By Sheri Reda

The following essay was originally written and performed for BUGHOUSE! in Chicago on November 4, 2019. The topic of debate was Are the Woke the New Puritans? Sheri Reda went up against MT Cozzola. Reda won the debate with the following argument.

Mr. Obama, you are so cancelled! Or, no, not you—I love you—but your assertion, last week, that the “woke” have to get over it. From here in the land where we read rather than make headlines, it looks like our beloved past-president has come out of retirement/hiding/wealth-making/whatever he’s doing with his fancy foundation, at a time when the nation is abandoning allies, abandoning core principles, abandoning the Constitution… to criticize THE WOKE for being judgmental.

What the hell do you say to that? OK, Boomer?

Of course it’s true, as Obama reminds us, that being woke is not enough to make change. But that doesn’t mean you stop being woke. It means that first you get woke, and then you get moving. If you see something, you say something, right? Isn’t that commandment writ large in every public place? If you see something, say something. And that means that if someone is bashing or badgering, or bullying someone else, you don’t just witness it. You don’t just deplore it. You don’t just complain to a higher court. You stop it in its tracks.

That’s what cancel culture is all about. It’s about standing your ground. But it’s an alternative to absolute intolerance. First, you call the person or company or institution in. You pull them aside and say, “You probably didn't mean to offend/hurt/intimidate/…”

Next, if you have to, you call them out: “Hey, it’s not cool to offend/hurt/intimidate/…”

After that, if someone’s unrepentant, uncaring, cruel and unusual, you cancel them. You walk away, the same way people walked away from United Fruit when they were staring their own migrant workers. The same way people lost their appetite for JayZ after he suggested that slavery was a choice. They same way your parents counseled you to steer clear of bullies on the playground.

I sympathize with people who are impatient with the woke. Sometimes it seems like the world’s suffering never ends. Someone, somewhere one is always suffering from something, sometime—or maybe everyone everywhere is suffering from everything all the time, I can hardly tell. I just know that it can feel like there is an ongoing wave of it, no break in the onslaught, and when I experience it that way I just want to... go to sleep.

No shame in that, right? In going to sleep? When you’re just dead tired? In just resting a minute, in the comfort of knowing that you may have been a beneficiary once or twice of racism, sexism, gender discrimination—you may have been a beneficiary, but you haven’t been a perp.

So here’s the ridiculous white-people’s problem that woke me up to wanting to be woke (although, if you really want to be pure of speech, you might not use the term on yourself, because there’s some appropriation of Black English there):

I work, sometimes, at a lovely suburban nonprofit. My bosses and coworkers are friendly. The overall atmosphere is warm, and welcoming. Diversity and inclusion are a big part of the conversation, even though they’re not a big part of the population (or maybe because they’re not a big part of the population). But they try.

About four, four and a half years ago, when I was new on the job, one of my coworkers—we’ll call him Eddie—greeted me when I returned from break and asked me to make sure I put the mouse “back where it belongs” whenever I leave the counter.

For a minute, I was confused. Were we expected to put the mouse somewhere whenever we were done with it? Then I realized he was delicately referring to the fact that I’m left-handed.

About 90 percent of the population is right-handed. I’m used to that. I begin each shift by picking up the mouse and mouse pad from the right side of the computer, setting them down on the left side, and getting to work. When my coworkers work a shift that follows mine, they have to move it back. It had never occurred to me that this was a problem, since I have had to move mouse pads, and supplies and phones, and detritus at every desk or counter top I’ve ever encountered, whenever I’ve encountered them.

But Eddie didn't like the extra work… and he wanted me to make it go away. It was such a shock to me that it was an issue that I think I just stammered, “Okay.” Later, I thought about it. And then I ignored him. Life went on. We exchanged pleasantries and good wishes, subbed for each other, gave each other tips and help, and it never came up again.

Until last month. I was working a shift with my lovely, caring, supportive boss, and just before we packed it in for the night, he said, “Um, do you think that before you leave you can be sure to put the mouse back on the right-handed side? I stared at him, foggy with déjà vu. He added, “You know, because most people are right handed. It’s just more convenient that way.”

I didn’t know what do say, so I just stood there, stupidly, like I did four years ago. Then I blurted, “Did Eddie ask you to say that?”

My boss grinned. “No.” So I thought, this must really be an office etiquette thing.

Then, a moment later, he said, “Someone else asked me,” and gave a little laugh. I frowned for a second, hurt that people were talking behind my back. Then I remembered that this was a small thing—and my boss asking me to do it. So I nodded. Said good night. Planned to ignore him as I had ignored Eddie.

But on my way home I found myself in of a huff. I only work at this nonprofit a few times a times a week. Every time I come in, I have to move the mouse and mouse pad, and I have to move it again after every break—because every one else puts it back onto the right side. I also have to twist myself into a pretzel to use the POS machine. I have long adapted to using only right-handed scissors. and to looking absolutely awkward when operating door with my hands full. But at least two right-handers were complaining they’re inconvenienced by my left-handedness?

On top of that, they’ve been talking about it—talking about me—behind my back. Standing around and talking about how my being different, about how my being left-handed in a right-handed world is a pain in the ass for them. And if I want it to stop, I'm the one who has to explain my position. I'm the one who gets accused of being petty. I’m the one who has to take a social and career risk. 

                         >><< Ping! Woke. A little. >><<

Maybe just woke enough to know that other people might have obstacles I don’t even see. That other people around me might have to make daily adaptations way harder than moving a mousepad. They might have to do stupid handshakes all day long with people who are trying to be cool. They might have to switch pronouns around all the time when referring to people they love—or when referring to themselves. They might have to dress in a way that feels like drag to them so that it doesn’t look like drag to me. They might get accused of being the new puritans—or neofascists, or PC Nazis—just because they won’t go into the social straightjacket provided for their use.

I’ve told this story before and I’m told my coworkers come off petty here. But they’re mostly not. They are kind and helpful and thoughtful and didn’t realize they were othering me. Nobody meant to suggest that their convenience was more important than mine, though mine was trampled every day. Nobody meant to make me feel talked about, shamed, less valued than they were.But that was the effect they had. On a—I have to emphasize this—on a really minor scale.

By the way, when I got up the guts to share my objections, my boss apologized—actually apologized—for my discomfort! And the subject was dropped. But you get it, right? I  had to take the risk. I had to undertake the education of my peers. I had to consider myself lucky to maintain a condition that all my coworkers took for granted.

So now I get it. Just a little. Intentions count—definitely, they count. But they’re not enough. The bad effects of our well-intentioned words and deeds—those count for more. And you don’t get to judge whether the small request, or sock in the jaw, or the pinch on the ass, or the curious stare, or the misused pronoun… you don’t get to judge how much it hurt. And neither do I. The injured party gets to say that. 

It’s more than likely that you don’t know the strength of your own culture. Maybe it causes you some discomfort to witness that you stepped on someone’s toes—or heart—or identity—or rights—or safety—or their very life. Maybe you don’t mean it when you crash on through. Even so, it’s time to stop sleepwalking though your life. It’s time for all of us to stop sleepwalking through our lives before we walk the culture off the cliff. And it’s your job—my job—our job—to wake up.

If you feel shamed when someone calls you in, or calls you out—if you are doing something shameful—then stop it! And if someone has the grace to get you woke, thank them. And for god’s sake: change.