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Ally — The Word That Makes Everyone Worse
“France has no friends, only interests.”
-Charles de Gaulle
De Gaulle’s famous rejoinder to Clementine Churchill, who implored him not to hate his friends more than his enemies, is a characteristic feature of politics (and crime, for that matter); the situation is always fluid. Goals and priorities shift, alliances form and dissolve, and the map of the world is rewritten.
Much the same can be said of social justice, broadly; the landscape of identities and factions perpetually balkanizes into ever more fractious inter-sectional sub-groups, and the broken pieces coalesce into new alliances and confederacies, only to fall apart again from the inevitable internecine conflicts, mirroring our political topography with alarming accuracy. In this environment, close comrades can become hated enemies almost overnight. It’s a marvelous social sandbox that could probably teach us a lot about the nature of loyalty, faith, and group psychology, for those who can stomach the unremittingly pathetic show.
This Boschian tableaux is having a Orwellian effect on the very language that we use, and our attitudes toward it. An expanding set of discrete words and phrases are increasingly becoming the proprietary property of specific groups of people, and the usage of such verbiage by non-members has become an action worthy of censure. The result? The lexicon of available words with which to communicate our thoughts with clarity and precision (not to mention, creativity and joy) is narrowing and approaching a precipice. Soon, we won’t be able to talk in any way but in the anodyne, corporate, HR-compliant manner, with approved, proper, and exclusively permitted diction and syntax denuded of all meaning, content, interest, or personality—all packaged in the cowardly, evasive, and inoffensive passive-voice, of course.
No, the irony of that last phrase is not lost on me—I am a product of my environment, after all.
Even worse is the exclusive associations certain words and phrases now have with specific groups and factions; words such as problematic, or degenerate, for example, words that I adore for their evocative nature, can be taken by some as implicit confession to membership of, or sympathy with, the social justice or white supremacist causes, respectively.
Newspeak is looking less and less novel.
But there is one word whose current usage I find more insidious than most, and that cuts to the heart, lies at the root, of the problem.
Ally.
The term is ubiquitous in social justice circles. Article after article can be found discussing the importance of being a good ally, instructing how to be a better ally, advising acceptable diction for allies, and explaining to potential allies which privileges they need to check if they wish to claim the coveted mantle. It is a mark of distinction that many are eager to receive as recognition of their efforts towards their cause of choice, and as proof against accusations of impropriety—allyship is seen as a social prophylactic, however imperfect.
Note the imperious tone of condescension and superiority that pervades every word of the above pieces. The title of ‘ally’ is used interchangeably as both carrot and cudgel to motivate desperate people, fearing for their reputations, to conform to the entitled demands of resentful activists, to massage their fragile psyches in a perverse public display of ego validation.
But why do such people desire allies? And who desires to become one?
Ally is a political term, used to denote a person or faction with whom we share common cause, at least for the moment. This shift in usage from the political to the social context is implicitly divisive, in a multitude of ways. Requisite declarations of a common enemy aside, the most destructive aspect of its increasing usage is the encroaching redefining of our interpersonal relationships. Such relationships, once predicated on friendship, are increasingly devolving to mere alliances, to everyone’s detriment.
Friendship is a recognition of goodwill and the common humanity between two individuals. Such acknowledgment obliges us to respect the individual rights of others and to deal with them as we would ourselves—it is the basis of the golden rule. Allies have no such obligations; all they require is a common cause, and, more importantly, a common enemy. It is a pragmatic relationship of political convenience, requiring no particular bonds of loyalty, decency, or respect.
And so the desire to both create and beomce an ally reveals itself; becoming an ally, though a more precarious position subject to the control and judgment of others, is easier than establishing friendship, and can substitute for same in the minds of the weak and the insecure. It’s pathetic, but such cultivated weakness has become a characteristic of our culture, a society dominated by tech and finance companies whose primary profit centers are best expanded by encouraging social and financial behavior that nurtures and enables the most self-destructive habits of the socially inept and misanthropic, creating more such people in the process (the subject of another article).
And we all understand this as a society on a fundamental level. There is a reason why children’s programming and media—books, comics, video games, cartoons, and beyond—overwhelmingly stress the value, desirability, and positive enduring power of friendship, of love, of the utility and necessity of social connections and bonds.
Allies do not need to be friends, and that is dangerous outside the realm of politics (and even within, if we are being honest).
Alliances are as dangerous for the allied as they are for the enemy, possibly more so, for at least the declared enemy knows where to watch for threats. A relationship based on political expedience is a mutually distrustful one-way street, capable of being unilaterally discarded the moment it is no longer politically useful.
The individual nature of friendship is not an accident—groups cannot become friends, as that relationship requires individual identities; identity groups, ironically, do not, and cannot, have this characteristic. It should come as no surprise that as society brings greater focus on identity groups and focuses more of its conversation through that lens, the emphasis on alliance over friendship becomes more pronounced. The result: people, rightly or wrongly, are coming to view politics and ideas as greater threats to their relationships than religion, race, or class.
The increasing usage of ally as a position of status, and the insistence on the expansion of this paradigm by the self-styled trend setters, taste-makers, and thought leaders who most benefit from possessing throngs of thralls clamoring for their nuggets of approval, motivates people to view and use each other as stepping-stones on the paths of their ambitions, with a concomitant tendency to view relationships as primarily political, rather than personal.
And to make all things personal, political.
The more we trend this way as a society, and individually, the more we will see each other as tools for our personal use, rather than as people deserving of, if not respect, then common, basic human decency.
A Moment of Empathy
A little over a year ago–back when I was enduring the vaguely kafka-esque purgatory of trying to move around in the greater Los Angeles area without a car–I had an encounter that shook me, birthing within me a sinister tendril of disquiet that has never quite released its grip on my heart. If that sounds overly dramatic it is simply a result of my continuing unease over what happened–or didn’t, as it were.
I was working downtown and was going to meet my girlfriend in the valley after she got off work. She is a much more responsible person than I am, and also happens to enjoy her work, so working late was a common occurrence for her. We planned to meet at the Universal City Red Line Station, where I would wait for her to pick me up, since she had a car. It was exceptionally hot that day in the valley, and I had an hour and a half to kill, so I found a shady spot, sat down, and opened a book. After about an hour the heat made reading uncomfortable even with the shade, so I closed my book (Sin and Syntax by Constance Hale; a fabulous book on style and grammar) and made to explore the immediate vicinity for the next half hour.
Anyone who has been to the Universal City station knows that there is basically next to nothing of interest there, with the possible exception of a hot dog cart. The only buildings nearby are a hotel and the NBC Universal Plaza. Everyone knows this.
Everyone except me, that is.
The hotel, as far as I could see, was located up a long and steep hill I wasn’t in the mood to climb, so I walked up the steps of the plaza instead to explore. There was little of interest there either; a small group of people walking to the parking lot; another group leaning against and sitting on the rails chatting; a gazebo next to a small pond with some ducks swimming through a maze of lily pads. Concluding that this was the single most boring place imaginable I decided to head back to the station, find a new shady spot, and keep reading my book. As I turned around I was approached by a sausage in a necktie–more commonly known as a security guard.
“Excuse me” he said, almost tentatively, in not-too-thickly-but-still-clearly-spanish-accented english, “…do you work here?” He was holding his radio in one hand and the other was behind his back. His posture was slightly off-center and forward tilted, giving his small but heavy-set frame (what is it with short, thickset latino security guards?) an even more aggressively mongoloid bearing–a classic readiness posture.
Understand my appearance at the time. I am fairly tall–about 5’10–but lightly built. At 160 lbs on average I possess neither the muscular frame of the classic hooligan, nor the malnourished, reedy, chronically sleep-deprived look of the Unabomber. I have a dark “jew-fro”, glasses, and some mild stubble at all times. My usual “style” consists of a black t-shirt, jeans, and a backpack (book-in-hand optional). I look, well, average. Like a student. Which I suppose I am. My forgettably innocuous appearance–an image carefully cultivated throughout my school years–was and is my practical distillation of the wisdom of Sun Tzu: the best policy for dealing with the enemy bigger kids is to simply not be there noticed by them.
To be blunt: this guy was ready to spring into action and save the day. For no discernible reason. Mildly annoyed, I answered “No, I’m done here” and proceeded to walk back to the stairs. As I walked, out of the corner of my eye I could see, to my astonishment, that no-neck was following me. He wasn’t even being subtle. He matched me step-for-step, always staying just slightly behind and a few paces to my left whether I sped up or slowed down, and maintained his aggressive dick-swinging stance. I stress that he wasn’t even pretending to not be casing me. Eventually, after reaching the bottom of the large staircase, I looked behind me to see the human sausage say something into his radio, stare at me for another few seconds, and then slowly walk off.
Despite the heat, I would have liked nothing better than to have one of my old, oversized snow jackets from high school to disappear in and escape the cold. I did not know what to think at first, or even what I was feeling beyond a chilly unease. Then, as I looked back at the NBC Universal building, I caught myself wondering which parts of the building were the weakest, the easiest places to hit it so that it would come crashing down.
I would like to stress that this was an extremely brief and completely idle fantasy–even had I the means and expertise, I would never do something so horrifying–but the surge of righteous fury that I felt in that moment conjured the vision in my mind, and that knowledge has sat with me ever since.
Is this what it feels like to be profiled?
It seems absurd that I would ever be subjected to this. In all likelihood I am misinterpreting the situation, and the fact that nothing actually happened makes me feel slightly ridiculous for caring enough to remember it at all, but the simple truth is that this does not matter: this is what I perceived in that moment, and how I reacted to it, how it made me feel. And that is the key detail about profiling, and its ugly uncle, prejudice–how the person who perceives himself to be under that cloud is being made to feel. The other people involved, their thoughts, their intentions don’t matter. The sense of unjust persecution is overwhelming in even the slightest doses.
The slightest doses. That bears repeating because anyone who has experienced, truly experienced, any kind of real oppression will laugh at this whole story even harder than you probably are now. And yet, if this is even a fraction of what it feels like to be oppressed in any fashion–profiling, racism, prejudice–then I begin to see why so many of those who feel themselves victims of such can have such visceral and unreasonable reactions when confronted with it; reasonability flees in the face of such injustice, real or imagined.
Was I imagining it? Does it matter? The fact that I felt this way–continue to feel this way–at all, suggests that something was going on, but what? Am I being neurotic for dwelling on this? Or did I, in some small way, experience a moment of empathy, connecting me, however tenuously, with people in situations I can never fully appreciate or understand?