When is an offensive comment more than what it seems?
I’ve had the opportunity to talk with a lot of teens over the last few weeks. We have had some incredible conversations about rape culture and what is ‘good’ vs. offensive comedy. We’ve talked about the barriers they face that prevent them from intervening. I firmly believe we need to acknowledge what makes intervention feel impossible so we can develop strategies that feel accessible and relevant. We’ve talked about the need to foster intrinsic motivation- that it doesn’t matter if you know what to do if you don’t feel motivated to do it. We’ve talked about power and control at systemic levels and in relationships. And we have talked about male survivors of sexual assault.
None of these topics are easy or straightforward; discussing topics that are considered taboo and often avoided can be satisfying, frustrating, liberating, painful, and moving. For the last 25 years, I’ve been facilitating hard and meaningful dialogues with young people. Over the years, I’ve heard comments that have expanded my understanding, challenged my thinking, and broken my heart. I’ve also had to respond to mean-spirited, disrespectful, and intentionally offensive comments. It’s never fun to have to address a comment that is rooted in blaming victims, but it is incredibly necessary to do it and do it with intention. I have found that, more often than not, a victim-blaming comment not only causes pain but it originates in pain, as well.
I facilitated dialogues in several high schools during Jerry Sandusky's trial years ago. On one occasion, I asked a group of students to consider the different reasons why the men and boys who Sandusky had abused didn’t report or tell anyone about their victimization. A young man in the group appeared disengaged during our previous sessions, but in this session, he had been staring daggers at me the whole time. Anger was radiating from his body. When I asked this question, he suddenly smiled. He raised his hand for the first time in our many hours together. Surprised, I called on him. ‘They didn’t tell anyone,’ he said, still smirking, ‘because they liked it.’ The group physically and verbally erupted at this. Some students chuckled and shook their heads at him as if to say, ‘Man, you knew you took that too far.’ Other students were visibly angry at him, screaming over each other with sentiments such as, ‘How could you say that?’ and ‘What is your problem?!’ A couple of students tearfully shouted their own stories at him. It took a few moments to settle the group, and after facilitating some discussion between the students, I shared my thoughts. I acknowledged the pain I was observing caused by this hurtful statement. I reminded everyone that there is a big difference between consensual and enjoyable intimacy and what we were discussing that day- which was intentional abuse of children rooted in entitlement and domination. ‘I think you’re really smart,’ I told this young man. ‘And I think you knew a comment like that would upset many people, including me. And I’d like to talk to you more about this, one-on-one.’
It was not easy to build trust or rapport with this student, but over time, I learned what I had suspected: this young man was a survivor of many forms of abuse, including rape, by his stepfather. He had coped with his trauma through hyper-masculinity- doing everything he could to appear tough and strong so no one would try to harm him or suspect that he was a survivor. The topics I had been addressing hit too close to home and threatened his armor. He felt angry, and on the day I addressed male survivors, he lashed out, saying something so egregious no one would ever suspect that something like that had happened to him- except me.
His victimization isn’t an excuse, but it is an explanation. Not everyone who says something offensive in my workshops is a survivor themselves, but many of them are. In those moments, I remember the wise words of my friend JAC Patrisse,”Compassion without accountability is collusion. Accountability without compassion is domination.” I have to balance compassion and accountability whenever I facilitate these conversations. If I lean too heavily on compassion for the hurt someone has experienced, I am sending a message to the group- and them- that it’s okay to harm others. If I come at them with a punitive response, I am only shutting them down with shame, and I become another untrustworthy adult, losing an opportunity to facilitate change or healing.
Accountability can be an act of love. We are not writing a person off or canceling them; we believe in them enough to hold them accountable. All of us should consider opportunities to interrupt harmful and offensive comments and to do so in a way that can be heard. We can anticipate that someone may double down on their intention, ‘I was just joking!’ to avoid acknowledging their harmful impact. We can try to address it in the moment and follow up to talk more one-on-one. We can tell someone we care about, ‘I know you are a good person. This comment you made has an impact that doesn’t align with the person you are and the person you want to be. I care about you, so I want to address this.’ It can take time, but if we think of it as planting seeds, we can hope that with more care and attention, those seeds can grow.
I’m weirdly grateful for this young man’s hurtful comment because it facilitated an intervention he needed and deserved. It doesn’t make it okay that he hurt people by saying it, and I’m so grateful that he was finally able to tell someone the secret that he had been carrying, a secret that was metastasizing and hurting everyone around him. Change was possible for him, and it is possible for others. Sometimes, we witness that change but often don’t see it. But we can dedicate ourselves to trying, even and especially when it’s hard and uncomfortable. So I’ll ask you what I asked my students this week, ‘What motivates you to try?’
