Back in the halcyon days of 1994, Smith College instilled in its students the deep and stomach-churning fear of being "culturally-insensitive." Indeed, say black, say something intolerant of lesbians, forget to attach "-American" to someone's non-European ethnic designation and you could find yourself spending the rest of the season out on the bench for good. In order to beat these tendencies from its crop of first-years, fresh from the racist, sexist, homophobic farm, all new students were forced to spend six hours under the influence of a bunch of future social workers with bad hair trained by Enceebee-I. (Note: a check to their website shows that Smith is no longer their client)
This brand of "diversity training" involved sitting us down in a circular formation and trying to out the lesbians and make everyone cry. Women of a certain skin tone were singled out first, and asked to "testify" to a time that they confronted racism. Then we were asked who in the room identified as lesbian or bisexual. Only a handful of people stood up. Then we were given a huge schpiel about homophobia and how painful and awful it was. "Would someone like to come up here and cry about a time they confronted homophobia?"
There was a woman among us who came from a poor family but had a scholarship to go to a swank private school where all the students had their own BMWs and designer clothes. "I want you to hold my hands and vent," the leader instructed her. I got the feeling that the leader would not be satisfied until this woman started crying. "So you couldn't afford that Gucci handbag, and how did that make you feel? Don't hold back! Let it out!" Was the point of all this to see someone cry over lack of social tolerance so you'd feel something. It felt manipulative. I felt sorry for this girl, not because she couldn't afford a Gucci handbag, but because she was being put over the barrel by these touchy-feely fascists to prove someone else's point.
There was a woman in my house that year who didn't finish at Smith but was hilarious when she went up to talk about how "different" she was. "So you had a punkish hairstyle and none of the kids at school would accept you for it. You just wanted to express yourself. Feel free to vent."
"Yeah," she said in a casual, gum-smacking way. "I, uh, was okay with it. Kids at my school were assholes. I'm over it."
"No," the instructor lept forth for her hands. "Hold my hands and vent! Tell us how you really felt!"
She shrugged. "It's over. I'm really okay with it."
The instructor really wanted everyone to end up a crying, heaving ball on the floor over whatever there was about them that they couldn't change. Please tell me how THAT helps anyone? And what about all the lesbians who wouldn't talk to the straight girls, the turbo-Christian Korean chicks who told the rest of us that we were going to hell, and the sisterhood of sexual abuse survivors who had no tolerance for those who hadn't suffered what they had? I guess Enceebee-I had nothing to offer them in terms of coalition-building. Hmmm.
At the end of the six hours, we were each given a water bottle. I wish I still had mine so I could laugh at it.
Posted by Zerd at December 21, 2006 02:21 PM