If You’re Part Of The Problem, Can You Still Be Part Of The Solution?
By: Rebeca Ansar
Tags: Culture, Blog, Society, This Happened To Me, Self

I am a part of the problem.

The problem is the big bucket of our culture’s social ailments.

This isn’t to say that I had exactly the same number of options or privilege as a cis heterosexual white male, but even though that description doesn’t fit me, sometimes I do not act to the full extent of my agency.

A lot of my being a part of the problem is the stuff I inflict upon myself.

These days, my internal world is a battleground where the patriarchy in religion and society fights to suppress a newly budding freedom. I thought I was more liberated than I am. The truth is, I had just managed to gain more distance from my challenges, but they remained, waiting for my return, like a messy house that nobody else is going to clean up for you.

A lot of my being a part of the problem is not knowing how to speak up. I’m getting better at it, but I stitch my lips way more often than I can stomach.

I know in my heart that I could have done more. That this was not a situation where I should have let my uncertainty call the shots.

Recently, I was dining at an upscale Japanese restaurant five minutes outside of Austin, Texas when I heard the boisterous laughter of a man. His mannerisms were a loudspeaker in the restaurant.

I knew right away. I had a sense from the texture of his laughter that this man often made noises and said things without thinking of the ramifications for anyone else. His was the kind of presence that sucked up all the space in a room, pushing the remaining bodies against the wall, where they tried to shrink themselves even more just so that he could be allotted more space.

I knew all of this before I turned to look at him, and I even silently chastised myself for assigning traits to someone I didn’t know. He was tall, wide, white, with a smaller woman trailing behind him. When he approached our section of the restaurant, I could hear what he was saying.

“Call 1–800-Me Love You Long Time.”

More obnoxious laughter.

“Did you hear me? Me Love You Long Time.”

He seemed to be the only one this amused by his bigotry and sexism.

This man was one of the reasons I didn’t want to come back home. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to do it. I didn’t feel brave enough to do it. I didn’t immediately think that I had the option to challenge his ownership of that space.

All I did was give him a disgusted look, and with my silence, I became at odds with my self-image.

One of the servers, an older East Asian man, quietly said, “I didn’t like what he said,” after the man and his wife had left. But when we had the chance, no one said anything to him. When I had the chance, all I could do was give him a look.

I know in my heart that I could have done more. That this was not a situation where I should have let my uncertainty call the shots.

The server’s words broke my heart. He reminded me of my family, who, from the start, accepted that they would have to withstand the bigotry hurled at them if they wanted a chance at the much-vaunted American Dream.

That night, I was a part of the silence problem, but I promise this- I’m working on it.