Sometimes life’s loudest lessons prevail in the silences.
I tried to donate blood last week, but was turned down. (My iron levels are always borderline: sometimes I can donate, sometimes I can’t.) But I went through the rigmarole and walked out with a reminder that fighting stereotypes starts with me.
The technician was a matter-of-fact guy who didn't greet me or smile. He’d ask a question with his fingers hovering over the keyboard, I’d respond, and he’d type. The highlights:
Him: Photo I.D.?
I handed it to him.
Him: (placing the ID on his keyboard) Everything current?
Me: Yes.
Him: What’s your address?
Me: (silently) Did we not just cover the part about the information being current?
Hands hovered over the keyboard.
Me: (I provided my address.)
Him: (typing away) Would you care to give your gender?
Me: Sure.
Hands hovered over the keyboard.
Me: (silently) Granted, I’m in my baseball cap instead of my diamond tiara, but…
Still no tapping.
Me: Female.
Him: (typing away) Would you care to give your race?
Me: Sure.
No tapping.
Me: Caucasian.
Him: (typing away)…
I couldn’t help but smile at this exchange. By allowing him the chance to respond for me, I enabled stereotypes to continue. By not presuming to know my answers, he stripped away my (cisgender and white) privilege and required me to be present.
What a refreshing reminder that my gender is my private sense of how I identify, and not how others perceive my biological sex—which may differ from my gender or be ambiguous. And that my race, while by definition relates to grouping people by physical characteristics, has evolved into more of a social construct than anything. All living humans belong to the same species and subspecies; we should look closely at our practice of classification (for gender and race) and the injustice it promotes.
I wasn’t able to give blood, but I was able to reflect, and by doing so, do better.
I tried to donate blood last week, but was turned down. (My iron levels are always borderline: sometimes I can donate, sometimes I can’t.) But I went through the rigmarole and walked out with a reminder that fighting stereotypes starts with me.
The technician was a matter-of-fact guy who didn't greet me or smile. He’d ask a question with his fingers hovering over the keyboard, I’d respond, and he’d type. The highlights:
Him: Photo I.D.?
I handed it to him.
Him: (placing the ID on his keyboard) Everything current?
Me: Yes.
Him: What’s your address?
Me: (silently) Did we not just cover the part about the information being current?
Hands hovered over the keyboard.
Me: (I provided my address.)
Him: (typing away) Would you care to give your gender?
Me: Sure.
Hands hovered over the keyboard.
Me: (silently) Granted, I’m in my baseball cap instead of my diamond tiara, but…
Still no tapping.
Me: Female.
Him: (typing away) Would you care to give your race?
Me: Sure.
No tapping.
Me: Caucasian.
Him: (typing away)…
I couldn’t help but smile at this exchange. By allowing him the chance to respond for me, I enabled stereotypes to continue. By not presuming to know my answers, he stripped away my (cisgender and white) privilege and required me to be present.
What a refreshing reminder that my gender is my private sense of how I identify, and not how others perceive my biological sex—which may differ from my gender or be ambiguous. And that my race, while by definition relates to grouping people by physical characteristics, has evolved into more of a social construct than anything. All living humans belong to the same species and subspecies; we should look closely at our practice of classification (for gender and race) and the injustice it promotes.
I wasn’t able to give blood, but I was able to reflect, and by doing so, do better.
“Without reflection, we go blindly on our way, creating more unintended consequences, and failing to achieve anything useful.” - Margaret J. Wheatley
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