I’m not interested in weighing in on the morality of the slap that was heard around the world. Legions of writers who are far more intellectual and articulate than me have already done that, and some of you are even tiring of those.
But I'm curious about unboxing this scene from a different angle.
I’ve been called an ambivert by label-hungry friends and colleagues, who are often surprised to hear about my deep introversion. As I admittedly type those last words, I’m cringing because I’m sure some of you are now picturing me as a socially awkward wallflower. You're imagining me clutching my drink at a social event while counting down the minutes until I can reunite with my fleecy pajamas. To be fair, I’m on deeply familiar terms with said pajamas. But the truth is that I also love people. I love hearing all of your stories and getting a fuller picture of how countless small moments led to you becoming you. So even as bedtime beckons, I will linger in one-on-ones and probe people's truths with countless questions until James, himself an extrovert, will try to catch my eye while I’m neck-deep in conversation, ignoring his not-so-subtle taps of his watch from across the room.
He has since given me his unofficial diagnosis as an ‘overcompensating introvert’. Left to my own devices, I prefer to recharge my batteries in solitude. But often, I will subsume my hermit-like ways under a greater love for people and a deep desire to enter into their arenas of thought. And my use of laughter plays heavily into that.
Laughter has been my security blanket for many years. In the past, I've used it as an admissions ticket into unfamiliar circles or even areas of great discomfort. I've used it as a flimsy shield against microaggressions. I’m ashamed to admit that I've also used laughter to dismiss my prickling conscience when crude and retrospectively unfunny words were uttered at others’ expense.
Because I didn’t want to be the fomenting spoon that stirred the pot; better to be a silent sponge for the sake of general peace and quiet.
Over the course of my time as an educator of color, I’ve had tons of well-meaning jokes and jabs tossed my way. I’ll usually venture a cheery expression - if not a full out chortle, then at least a forced and wide grin - to let people know, ‘Look at me! I’m not sensitive and weak! I have a sense of humor just like you!’ But that smiley show would often come at a cost as fresh fractures formed in my internal foundation of institutional belonging and ownership of my personal or professional expertise.
Even now, after nearly seventeen years in the profession, I can barely squeak out an accepting ‘thank you’ when people comment approvingly on my pedagogy or teaching approaches. Because deep down inside, I wonder if they’re just surprised that someone who looks like me and so different from them could climb so high.
I’ve seen a painful mirror in the few images of Jada Pinkett-Smith’s face as she absorbed barely veiled jests about her hair. I’ve watched body language experts offer a second-by-second dissection of her response. Some of you have done even more thin slicing of this explosive moment, but very few of us will get the full brunt of what was happening in Mrs. Pinkett-Smith’s mind in those laden seconds.
So I’ve stopped trying to empathize with her; I don’t have alopecia. I don’t know what that’s like. I won’t even pretend to understand that pain. Instead, my eyes have since slid sideways from her face to the people around her. And I’ve begun to notice how many gilded stars and celebrities around her made the astonishing choice to use their mirth-dripping smiles to show wordless approval for her unplanned moment in the spotlight.
I was struck by what a friend said afterwards about the whole shocking affair - “You can’t be an ally by sitting in the wings; you must be strong and stick your neck out. Be the warrior. Because on Sunday night, the warriors in the room did not laugh.”
The word ‘warrior’ makes you think of fiery impassioned activism. A poster-wielding, scream-shouting call for justice. But my friend is suggesting a different fight altogether. It’s not even action, per se; rather, a call for pointed, intentional IN-action.
Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh at things that aren’t truly funny. Don’t laugh when you know that joke creates agony for someone else.
I’ve heard the argument that ‘silence is complicity.’ Because what is unsaid speaks volumes. Silence can be an implicit agreement for all kinds of atrocities - from slicing micro-comments to deleterious war crimes like those in Kyiv. I submit a different and opposite side of the coin - silence can also express disapprobation. A silent and straight face in a comedic setting - whether at a staged roast at the Oscars or an ad hoc roast by the workplace watercooler - can be an act of active, warrior-like disapproval for the practice of throwing fellow humans under the bus for a mere laugh.
Laugh strategically. Withhold laughter strategically. Because not all laughs are worth it.
*Note: With the exception of a few, the included photos are not mine. Where possible, I've tried to credit original sources by leaving watermarks or leaving sources in captions.