In The Brothers Karamazov, Ivan tells his brother Alyosha he could
never bear to live in an otherwise perfect world so long as it was only
possible given the absolute suffering of even one human being. Just one. He
could not do it. In such an agreement, it would be impossible for him to live
happily.
Neither can we. At least I hope.
As informed students, as agents of change, we face the impossible menaces of
the world head on. We greet each day exactly as it is: tinged and stained with
injustice, with suffering, with unnecessary wrongs. Our educations have taught
us to see into the very face of society and wonder where the wounds are. We
must respond critically, thoughtfully, and quick. We must put our hands in the
wounds. We must ask:
How can we say the world is just
when hatred extinguishes communities?
What is an ethic if the
community it orbits round is dead in the ground?
What is any society built atop a
dissolved people?
What is living if it is defined
by eradication?
The truth of the world is this:
things are not perfect. Things are not beautiful because suffering is harbored
in one individual body somewhere outside of our vision. Tension and pain are
pervasive. We allow tension and pain to exist in our classrooms, in our
churches, in our workplaces, in our homes. We foster their growth.
In Justice and the Politics of Difference, Iris Marion Young lays it
out on the proverbial table. She writes, “members of some groups live with the
knowledge that they must fear random, unprovoked attacks on their persons or
property, which have no motive but to damage, humiliate, or destroy the
person.” As someone who identifies as queer, as someone who is easily perceived
as queer, I sense this danger. I feel this fear. I sometimes feel angry with my
peers who fit better into the cultural scheme of things. Many times I have
written in my journals about how frustrating it is that the biggest worries
phasing my straight friends is whether or not they remembered to lock the door
before they left the house. Whenever I leave
the house, the thought occurs to me that I might never come back. Again: I might never come back. What?
What!
Though society may sometimes
appear unconscionable, that does not mean it doesn’t have some sort of a
conscience. There have been enough thoughtful individuals to challenge the fact
that hate crimes occur. Their responses have been, by and large, pretty
obvious. We should criminalize attacks on individuals, like at all, but even
more harshly if it is directed a part or all of their victim’s identity. It is
easy to recognize that an attack on a woman is wrong. Duh. But we collectively
seem to sense that an attack on a woman because
she is a woman is somehow worse. The writers of Queer (In)Justice verbalize this when they write “hate crime laws,
advocates tell us, send crucial messages: ‘that crimes motivated by prejudice
are unacceptable,’ and ‘that certain crimes … strike at this country’s core
values.’”
The question is whether or not
these laws do anything to stop crime. Even a quick Google search reveals the
answer: Nope. Not even a little. The
writers of Queer (In)Justice
continue, “but if those messages are actually being sent by the many hate crime
laws now in place, all too many people, including those in law enforcement, do
not appear to be listening … Violence directed against queers remains a serious
problem.”
What, then, are we to do in a
world where crimes of hate persist and legislation meant to counteract their
pervasiveness is illegitimately enforced and wildly useless?
We ought to support victims. We
ought to have crisis experts who specialize in the de-escalation of an
emotionally and physically charged post-attack trauma. A survivor deserves and
requires the right to know that the life someone tried to take away from them
is valuable and necessary and loved. We ought to fight for their recovery, for
their justice, for the reclamation of their violated rights. We ought to see an
attack on any member of any group as an attack on us as well. We ought to
respond to violence for what it is: unnecessary and regressive.
We ought to recognize that hate
crimes exist within a larger structure of patterns. We ought to realize that a
string of queer people dying is more than likely indicative of a culture that
devalues queer lives. We ought to realize that a string of women dying is more
than likely indicative of a culture that devalues women’s lives. We ought to
realize that a string of black people dying is more than likely indicative of a
culture that devalues black lives. We ought to realize that we exist in these
cultures as well.
We ought to address the needs of
communities where hate crimes occur. We ought to counteract acts of hate with
rallies for peace and gatherings for unity. We ought to let the murderous side
of the world we see it. We ought to let it see itself. We ought to promote a
just survey of history. We ought to honor victims and anniversaries. We ought
to celebrate moments when pain is diverted and pain takes over. We ought to
foster the collusion of a divided community by addressing all fissures that
push people of difference farther from one another.
We ought to believe change is
possible, that pain is avoidable. We ought to treat each step as the most important because it means we are moving. We ought to say, “It begins with me.”
At the end of his Nobel lecture,
Gabriel Garcia-Marquez speaks of the utopia that he and other writers have
imagined: We, the inventors of tales, who
will believe anything, feel entitled to believe that it is not yet too late to
engage in the creation of the opposite utopia. A new and sweeping utopia of
life, where no one will be able to decide for others how they die, where love
will prove true and happiness be possible.
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