The Downside of Abstaining from the Oppression Olympics
There are some things I just abstain from as a matter of principle. The Oppression Olympics is one of them. Anytime I see one of those games, I sit it out. As a matter of fact, I don’t even sit in the bleachers and watch. I turn my back and walk in the opposite direction.
This says nothing about my interest in hearing people’s stories with genuine human compassion and curiosity, except that I want to protect my ability to engage in such conversations honestly and authentically. I care a lot about those, so I don’t appreciate it when things try to imitate them. And the Oppression Olympics are the ultimate Charlatans of Compassion, Grifters of Generosity and Goodwill. Kind of like the figurative Devil, the way I described him here. I have a profound distaste for things that attempt to replicate things I care about and destroy them in the process.
My partner and I have a playful little recurring argument about tea. See, I love tea. I know tea: what it is, where it grows, when it’s harvested, how it’s processed, how it should best be steeped and consumed. So there are certain things called “tea” that a tea snob like me would consider an abomination. You know, like Lipton. That sh*t is an insult to tea. It’s the reason why a lot of people do not know how good tea can be, and that’s a shame. Because tea, my friends, is excellent, and if you don’t know that, I’m sorry.
My partner, on the other hand, is what you might call “a normal person.” The kind who only drank tea that he steeped using a teabag in a big mug, until he met me. The first time we met, I made myself some tea using whole leaves and a deep mesh filter basket. He should have known to run then, the poor bugger. But somehow, that obvious red flag didn’t scare him off, nor did the next forty, and now in spite of ourselves we are happily in love. He and his children now like it when I brew a pot of “real” tea, while I gently tolerate his Celestial Seasonings habit. “Tea” remains somewhat of a joke between us.
Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah: compassion is to the Oppression Olympics as bai mu dan is to Lipton. You feel me?
So basically what I’m saying is, I’m a compassion snob. And look, don’t get me wrong: if it’s Lipton or nothing, and I really want some tea, fine, I’ll drink it. And yes, technically, those are Camellia sinensis leaves that have been steeped, however dusty and stale; some of their essence clearly remains. But it’s a temporary warm jolt to tide me over. It will never take the place of real tea. It will never fool me into thinking that this is all that tea can be. Unless I end up with Alzheimer’s, and that’s all they serve in the old folks’ home, and I’m left with only the faintest sense that something is missing.
That’s how I feel about the Oppression Olympics. Can I detect a trace of compassion? Sure, especially on a good day, when I’m well rested and nourished, and my reserves of patience and willpower have yet to be depleted; then I have more energy to look harder for the compassion in the catastrophe competition. But it takes work for me to see it that way, and it saddens me that many people think that this is what compassion is supposed to taste and smell like, that this is how compassion is brewed, that this is where compassion originates and how it is cultivated. And if I’m going to brew you a cup of tea? If you’re a guest in my house? Sorry, no Lipton here; I only serve the good stuff. Pull up a cushion, tell me how much caffeine you want, and I will make it a memorable experience.
Alright, but about that downside I mentioned.
The most frustrating thing about living according to my principles and stubbornly refusing to engage in the Oppression Olympics is that people tend to assume I couldn’t play if I wanted to when I’m actually a damn good athlete.
I kind of feel like some short, thin, unassuming, nerdy-looking guy who keeps getting taunted by bigger guys that don’t know he has a black belt in Tae kwon do. Sometimes it takes a lot to keep my cool and let them say whatever they’re going to say, because my master taught me a strict set of rules about under which conditions I will use my skills to defend myself.
I don’t even know if that’s an appropriate analogy, because even in that scenario, if it came down to it and he really had to defend himself from physical threats, he’d bust out those martial arts skills. At least, I’d hope he would, and not be a total martyr for some useless cause. I, on the other hand, don’t ever have any reason why I should feel the need to whip out my trauma history. “Oh yeah? Well guess what? I bet you didn’t know that I suffered through blah-de-blah-de-blah!” That’s never appropriate. The only thing that is appropriate for me to use in self-defense is the psychological strength my experiences have instilled in me. In that regard, I’m a fucking hydra. Every time someone tries to chop my head off, I grow two more. That’s got to be alarming to witness! But they don’t know how I got to be this way, and they don’t have a right to know, and I don’t have any need or obligation to tell them. It would be counterproductive: sinking to a level of behavior I don’t respect while presenting my vulnerability to untrustworthy people. So I keep my mouth shut.
What am I doing in writing this? Simply put, I’m just venting, like our martial artist confiding in his master about how fucking annoying those dudes were and how hard it was to continue exercising principled restraint.
I’m not going to tell you what I’ve been through, and I don’t have to. You’ll catch pieces of it here and there. I’ve been open in various contexts about having survived cults and abusive relationships. That’s not all. But it’s what I’ve felt like sharing, and in the contexts that I’ve felt like sharing it.
I just refuse to create an identity out of victimization. I don’t think it’s healthy for anyone. It’s not something to latch onto, or be rewarded for. It’s something to hide behind and bargain with at best, and I want better lives for people than lives of hiding and bargaining. I don’t want anyone’s treatment of me to be contingent on my being perceived as disadvantaged. Anyway, to the world of people who think that way, all I’ll ever be is a “cis-het white lady,” which, you know, is the worst thing that anyone can be. I find this to be absurd, stupid, superficial, demographic bullshit. Ironic on many levels, as far as my personal experiences go, but again, we’re not going there. I’m just here to talk about how stupid the whole charade is, regardless of its debatable accuracy or lack thereof.
I suppose in some regards there’s a sort of implicit test that I put people through. It’s not deliberate; that would be manipulative. It’s just that my natural inclination is to want to see how people treat me based only on what they can know and observe about me through our interactions in the here and now. Have I been darkly amused by how wrong people have gotten me? Yes. But that’s kind of the point. It reveals a flaw in their system that I think needs to be exposed, if only for my own learning.
It goes something like this: a person, let’s call her Olivia, thinks that she cares a lot about people impacted by socioeconomic inequality. She has a huge heart for the homeless. Olivia sees me, makes some assumptions about my experiences of “privilege” based on very limited information, decides I don’t fit the bill of deserving her compassion, treats me harshly. Little does she know, I was homeless once.
I’m not making this up. I actually was homeless. But again my point isn’t to get into the details of that. My point is that this teaches me something about human nature and our foibles and blind spots. I don’t think I should have to tell Olivia, “hey, you know, I was actually homeless once, too.” I just sort of sit there taking it all in, musing.
This happens all the time. It happens about experiences of trauma and things you might call “lack of privilege” or “oppression” in my own life, but again, I’m not playing that game. And it happens with my observations of others. Being a therapist, I get an up close and personal view into the inner lives of all kinds of people. I know what people have been through. And then I know what assumptions people make of each other. Let me tell you, honey, they don’t line up. Like, not by a long shot. Not usually, anyway.
As much as I seem to let it all hang out, there’s a lot that I keep inside, and I’m under no obligation to share any of it, especially not while I’m still figuring out someone’s character. I’ve made that mistake before. Heck, I still make it now. But I’m wiser, mostly. I’ve gotten a lot better at making appropriate choices about who gets to see the most vulnerable sides of me.
If you need me, I won’t be in the games. I won’t be on the bench. I’ll be wandering off in the forest, miles away from the arena.
This post wasn’t designed for anyone’s approval or scorn. It was for letting off steam. That’s all.
Bye for now.
