The decision was not the occasion of much debate at first. After all, it seemed ridiculous to refer to the head of our editorial board as Chairman when she was, in fact, a woman. And besides, what relevance does a person's gender have to their capacity to do the job? But after the box appeared, there was criticism. It followed the lines which have become all too familiar. Does everything have to be an issue? The Crimson has finally lost its independence and is now a slave to modish opinion.
The purpose of making the change was twofold. On the one hand to remove archaicism from the paper, and on the other to confront people with the fact that language does carry biases, and that these biases matter. Its impact was intended to influence those who work on the paper as much as those who read it. But the impact was negated.
Those who do believe that adopting a gender-neutral policy is right were not debated; they were dismissed as blind followers of what is "in." The more earnestly the belief is held, the less influence it holds. It is met with condescending amusement, the derision of the critic who is certain that one's (not necessarily his) mind is independent. To be above such petty demands is to be a rebel. The rest are merely the herd.
This method of retort, I fear, has been largely effective, and not only in this instance. It has not succeeded in preventing the sensitizing of language or the broadening of the curriculum, but it has succeeded in stripping these actions of any moral force. It is presumed that if the aggrieved party is placated, it is done not out of a sense of remorse, but rather under pressure.
IN this respect, it seems that the level of distrust will not soon dissipate. For each victory is seen in terms of a power dynamic, not as part of a moral conversion. Thus each victory is hollow and only makes the desire for victory the next time greater. In each win, there seems only the confirmation of the worst fears of the accuser. The change is on the surface, but the real demand is for a change of heart.
It was precisely that demand which University of Chicago philosopher Alan Bloom could not understand when he appeared at Harvard earlier this semester. The irony of his attack on relativism is that he encourages us to ignore morality. For him, every demand from a minority group is an attempt to seek power. He refuses to accept that it might be a request for compassion, and beyond that, a plea for self-assessment.
At the conclusion of his speech, in which he lambasted the move to diversify the curriculum at Stanford as tantamount to an attack by barbarians, he opened the floor to questions.
A Black student rose and challenged him on why the works of Black writers should not be included in the pantheon of great books. Bloom was unyielding, and the student proceeded to rail against the ancients as white Anglo-Saxon protestants. The slip was for Bloom, and no doubt for many, proof of the unthinking mindset of many minorities who demand inclusion.
Armed to defend himself, Bloom pointed to the words of W.E.B. DuBois, who in Souls of Black Folk himself cited the importance of reading Shakespeare. "Does that satisfy you?" Bloom asked, and in the question one hears the heart of the problem.
It is not a matter of satisfying those who feel aggrieved, it is a matter of acknowledging that the feeling is real. DuBois would have been sympathetic to the Black student far more than he would have been to Bloom. One of DuBois' central tasks was to show the important contributions of Black culture, to show that what he termed the "Sorrow Songs," the Negro spirituals, were the equivalent of Shakespeare.
BEHIND most of these pleas for greater inclusion and sensitivity lies the possibility for us to find our commonality. But too often, both because of the manner in which the challenge is presented, and in the way in which we respond to it, it only leads to further division--the one requesting too much; the other asserting their superiority.
An episode at The Crimson late this semester bears out the difficulty we (majority and minority) have in finding a way to speak to each other. We were discussing the story on the rape in Holyoke Center. There were two men and four women executives participating in the discussion, and the conversation split straight down gender lines. The conversation revolved around how we would go about identifying the victim, beyond not revealing her name.
As the two men, including myself, argued the importance of identifying her as an employee, the women became increasingly angered. Rational argument on both sides quickly disappeared, and we were accused of being sexist, taking a cold and clinincal approach to the event.
They said we would not have done so had we been women; they also said that the effect of what we were doing was not unlike the rape itself. It was clear by the end that the manner in which we had been discussing the incident had been insensitive and offensive, which is to say that it sounded exactly the way women assume men will sound if they are sexist.
I still think we were right to raise the questons that we did, but the way in which we did it was wrong. There has to be a way for people to disagree as individuals, and for those disagreements to be perceived as emanating from some source other than race or gender. That is the basis for the demand for greater sensitivity.
It was assumed that the civil rights movement was about the irrelevancy of race, which is why conservatives so fondly quote King about people being judged "not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character." But the larger point was that race does matter, and that it will only cease to matter once we as a nation confront it head on, determine what it means to us and why it continues to hold meaning.
It is a moral question. We have lost sight of that, and that is the danger. Our world, and our attitude to that world, affords us few occasions to contemplate the morality of our conduct. Demands for sensitivity are opportunities more than accusations. They are a challenge. Otherwise the tables will remain separate, no matter how many other changes may come to pass. President, 1988-89