Selfish People Need Selfish Stories
By Kimberly Dark
Why Alex Tizon’s slaveholder narrative is important — and why its critique is more important still.
So many reactions to Alex Tizon’s Atlantic Article “My Family’s Slave.” Some call the author brave, others call him sick and wrong. Still others think he’s a bad journalist for not including the voices of enslaved women in his article — which he totally could’ve done because let’s face it, Eudocia Pulido is not the only one. There are many high quality narratives from oppressed voices and for some reason, they are not enough to turn the tide of slavery, low-wage oppression and abuse of poor workers in our nation. I wish they were enough. In terms of organizational accountability, The Atlantic would do well to run a great article by someone who’s endured slavery, or similar circumstances as a North American domestic worker. It wouldn’t be difficult to source that article from a skilled writer, especially at the rate of pay Tizon likely earned.
A personal slaveholder narrative, absent solid cultural analysis, may not have been the best choice for this theme. I’m also glad Tizon’s work was printed. I’m glad it’s being critiqued in manifold ways. We should absolutely be reading Tizon’s work critically. And we should be reading it, while keeping those like him (since he is deceased) in the conversation. Caution is due about which stories are prioritized, but there’s a danger in saying that only certain stories are welcome. Indeed, the precedent that only certain stories are worthwhile blunts our ability to make positive change.
“We need stories that remind us that human choices — even when they shouldn’t be — are complex.” — Tweet this
As is often the case, Ijeoma Oluo has offered some high-quality critique. “There’s a reason why white people love this,” she says. I agree and will go even further. There’s a reason why many people read it in the first place (and I suspect the readership tracks by class as much as race). They identify in some way that they might not with an article from the perspective of Eudocia. Or perhaps it’s that they might not see themselves in the article from Eudocia’s perspective and that needs to happen. I want the women and men who employ immigrant nannies and domestics at too-low wages, or in slavery to see themselves and be horrified.
But what if they don’t? They might see themselves and feel that if this author handled his shame and guilt successfully with relatively few consequences, so can they. They might easily forgive him. Keeping up a vibrant discourse will prevent this more than silencing him. If we excise some voices because their offerings are not yet perfect, those with the power to swiftly change these circumstances might not see themselves at all. We need stories that remind us that human choices — even when they shouldn’t be — are complex.
I teach writing courses focused on first person narrative, memoir and personal essays. In particular, people who’ve endured hardships and abuse learn that their experiences are not as shameful as they were led to believe. Anger is not best swallowed or pushed away; it plays a vital role in healing and the reclamation of power. In my courses, participants explore their experiences with themes like abuse, rape, racism, grief, poverty, loss and abandonment. The stories are often difficult to birth, harder still to refine for potential audiences. I am conscious of working to create a world where a range of life experiences are valued.
But hang on. What about perpetrators of abuse, or rapists, or slaveholders? Are those experiences “valuable?” Are they valuable in a range of interpretations, or is abject remorse and reparation the only acceptable outcome?
For every fifty stories of sexual abuse my students write, there may be one first-person narrative in which someone witnessed or failed to intercept the early stages of a sexual assault. Less often still — I can remember one — a student writes about having raped someone.
Clearly, I have rapists and abusers in my classes too. It stands to reason. Rapists don’t wear a villain’s moustache and maintain a perpetually curled lip like a vaudevillian Snidely Whiplash. When I prompt students to work from memories of powerful interpersonal experiences, somehow, stories of abusing others don’t come up.
“I am conscious of working to create a world where a range of life experiences are valued.” — Tweet this
This is why some people are calling Tizon’s story “brave.” As a human being admitting something that is likely to cause him pain and ridicule, yes, his writing is a form of bravery. His relationship with Eudocia contains a lot of cowardice, however well it’s written.
But here’s the difficult truth: many of us are cowards and liars, even though we don’t see ourselves that way — at least until someone with whom we identify holds up a mirror.
In the social media criticism of the Tizon article, I find myself lingering on the exhortation to, “Stop trying to humanize slave owners.”
The thing is, slave owners are humans. So are child molesters. So are murderers, etc. Huge numbers of people do terrible things and we each have it within us to commit atrocities. We’re living in a time when people are sanctioning others’ suffering just by being passive to what world leaders do. We can’t afford to shun abusers. They are in our communities; sometimes, they are us.
I work for a world where we can understand people’s wrongs and complexities so that we can steer our collective ship away from such things. And yes, it’s going to hurt to see our humanity and our victimhood in stories like Tizon’s. I want more of these stories (and of course, more stories from those who’ve endured abuse). These will always be flawed stories. Personal narratives from those who’ve done wrong, seen it and may still not know the best path for their lives have something to tell us about our own lives — as long as we don’t turn awareness of a vice into a virtue. The urge to absolve white men in particular from wrongdoings because of youth or confusion or a promising career is powerful and part of what needs redress. There’s no doubt that narratives like Tizon’s need to be soundly critiqued and handled carefully. We should expect these narratives to evolve. And it’s exactly the act of handling those narratives that may bring important change.
Every single one of us knows rapists and child molesters. Some of us know slave owners and slaves. It stands to reason. We can complicate what we’re willing to hear in the service of change, rather than just calling people evil as soon as they discuss their wrong-doings. We also tend to want to crucify an individual for the sins of many. Social media shaming may be the modern-day version of public stockade or pillory while it changes nothing. That is to say, being angry at Tizon’s narrative will not help those like Eudocia. Slavery — along with sexual abuse, racism, etc. — is part of our cultural landscape and deciding that evil can be excised in the form of any one individual is misguided at best.
“Being angry at Tizon’s narrative will not help those like Eudocia.” — Tweet this
I also understand that not everyone will agree with me on all of the points I’m putting forward. That’s good. Conflict can be generative as long as it’s not deeply divisive. By having different opinions, people can enrich and strengthen their own views; we can all consider a variety of options. So often, dichotomous thinking takes over and suddenly, it’s not possible to hold multiple views at once, nor even to empathize. We throw away allies on technicalities if we’re not careful with our communication. We need all of the stories.
As Oluo pointed out, we need to wonder why so many people are identifying with Tizon’s story. While I am not defending his actions, there are familiar aspects in his story that we should be considering. Like Tizon — and like me — a lot of people were raised in a mother-father family with tragic gender and class dynamics we learned early. A lot of people feel responsibility to our parents and cultural practices — sometimes in a positive way, but often in an unquestioning way. I think many people with even a little privilege want to keep it — we learn as children that it’s smart to do so. Further, lying is endemic in class-based cultures. We lie with ease to protect those we love, even if the logic doesn’t quite follow through. These are cultural practices — not particular to one race or gender or age of people.
“I think many people with even a little privilege want to keep it.” — Tweet this
It’s shocking — and for most not so relatable — when Tizon describes his mother as having learned, “the proper way to be a provincial matrona: You must embrace your role as the giver of commands. You must keep those beneath you in their place at all times, for their own good and the good of the household. They might cry and complain, but their souls will thank you. They will love you for helping them be what God intended.”
But somehow, we must come to ask the question: How are these same values woven through our own hierarchy of social class and what do we do day to day to perpetuate them? I believe we all understand the ability to be vile toward some and loving toward others. We are not served by anyone feeling bad about relating to Tizon when he says of Eudocia, “I had thought of her as just an unfortunate member of the household.”
The more important work is creating a culture that doesn’t identify with Tizon’s public silence. After all, the United States is built on prosperity and wealth created by the unpaid labor of “others.” The patterns continue within us regardless of race, class, gender, etc. until we come to see what we’ve rendered invisible. We have to learn to challenge inequalities that don’t seem worthy of our attention. Tizon questions what kind of place he came from, related to slavery, but we should all be questioning what kind of place we’ve built. How do we protect our own lies and uphold sexist norms and values? How are we each complicit in these patterns, in not knowing how to change? Tizon comments on how the passage of time occurs, decade after decade, until options seem to dissolve because things just feel normal.
“The United States is built on prosperity and wealth created by the unpaid labor of ‘others.’” — Tweet this
We have all felt that time slippage, related to less malignant social inequalities. For instance, from the time a child notices, perhaps around age fourteen, that mom does most of the cooking and cleaning while dad rests after work, how long does it take to speak up and fix that? It feels courageous just to have an outburst or two, but never investigate the structural inequalities that hold that small, household power imbalance in place. If the child noticing that inequality is a boy, he could also simply volunteer to do the evening cooking and cleaning for the family from that point on because he at least controls his own response to injustice. It’s not likely that he will do so, however. Our inability to move the large stones of social injustice relates to our comfort with leaving the household gravel of injustice undisturbed. Of course, from the standpoint of those living in slavery, the idea that “it’s complex” is nonsense. We absolutely need to keep saying and hearing that message, though most live in the paradox of another truth entirely.
“How are we each complicit in these patterns, in not knowing how to change?” — Tweet this
Eudocia, and those like her, need a kind of help that does not yet exist in most first world nations. Involving police and prison systems may not have had a positive outcome on Tizon’s story. In the U.S., I don’t know what would’ve happened to Eudocia in the deportation process. That’s not to say things were better off staying as they were. These are the circumstances feeding the roots of slavery. We have to reveal and disturb all of these things, many of which remain hidden in the thick underbrush of interconnected social systems.
It’s worth asking what happens when we silence stories like Tizon’s as well. No doubt, his should not be the foremost voice on this topic. There are ample stories of slavery and exploitation from the perspectives of those affected and they are not enough to shift these circumstances in meaningful ways. Those who are uncomfortable with their role in heinous acts, but unsure what to do need to find support — as grotesque as it may seem to focus time and resources on them. If the only option is to punish and forever ostracize those who behave poorly, secrecy could deepen. Similarly, while it’s important to punish college rapists with expulsion for their crimes, if that’s the only solution, we are sending embittered men into broader venues and deepening the bond of secrecy among those who rape. Simplicity doesn’t serve us. Different stories and strategies will touch and reveal things to different people. Empathy for slaveholders is not a moral imperative, but it may actually result in less slavery.
“Empathy for slaveholders is not a moral imperative, but it may actually result in less slavery.” — Tweet this
Tizon’s is a small story. Bigger stories (often from the perspectives of those who’ve survived slavery or done broader research) should lead the way. And if the small emotional stories, which prompt critique, don’t exist too, we may not get to some of these generative conversations. It’s up to readers not to forgive Tizon too easily, though for some, the desire will be fierce. I’m thankful to those with Eudocia’s experiences who are complicating these stories. Again, I agree with Oluo’s critique that “If you’re going to investigate yourself, you’ve gotta pull some other people in.” I hope publications like The Atlantic will start to look for more complex stories — stories that add voices to an essay this length — in order to offer the reader more options.
I include myself in the need for evolving consciousness. I want more ways to see myself in articles like this one — and of course, in better articles that actually provide a voice to the Eudocias of the world. Yes, I have been working against racism and sexism in tangible ways for decades and I’m not done pulling those weeds out of my own garden. As I often tell students, if I am lucky and diligent, I will spend a lifetime unlearning the “normalcy” of my culture’s systems of oppression. It doesn’t matter that I have suffered from sexism, I still hold sexist behaviors and attitudes in my experiences, my body, my life. It’s easier for me to see sexism, however, when I’m a victim of it than when I (inevitably) perpetrate it. I need stories that allow me to relate to the aspects of myself that I can’t yet see.
Every story about pain will be flawed if it is complex. We do not have equal power to abuse, nor to alleviate abuse. Privilege will most often try to maintain power. That shifts when people don’t like what they see in the mirror. Change is often selfish and successful abolition movements have always included people in a range of social positions. Of course, stories from those who’ve experienced abuse should be enough, and they’re not.
We have to allow — and create — more complex stories without fearing that we’ll be eviscerated, excluded, shunned. That’s why Tizon’s story was brave: he is now publicly disliked by many. It’s also selfish: he was weak in handling the situation into which he was born, and then he told a story only about himself. Many things are true at once. Allowing ambiguity and prompting responsibility opens a space for change.
Kimberly Dark is a writer, sociologist and raconteur working to reveal the hidden architecture of everyday life, one clever story, poem and essay at a time. Learn more at www.kimberlydark.com
