Nuance was an old friend that everyone forgot.

I spent two days at a conference last week metaphorically banging my head against a wall almost the entire time. I really don’t like conferences. I almost said I hate them but didn’t want to alienate the conference lovers among us, so I’ll stick with I really don’t like them. 

Pretty much every conference I’ve ever been to, regardless of field or focus, has been elitist pageantry (oh no... I may have crossed the alienation line). We dress up in ‘professional’ attire born from arbitrary fashion standards that make no sense to me and then talk about things as if we’re the experts and can therefore judge everyone else in the room who differs in opinion or experience because they are not as expert as us. 

But what I reaaalllllyyyy don’t like about conferences is what they expose about the greater system we live in: one where we talk instead of listen (and when we listen, listen only to validate ourselves), take credit for the work of others, and speak in absolute truths. It’s a system that I have, and clearly do, participate in but one that I’m incredibly sick of. 

One of the sessions I attended was on weight inclusivity in public health, a topic worthy of thoughtful discussion. However, during the discussion portion of the session, a few loud and confident voices filled the room with their own experiences, frustrations, opinions, and proclamations. The details are truly irrelevant, but the important piece is that they claimed to be the representatives of a certain stance on the topic because of their lived experience. I noticed the mood in the room immediately shift when this happened because now, we, as participants, had simply two options: agree & validate or stay quiet. Most chose the former, but I wasn’t yet ready to hop on the bandwagon.

There was no opportunity for sincere conversation or asking uncomfortable questions or wrestling through the nuance respectfully because the self-proclaimed authorities on the topic had spoken. What I find interesting about this is that these experts or authorities consisted of three, maybe four people. Their experiences and frustrations are valid and important and should be heard and yet, they don’t speak for everyone. I know personally that there is diversity of thought among those who claim the same communities and identities as they do. But at that point, it didn’t matter. They had taken up the space that could’ve been used for dialogue and growth but was instead repurposed for head nodding and silence. 

I can’t remember if I’ve told this story here before, but I’m going to share it again because it’s relevant. A couple of years ago, I reached out to a peripheral friend after hearing that she was posting some pretty offensive things on social media. I had already left social media at that point, opting only for my quick Saturday bursts, and hadn’t personally read any of the things she shared. I had, however, heard them painfully recounted by others. I asked if she and her husband would like to sit down and have a conversation. She made it clear she didn’t want to debate and I made it clear I had no intentions of doing so. I suppose I should mention that this was November 2020 so... things were tense. 

I knew going into that conversation that, at least on the surface, we were polar opposites. We voted very differently, believed very differently, and acted very differently. But we shared Jesus in common, so I thought sitting down face to face and talking things out was worth a shot. I prayed that we would hear each other through that conversation, learn some new things, and maybe plant some seeds that might bear fruit in the future. My single, most important goal was to listen and ask questions more than I spoke. I genuinely wanted to understand (and, ok, if I’m being honest maybe change their opinions too, but I held that desire loosely). 

And so, on a cold November night, I sat in their garage for over three hours while we talked things out. There was no topic left off the table – Black Lives Matter, COVID, conspiracy theories, gun control, immigration, patriotism, women’s rights, etc. I learned many things that night, the first being that despite completely different approaches, our desires for our country and the people in it were surprisingly similar. 

Second, I learned how often we make assumptions instead of doing our due diligence to understand. I was confronted with this personally several times throughout the conversation as I realized how often I viewed headlines as fact. I also experienced this on the flip side when my friend talked about how he views fatherlessness as the biggest problem facing Black America. I’m not sure that he knew I was mixed, but I was able to inform him that as a generational product of Black fatherlessness, I view it as a symptom, not the problem. 

Third, when we create space to really listen to each other, we might learn something new. I remember sharing with the two of them how their posts had hurt people. They were surprised and apologetic. They didn’t realize how their words had landed. And I remember learning that the two people sitting across from me who I had categorized as ‘other’ actually had more in common with me than I realized. 

Now, I don’t want you dear readers to think that this conversation was smooth and blissful and that the aftermath was transformative. It wasn’t. It was messy. And hurtful. And imperfect. My processing afterward was also all of those things. But the idea of listening more than we speak in an effort to open ourselves up to what we don’t know has stuck with me ever since. 

Not only did the conference I attended anger me as I observed people speak past each other to prove their own points, but it also angered me because of how many professional, educated, white women stood proudly at the podium taking credit for work that wasn’t solely theirs.

I run into this a lot within academia and institutional public health because both of those things tend to praise “important people.” I cannot tell you how many well-intentioned bosses and colleagues have either implied or outright said that we need to appeal to a certain individual or group of individuals because they are “important.” Give C- work to everyone else, but A+ work to the important people. 

Can I ask you all a very important question? WHAT IN THE WORLD DOES IT MEAN TO BE IMPORTANT?! Is it a function of power? Status? Demographics? Verbiage? Influence? Because let me tell you a little something, I don’t care about any of those things. 

My great-uncle grew up in an abusive household. At a young age, he got involved with all the wrong things. He spent many years of his young adulthood in and out of jail and was often homeless. He went to rehab but kept some vices around long after. He had no power, no education, no influence, and hardly any credibility. Political correctness wasn’t even on his radar. Nobody using a Merriam-Webster definition of important would ever label him so. And yet, he was one of the kindest, most compassionate souls with some of the greatest stories. He loved people as best as he possibly could. He was honest and humble. He knew his communities well. When I think about what it means to serve and learn from others, it is exactly people like him that I want to hear from. 

So why then did I find myself sitting in a plastic chair in a too-cold room listening to a white woman go on and on about Latino health, closing the presentation by thanking her team that consisted exclusively of last names like García and Diaz? Why was she the sole representative? It’s not that her work isn’t important and her collaboration with these communities isn’t valuable, it’s that it’s lopsided. If I were to make an assumption based on my experience, she probably spends 10 hours a week on this project while those she thanks grind day in and day out. Again, her work is important. But I don’t love the message that gets sent when she is exclusively tasked and trusted to disseminate it. 

I wrestle with this tension a lot in my own job. On the one hand, I get really resentful of articles coming out about my project where I am nowhere to be mentioned while my PhD-clad superiors, wonderful and lovely in their own right, fill the pages. On the other hand, even that is a limiting perspective because I don’t actually like to be the representative of the work that I’m doing. I work primarily in rural communities. My goal is to come alongside, elevate, and advance the work that they are already doing or to collaborate with them to create new programming that meets a need in their community. I have resources and they have expertise – it’s usually a pretty good match. 

Because of these efforts, I am often asked to speak on rural health. Me, the girl from Orange County, CA who now lives in a highly-educated, well-resourced college town is asked to speak on behalf of rural communities. It makes me extremely uncomfortable and I typically push back, desperately attempting for the experience of my partners to be honored and recognized instead of my own. Sometimes, I get stuck and end up having to do it anyway. In those situations, I do my best to name those I work with and state clearly that I am simply a representative of the collective. Even still, it’s not ideal. 

The whole system feels self-touting and just plain yucky. I’m struck by how effectively my public health microcosm represents the greater challenges of society. Everyone attending that conference has been trained and professionally credentialed in equity and best practices for community engagement. And yet everyone attending that conference, myself included, spent two days listening to the most powerful and privileged speak on behalf of everyone else. I wish it wasn’t only me naming it as a problem. I also wish there was a clearer way out, a clearer way to disrupt instead of passively condone. 

And finally, the thing that really got my goat over those two days was the incessant, overwhelming wave of absolute truths. Everyone and their mother was speaking in them. It got so bad that I literally left the conference early out of pure anger and dismay.

There was a keynote speaker on the second day whose talk focused on disability. Particularly, she wanted to highlight that “disabled” is not a bad word to be used only in secret, but rather a word that accurately describes certain individuals and communities and one that should be empowering for those same groups. I support those efforts and agree that we, collectively, have unjustly stigmatized the word disabled. However, one of the core tenets in her speech was that anyone with a disability should identify as disabled and with the disability community at large. This was reflected very clearly when an audience member shared a story about her nephew with autism who she believes should confidently and loudly embrace the term. The keynote speaker responded with a diagnosis saying that he clearly “isn’t far enough along on his disability journey yet” and implied that all those who are disabled should hold that as one of their most salient identities. 

This upset me deeply, not because the causes aren’t noble or commentaries on language and stigma and judgment aren’t true. But rather because this talk assumed a one-size-fits-all approach. I am technically disabled. My illness falls squarely under the Americans with Disabilities Act and yet, I have never defined myself by my condition. It’s just not something that comes immediately to mind when I think of all the things that I am. It’s both a big part of my life because of the energy, mental and physical, that it requires, and a small part of my life because of how little I let it impact my daily activities or long-term trajectory. Quite honestly, I think if my condition became more central to my identity it would do far more damage than good. 

I embrace and accept my condition (most of the time ;). I’m not embarrassed by it or ashamed. I am a passionate advocate for those with my disease, desiring to do all that I can to give back to my own community. I love being in service to and community with other T1Ds. And, I choose to not let it define me. I don’t want to be known as “that diabetic girl” as so many of my peers are. It feels incomplete to define myself that way or let others do the same. I am offended by this speaker’s proclamation that to feel this way means that I have not matured enough in my own journey... that I’m misguided or missing out. She confidently stated an absolute truth that is not absolutely true and hurt someone in the audience while she did it. I would’ve preferred her to embrace the nuance and recognize and respect that everyone has a different journey. There isn’t a one-size-fits-all approach, but there is an opportunity for all of us to listen and learn from those in our lives and to tailor our approaches to those we care for in our work and personal life. 

There are so few “absolute” truths that I believe in. In fact, even Biblically there are only a handful of them. If you read the Proverbs you’ll find that they are often contradictory, reminding us that we need God himself to help us discern our circumstances and make sense of His Word. He is my absolute truth. 

I think it can be easier for us, in the scary and complicated world that we live in, to speak in bold proclamations and platitudes to prevent the discomfort of being wrong or not knowing or having to sacrifice. I felt this way when I posted about forgiveness a few months back. After that post, I had multiple people reach out to me saying that I shouldn’t forgive him. That I don’t have to. That he doesn’t deserve it. Well, duh. Isn’t the whole point of forgiveness that you don’t deserve it? It’s easier to make a sweeping statement that someone isn’t deserving of our grace or sacrifice than it is to offer grace or to sacrifice. It’s even harder to recognize that we, too, need other people’s grace and sacrifice. But this thinking keeps us stuck. Stuck in the shell of safety and insecurity and discontentment, unwilling to engage in all that life has to offer. Unwilling to open ourselves up. 

Ok, it’s time to end this because my brain is turning to mush and I’m getting a little too philosophical for my taste. But anyway, I say all of this to say, there’s a better way. I don’t want to sit in another conference room, or living room, or coffee shop, or wherever I find myself playing life charades ever again. I want to do life. All of it. And I want to care for and uplift people while I do. There is a better way. Will you join me in it? 

Until next time, 

Abbey

Titular Song: Nuance by Alec Benjamin

** And while you have your playlists open, the album Autumn Variations by Ed Sheeran and the song No Complaints by Noah Kahan are incredible. I truly, madly, deeply recommend. **