.
- Lesley Kinzel (@52stations) also creatively engaged the meta-conversation, this time with “breaking coverage” of reported zombie uprisings that included Paul Revere and Samuel Adams. Obviously, humor is one of the quickest ways to trigger accusations of “callousness” – but, for me, that risk itself raises important questions. For instance, why isn’t “tragedy-as-watercooler-small-talk” considered equally callous? Why are ‘how informed we are’ and ‘how well we comply with post-disaster etiquette’ more important standards for judgment than what we’re doing to put an end to these events?
I believe it’s important for us to discuss the way we respond to these issues. I don’t think the FB memes and the TV coverage should be considered appropriate or positive simply because they’re the status quo. So if I’m opting out, I want to be opting out in a way that calls attention to the dangers of our current response. I want to be opting out, by choice, and with clarity of meaning.
I focus on responsibly managing my own use of media rather than directing anyone else’s. My least favorite Facebook post, in any cultural moment, is the one that starts “I can’t stand people who post ___.”
Yes, I personally find the social media posts that swell in the hours and days following a major tragedy incredibly difficult to process. Yes, I find the way we share and discuss these events dangerous, on personal and political levels. But that doesn’t mean other people have any less right to post as they are. Frankly, I believe there are irresponsible ways of engaging in these conversations and irresponsible ways of disengaging from them, and I believe “my response is more socially responsible than yours” is a dangerous trap for people in each of those camps.
How useful is this approach? I don’t know. I hope, in the future, I have fewer opportunities to test it.
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For the record, at the moment, my search for solutions has led me to explore the Zinn Education Project, Roots of Empathy, Americans for Responsible Solutions and the concept of “cultural violence.” I’m forever seeking other approaches, organizations, and ideas.
Full transcript of this post after the cut. Read more…
New vlog reviewing books I read in September. Full transcript (and fancy picspam!) under the cut. Read more…
It’s Weight Stigma Awareness Week.
The campaign, brought to us by the Binge Eating Disorder Association seeks “to bring awareness to a common and entrenched social injustice that often results in serious physical and mental health consequences.”
Many people I know are participating in WSAW, on- or off-line. In general, those people are highly involved in the Fat Acceptance and/ or the Eating Disorder Recovery communities, both of which I consider vital movements. They believe, as I do, in putting forward fat acceptance and recovery messages whenever we’re able to do so. I’m grateful to them for seizing this week as a vehicle to do additional advocacy. I’m also grateful to the new audiences, opening themselves to our messages, perhaps for the first time.
Still.
I’m uncomfortable with WSAW. I recognize the good that’s taking place under its name, and I’m grateful for it – but I remain uncomfortable. After all, good occurs during Fat Talk Free Week, the Tri-Delta-sponsored event to eliminate body snark. That doesn’t make the campaign a pure, unadulterated Force o’ Good. People take intense comfort in Susan G. Komen’s Race for the Cure. That doesn’t change the fact that the Komen foundation has some s’plainin’ to do.
And this, ultimately, is my understanding of WSAW as well: There is good happening under this heading. And still, the heading feels dangerous.
At the core of my discomfort is this question: What is “weight stigma”? Is it synonymous with “fat stigma”? Is it the oppression fat people experience at the interpersonal (“should you be eating that?”) and systemic (“war on obesity!”) levels?
…Partially. Fat acceptance is certainly one platform that ends up speaking through the microphone of this awareness week. Unfortunately, it’s not the only one. It’s not the only one because — by shifting from “fat” to “weight” — we open the door to those who put “skinnybashing” under the weight stigma heading. In doing so, we usher in a veritable Equivocation-fest, in which it doesn’t matter if you’re too fat or too thin, you’re put through the wringer based on your body, and no one deserves that.
Let me be clear here.
No one deserves that.
No one deserves to be shamed, hated, or discriminated against based on their body.
And still, regardless — skinnybashing is not on par with fat oppression.
The fact that skinnybashing is not on par with fat oppression does not mean it hurts less. The pain skinnybashing causes individual people does not hurt less (or matter less) than the pain caused by fatphobia. But it does occur in a different context, and it has not been institutionalized to the extent that fat oppression has. And no matter how genuinely pained thin people are — and no matter how much we should be doing about that – terms like “weight stigma” and “body diversity” erase the power dynamics between body types. They suggest we are all harmed equally. They erase the prevalence of fat oppression, specifically.
The fact that thin-shaming is not about thin oppression does not mean it’s not worth addressing. It means that, if we’re to address it effectively, we must consider its true causes.
For starters: saneism (the privileging of those without mental illnesses). Many claims of “skinnybashing” are linked to the presumption that the thin person has anorexia. When thin people are presumed anorexic and told to “eat a sandwich” – they are not the target of a social, anti-thin agenda. They’re the target of stigma toward mentally ill people in general, and toward people with EDs, specifically. The vitriol spewed at people with eating disorders would likely astound anyone without one. Everything from death threats in the inbox (interpersonal) to the refusal of medical coverage (systemic). These are awful realities. But convincing people that we can be thin and healthy, thin and sexy, or thin and beautiful won’t change them.
How can I be sure of that?
Because people are already convinced of those things.
…Because every public representation of a “healthy” body is thin – even if you have been told, as a thin person, that you look sick. Because “sex appeal” is consistently portrayed as thinner than the average person, even when it’s portrayed as “curvy.” Becausediscussions of anorexia are consistently linked to discussions of the beauty ideal, — because we take it for granted that the struggle to be thinner is, automatically, the struggle to be beautiful. And we do this because we equate thinness with beauty.
If skinnybashing is – in part — about cultural attitudes toward anorexia, the solution is minimizing stigma toward those with eating disorders, not those with a low BMI. (Conflating the two only further solidifies the notion that thin people — only and always — have EDs.) The solution is minimizing stigma and increasing awareness about what anorexia really means. About the fact that it can occur, can be occurring, can even be severe in any body type. About the reality of anorexia as an illness, the difficulty of finding and affording quality treatment, the ongoing confusion about what causes this disease and what should be pursued as a cure.
It’s no secret that body-policing is rampant in our culture. But if we want to put an end to that, we must do so for those who experience it most consistently. We do not dismantle racism by defending my right not to be called “cracker.” We do not dismantle sexism by defending men’s right not to be presumed rapists. And we will not end sizeism by defending the beauty and health of thin bodies.
We must neutralize the fat body.
It is entirely possible to have an eating disorder and to be fat. But having an eating disorder is not in itself a pass to ignore fat oppression. Nor is being fat a pass to understand or berate those with eating disorders. I fully believe in these two movements working together. But are they doing so here, in a way that recognizes the power dynamics?
And if not, how can we change that?
Full transcript (with fancy links!) available below the cut. Read more…
Full transcript after the cut. Read more…
