It’s Not about You

One of these days I’m going to have a bumper sticker that reads, It’s not about you.

I don’t know why, exactly, it keeps coming into my mind. It could be just a note to myself, but, then, of course, it would be just about me.

I’ve also been wondering if it’s an accident that the country that made individualism a sacred principle, also invented solitary confinement as a form of punishment.

I find that when two things present themselves like that, one after the other, they’re often connected, which is what Roxie and I are down here this morning to figure out.

roxie5I should note that she can appear to be sleeping when she’s not. This is work, and yet she has an uncanny way of maximizing her efficiency by making rest and labor simultaneous. She reminds me of those ducks I read about who can put half their brains to sleep while the other half is wide awake.

But enough about her.

I want the sticker because it seems that everywhere everything is all about you, the universal me—your me, my me, their me—which wouldn’t be a problem, if everything was about me and you, which, in case it needs to be said, it is not.

I might mention, for example, the global pandemic of men’s violence against women, and there will always be a man protesting in an injured tone that he’s never raped anyone.

Okay, I say, well done. But so what? I wasn’t talking about you.

Which he doesn’t grasp because he cannot see past himself, as if something can involve him only if it’s about him. The curse of individualism. And the refuge.

Like the white person so earnest about not wanting to be seen as racist that it can be easy for a person of color to feel invisible in their presence. Because, in the thick of that white preoccupation, what racism does to other people’s lives is not the point.

Which is why a black friend of mine once said that the most useless thing she could think of was a white person feeling guilty, because guilt can so easily take us to that place where it’s all about me and how I feel about what I’ve done or failed to do.

My effect on you is reduced to an occasion for my own feelings, which, come to think of it, might give me reason to reconsider whether I really hurt you after all, or how much, or was it really necessary to make so big a deal of it, considering how bad you’ve made me feel.

Teenagers can be especially artful in this, countering your complaint by resenting you for making them feel bad because of what they did. If only you’d been good enough to keep it to yourself.

And who knows, maybe you even had it coming.

Slippery, isn’t it?

How making it all about you can make it not about you at all.

I’m surprised there aren’t places where you can sign up for lessons. Then again, maybe we’re automatically enrolled the moment we’re born.

By which I don’t mean just men and whites, this being a general product of our cultural madness for the individual. It’s just that systems of privilege give dominant groups more opportunity to put it to use, including those who are sincere in wanting to make a difference.

I’m recalling a group where a conversation about race turned to the subject of hope, and I said something about not believing in that, it being too close to despair. What I do believe in is faith, by which I mean our capacity to not be afraid, to not become the fear that would keep us from what needs to be done.

What I remember most is the silence that followed and the very different reaction of whites and blacks in the room, with black people nodding in agreement as they looked about, and white people staring down at the table and shaking their heads.

I don’t know what they were thinking, because I didn’t ask, not knowing them well enough and too taken by what I saw. But I have a hunch about what was going on.

Hope and despair are for quiet moments of solitary reflection when you’re free to wonder about the meaning of it all. Like depression, despair is a private thing that does not seek company, as in the middle of the night when you’re feeling helpless, that there is nothing you can do that will make a difference you can see.

Out of the darkness, hope appears as an antidote, but suited more to the feeling than the problem, for it does not so much galvanize as soothe. Hope comes riding to the rescue, its banner whipping in the wind, promising to lift our hearts, that things will work out, somehow, someday, against the odds.

Whether we do anything or not.

Which can make hope into a luxury, a refuge from despair, that does not hold us to account.

But faith is what comes of having to wrestle with the angel of fear, whose power faith would harness into action. Faith is what turns a crowd of individuals into a march and then a movement. Where hope is passive and content, faith has an agenda and makes demands.

I suspect that people of color cannot afford to spend themselves on hope, because oppression is too immediate, every day, and has forced them to pull together, to find strength in solidarity built on faith. Because they know that in the moment of confronting power, the kind that hurts and even kills, the choice is not between hope and despair, but faith and fear.

White people have the luxury of being able to watch from the sidelines, or to know that at any moment, they can withdraw to the relative safety of being white. And hope it will turn out okay.

In other words, for people of color, racism is more a matter of we and us, while for whites, sliding down that slippery slope, it’s more likely to be all about me, or not at all.

Which brings me, oddly, to solitary confinement, first introduced as a form of punishment almost two hundred years ago in Philadelphia, famous for the Declaration of Independence and the Liberty Bell. If ever there was a place devoted to the principle that it’s all about you, it would have to be one of those tiny cells, little bigger than a closet, where prisoners may be confined for years or even decades.

Why, I wonder, has it taken so long to consider how barbaric and inhuman this is and, even now, with arguments on either side? I have a hunch that such punishment has persisted because it is seen as a natural extension of what we’ve been taught is the normal condition of a human being.

After all, if it’s all about you, what else is there? And how much room does it require?

Which sounds to me like the loneliest, most desolate place there is, the modern self, a tiny cell just big enough for me. And yet, we are supposedly the point of it all, not together, but separate—the you and the I—and this singularity is what it’s all about, the reason to exist, to be celebrated and defended at all costs, the freedom to be lonely, imprisoned by the illusion that a single human being could possibly be enough to make a life.

We are snookering ourselves into hell.

For in the moment that I make it all about me, I make you invisible, and turn myself into a ghost.

Which is not what it is to be a human being, which I know from how it makes us crazy.

Crazy in the prison cell, crazy in the frantic pace of the ‘individual’ life racing around so as not to pause long enough to see the emptiness we have become. Crazy in all the desperate measures to deny our embeddedness in other people’s lives, to escape the loneliness and insufficiency of self, with drugs and alcohol, compulsive sex, the sculpted body, the endless text, the 70-hour week, the next thing to buy. Does it not occur to us how pervasive it is, the desire to escape, to be anywhere but here, trapped inside the fiction that who we are goes no further than our skin?

Roxie looks at me, puzzled that anyone would choose to be this way. It is so simple, so obvious, and yet, why so hard, to see through the paradox that I am not the point, even of myself.

I remind her that she is a pack animal, which makes her the Queen of knowing it’s not about her, not that she won’t occasionally blow me off when I call. Still, there is always the moment when she turns and comes running, as if that’s what she had in mind all along.

Or I look up from my thoughts to see her standing off in the woods, still, intent, as she looks at me, always knowing exactly where we are.

We think we are not pack animals, the human beings, making it easy to imagine that I stand alone, autonomous and independent, when I do not. To think that what happens to you does not happen to me, that my life is a simple function of who I am, as if there were such a thing, separate and complete, that there is nothing larger than myself connecting my life and yours, that my end of the boat can sink while yours does not.

Every indigenous people has known what our ‘civilization’ would have us deny and forget, and then tell ourselves we are superior for having forgotten, which may be why we have worked so hard to make them disappear.

Roxie sighs.


It’s not about you.

4 responses to “It’s Not about You

  1. lkeke35 Wednesday, April 6, 2016 at 10:45 am

    The powers that be would much prefer that we all be individuals, all alone with ourselves, in support of no one. If we are alone and trying to sooth that loneliness with consumables and drugs and sex, then we spend a lot less time fighting against the powers that be.

    Its much better for the ones in power for all us to believe we don’t need anybody’s help or support to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. Its the reason they spend so much effort on the divide and conquer tactics that have been so successful among, for example, poor white and blacks, or different groups of color.

    Rugged individualism does not benefit “us”.

  2. Andrew Wednesday, April 6, 2016 at 7:08 pm

    The epicenter of this way of thinking involves the rights of the Family. It came as a shock to me when I discovered that the basic unit of society is not the individual but the family. But it makes perfect sense because a person in isolation cannot love or be loved, because love consists of self-forgetfulness and doing for others. The family is the natural locus of love. Even with friendships, there is a tendency to pick and choose friends because of what they bring to the table, and reject friends that seem too much hassle. You can’t do that in a family.

    And it makes sense to me that love is what life is all about, not economic prosperity or progress. In line with your article, it is worth looking at the voting of the UN Council of Human Rights over the Protection of the Family. The elite nations will say that the countries who voted in favour of the family need to be coerced into being more modern, which is the new form of colonialism.

    Action on Resolution on the Protection of the Family

    In a resolution (A/HRC/29/L.25) on the protection of the family: contribution of the family to the realization of the right to an adequate standard of living for its members, particularly through its role in poverty eradication and achieving sustainable development, adopted as orally revised by a vote of 29 in favour, 14 against and 4 abstentions, the Council reaffirms that the family is the natural and fundamental group unit of society and is entitled to protection by society and the State; urges Member States to create a conducive environment to strengthen and support all families, recognizing equality between women and men; and resolves to pay particular attention to family units headed by women and children. The Council invites States to consider mainstreaming the promotion of family-oriented policies as a cross-cutting issue in national development plans and programmes. The Council also requests the High Commissioner to prepare a report on the impact of the implementation by States of their obligations under relevant provisions of international human rights law with regard to the protection of the family.

    The result of the vote was as follows:

    In favour (29): Algeria, Bangladesh, Bolivia, Botswana, China, Congo, Côte d’Ivoire, Cuba, El Salvador, Ethiopia, Gabon, Ghana, India, Indonesia, Kazakhstan, Kenya, Maldives, Morocco, Namibia, Nigeria, Pakistan, Paraguay, Qatar, Russian Federation, Saudi Arabia, Sierra Leone, United Arab Emirates, Venezuela, and Viet Nam.

    Against (14): Albania, Estonia, France, Germany, Ireland, Japan, Latvia, Montenegro, Netherlands, Portugal, Republic of Korea, South Africa, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and United States of America.

    Abstentions (4): Argentina, Brazil, Mexico, and The former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia.

  3. Jean Ballantyne Thursday, April 14, 2016 at 1:42 am

    Yes, indeed we are pack animals. So good to be reminded.

  4. Suzanne Wednesday, May 11, 2016 at 7:08 am

    The perception of separateness is very strong and there’s tangible evidence of it in every day life: on the bus everyone has ear buds, looking into a mobile device, slouched against the window with closed eyes or engaging in phone conversations as if no else is around.

    One Christmas I received a surfeit of chocolate from my employees and not wanting to keep several pounds of chocolate in the house, thought to open a box on a very crowded bus and pass it around. Not one person took a chocolate and some declined to even pass it around. These are people I see on the bus every work day.

    There seems to be an abundance of situations where we are alone in a crowd. We are in proximity but not connected. I’ve been living on my street for 15 years and neighbors hardly know each other. Several years ago during a snow storm I looked down the street, all of us out shoveling our driveways. I suggested we pool our resources and buy 1 snowblower to share. No one was receptive to even discuss. The following year every neighbor I had approached had bought his own snowblower.

    While these two incidents were amusing little experiments, it underscored the reluctance of others to step beyond certain implicit boundaries. All that to ask Allan: if we are pack, outside familial ties, what bonds are holding us together? Are we just fooled into thinking we are belong to pack because we have “proximity”? And what overall effect does membership into different packs [work pack, neighborhood etc] have on bonds? Does it strengthen, weaken or confuse the animal? What societal conditions or values sets those implicit boundaries I have observed?

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