One important theme throughout this class is responding to social controversies and creating social change. This paper is your chance to consider a social problem that matters to you an

B U R H A N E T T I N K E S K I N

When “Even” Is Uneven

“Inclusion” as Exclusion

ABSTRACT The main objective of this article is to provide a critical view, through autoethnographic

inquiry, of one of the seemingly most innocent, popular, and “inclusive” public statements (and images)

for welcoming/tolerating “outcasts.” More specifically, the article aims to demonstrate the marginalizing

and power-assertive nature of seemingly “inclusive” statements. It points out how good intentions to be

inclusive, when done carelessly, not only fail to lessen the distance between “us” and “them” but actually

widen the gap between the two. Another objective of this article is to provide others who feel marginalized

a way of thinking that might be helpful in dealing with such issues. KEYWORDS inclusion, exclusion,

autoethnography, even

I N T R O D U C T I O N

Content and the context need to be taken into consideration when deciding the right- fulness or wrongfulness of exclusion, tolerance,1 and inclusion. The concepts of inclusion, exclusion, and tolerance are thus not inherently positive or negative. They gain their values in specific contexts. For instance, not allowing the cheater to continue playing the game sends the message that cheating is not permitted, and this would be a justified exclusion and lack of tolerance. Similarly, the word “even” by itself is neither positive nor negative. Depending on the context, it becomes inclusive or exclusive. For instance, the “even” in the following two sentences is not the same:

Sentence 1: “We need to show compassion even to the ones who destroyed properties on our campus and earned our anger. We need to see their point of view and understand why they execute these destructive behaviors.”

Sentence 2: “We need to show compassion to the people whose religion is different from ours, even to the people of X religion.”

In both sentences the word “even” seems to be inclusive, but in one of these sentences it actually marginalizes a group, and reduces them to a group that is what Erving Goffman would call “tainted” or “discounted.” In sentence 1 , while the word “even” is a vessel for the expansion of compassion, in sentence 2 , although disguised as a vehicle of compassion, “even” serves to label the people of X religion as outcasts. In his foundational work Stigma, Goffman states,

While the stranger is present before us, evidence can arise of his possessing an attribute that makes him different from others in the category of persons available for him to be, and of a less desirable kind—in the extreme, a person who is quite thoroughly bad, or

396

Journal of Autoethnography, Vol. 2 , Issue 4 , pp. 396–404 , e-ISSN 2637-5192 © 2021 by The Regents of the University of California. All rights reserved. Please direct all requests for permission to photocopy or reproduce article content through the University of California Press’s Reprints and Permissions web page, https://www.ucpress.edu/journals/reprints-permissions. DOI: https://doi.org/10 .1525/joae.2021 .2 .4 .396

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dangerous, or weak. He is thus reduced in our minds from a whole and usual person to a tainted, discounted one.2

Wherever there are identities, there are I’s, us, and the others. While it is part of life to have us versus them and the other, what is not inevitable is to assign a negative conno- tation to the other, reducing them to “tainted” and/or “discounted” ones.

In this article, I will be sharing stories in which “the other,” not being seen as part of the mainstream, is reduced to a “tainted” and “discounted” person or group. This reduc- tion oftentimes comes as a result of attempted inclusive statements. Connected to the implicit and explicit use of “even” as a discriminatory vehicle, I would like to introduce the reader to some of my autoethnographic stories that serve as a prelude to the inter- connected aspects of my life.

S T O R I E S

Story 1: Even A Five-Year Old . . .

It is a hot day to be waiting in the car pick-up line, all windows down, yet no sign of breeze. The price of being earth-friendly materializes itself as uncontrollable sweat rolls down my face to my nicely ironed, soon-to-be-too-wet-and-wrinkled shirt. “This is not a good day,” I whisper to myself, and add, “Can it get worse than this?” I hear the announcement coming from inside of the school, ordering children to take their proper places for dismissal. Soon enough, I see my five-year-old daughter walking slowly toward the car, looking down. I could tell something upsetting had happened. I make an inquiry about the reason for her feeling upset. No response, no talking. Tears, with piercing silence, rolling down her face, matching the intensity of sweat rolling down my face to my shirt. As I am driving, I peek at her beautiful, yet sad, little face. I don’t want my glances to be noticed, so I disguise them skillfully. We arrive home. My wife immediately realizes something is not right with our daughter. She asks questions, trying to understand what has happened. Her futile attempts fill the room with cold, thick air. I ask my wife to talk with our daughter in private, hoping this will reveal what has happened. They go inside another room. I wait . . . and wait . . . and after a while they come out. Still, there is nothing to be said to me. I move on . . . For the rest of the day, my daughter moves in the house slowly and oddly, as if there are invisible ropes pulling her little body, making it move reluctantly and unevenly like a puppet. That evening, my wife tells me what our little girl told her. Out of nowhere, in her class, a group of children cornered her and while pointing their fingers, said, “You are going to HELL! Because you are not Christian!” All our little girl could do was cry. She asked my wife, “Why do Muslim kids go to hell?” What a sad question to formulate in a five-year-old child’s mind! What a sad question to face as a parent!

. . .

That night, I am awakened by a cry. I quickly arrive and hug my daughter. Her little body surrounded by my arms seems to have just enough power to cry. It breaks my heart. My daughter tells me, “I don’t want to burn in hell!” I tried to provide comforting words,

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but they don’t seem to be working. It felt like, as darkness got thicker, it swept away the remaining power and comfort of words that used to be useful.

“No child will burn in hell,” I said. “Then, why do they tell me that I will be burned?” “They don’t know what they are talking about. They wanted to tease you and scare

you. Sometimes kids say very mean stuff, but that does not make it true.” She becomes quiet. After a while, she is finally back to sleep. Now I can’t sleep. Did

I say the right thing to her? What would other parents say in this situation? What could I say that would provide more comfort? In a failed attempt to comfort myself, I tell myself that no parent is prepared well enough to say the perfect things in such a situation.

. . .

My daughter waking up crying in the middle of the night continues for days. . . .

While this “hell” incident was still very much alive in my head, I am asked if I, along with a colleague, could give a workshop for teachers on diversity. My door is not knocked on very often, so I accept the offer happily, just as a lonely grandpa attends to the rare knock on his door. After all, I might have something valuable to share with others, I tell myself. Since others, other than me, recognized it, it makes it “real.” During the work- shop, I talk about being careful about what we say around children as they may pick up on our biases even when we think that they are not listening or paying attention. Then, I talk about my daughter’s experience and suggest that the children must have heard from someone around them about the terrible final destination of Muslims (or non-Chris- tians). As I am talking about this, I can’t tell what’s going on in the minds of my audience, because there is silence that I cannot make sense of. I move on to a different part of my speech. At the end of the workshop, one of the facilitators approaches me and the other presenter, and tells me how much she enjoyed the workshop and how much it was needed. As people start leaving the room and providing more privacy, she tells me about what a group of teachers were saying as I was talking about my child’s experience. She tells me they were saying that, even she, my daughter, would, of course, be going to hell, as she does not believe in Jesus Christ. I am baffled beyond belief and ask for clarification: are you sure they were talking about a five-year-old girl, not a grown-up? After all, there is a huge difference between believing that an adult would go to hell versus a five-year-old child. She confirms my fear. I have to hold on to something, as this is a new low to hear, and I say to myself, “Even a five-year-old girl would go to hell, even a five-year-old . . .”

. . .

It has been quite some time since the “hell” incident happened. In one of my classes, I mention this incident along with some of the teachers’ reactions to this story when we were talking about inclusion. As I am telling what happened and how it made me feel, I can’t seem to read what is going on in the minds of my students. I ask myself in an accusatory tone mixed with perplexity: “You can’t even read your own students?” I tell myself that maybe I didn’t tell the story effectively, and this is why there is silence in the classroom. So, I pull up what I wrote about this incident and put it on the board by using the projector. I ask my students to read it for themselves as I am not able to read it

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without bursting into tears. How would I know the existence of an internal ocean waiting to rush through my eyes the way a prisoned person rushes to freedom? They seem to be reading it . . . yet . . . nothing changes . . . the heavy silence remains undisturbed . . . and I turn my back to the students to earn some time for the fervent ocean rising in my eyes to subside. I tell myself “even my own students don’t get me,” and I move on . . .

Story 2: Even Muslims . . .

It is a very hot day. If it weren’t for the graduation ceremony, I certainly wouldn’t step outside on such an excruciatingly uncomfortable day. Here I am sitting in priest-like clothing among my colleagues. I am never this close to looking just like them. My mind is doing what it is best at, reliving things that have seemingly nothing to do with the current moment. As I am trying to pay attention to the speakers, my mind is going through the “hell” episode, for some reason. Maybe it is due to the punishing heat I am experiencing, since I am sitting directly under the sun with thick, long regalia that covers my body with an uncomfortable feeling. Finally, Walter Isaacson is gloriously (and deservingly) intro- duced as the commencement speaker. In his speech, Walter Isaacson emphasizes collective creativity over individual creativity, and inclusivity rather than exclusivity. He goes on to say:

During his lifetime Benjamin Franklin donated to the building fund of each and every church that was built in Philadelphia and at one point they were building a new hall to the left of Independence Hall. It’s called the New Hall. He wrote the fundraising document and it began by saying “even [emphasis mine] if the muff tie of Constantinople were to send somebody here to preach Islam to us and to teach us about the Prophet Muhammad we should offer a pulpit, we should listen for we might learn something . . .”3

One would think that such a statement aimed at inclusion and tolerance would make a Muslim professor happy, especially right after mentally reliving the “hell” episode of his child’s experience. While the intention of Walter Isaacson and Benjamin Franklin was undoubtedly right, this “even” statement nevertheless troubles me. When the graduation ceremony is over, I am walking with one of my colleagues. I ask him what he thinks of “even the muff tie of Constantinople” remark. He considers it an inclusive statement. I tell him why it bothers me, and he doesn’t seem to see my point of view. I tell myself, “Even my colleagues don’t get me—maybe I am too sensitive, or maybe ‘even’ is uneven at times, and this is one of those times.”

Story 3: Even Muslims are Welcomed!

I visit a local public library with my family. Above a librarian’s desk I see a framed statement saying “EVERYONE IS WELCOME HERE,” accompanied by a drawing of an apparently Muslim woman wearing a hijab.4

Suddenly I feel unwelcomed. I am reminded of “my otherness” and “my out- lierness.” My wife doesn’t wear a hijab. I would feel even less welcomed if she did, in the presence of this “welcome” sign. All I want is to get out of the library. Yet, I am

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no longer just “I.” My family is having fun with the new books they are discovering, and two of my youngest children are having a blast with the stuffed animals they discovered. So, I stay. Nobody seems to detect the uneasiness twirling inside of me. When I get out of the library, the air I breathe feels somehow more refreshing, and I say to myself, “I am more welcomed in this open air.” I ask my wife what she thinks of the “welcome” sign, before expressing my opinion, and she tell me that she finds it pleasing. I felt terrible when I saw the “welcome” sign but now I feel even worse because my perspective seems to be perceived as strange: people are trying to be inclusive, and this is how you feel about it, instead of being thankful? Again, I tell myself, “even my wife doesn’t get me. Maybe I am too sensitive or maybe ‘even’ is uneven at times, and this is one of those times.” I decide to tell the librarian how I feel about the “welcome” sign. She looks at me confused, as it was not her intention to cause discomfort with this sign. She wants to make sure everybody feels welcome. The next time I go to the library, I see the sign has been taken down. The sign that bothered me is gone, yet somehow, I don’t feel good about it. I tell myself, “I should be happy but I am not. Even I don’t get myself.” Self-doubt is not leaving me alone; did I do the right thing by telling her how I felt? How about the others who felt welcomed by the sign? In my action that resulted in the removal of the “welcome” sign, did I rob a future library patron of feeling welcomed?

R E F L E C T I O N O N T H E M E A N I N G A N D S I G N I F I C A N C E O F T H E S E S T O R I E S

Thinking about these stories reminds me of Ortega y Gasset’s (1883–1955) famous philosophical maxim, “I am myself plus my circumstance.”5 It emphasizes the notion that an individual cannot be fully understood without the particular circumstance the individual is in. Revising this maxim in the following manner helps me understand my experiences better: My “self” (or “I”) is myself, plus my circumstance, plus my interpre- tation of this circumstance, plus my reaction to my interpretation of my circumstance. To me, while individuals do react to their environment or the circumstance they find themselves in, nevertheless they can go beyond their immediate environment. My inter- pretation of the circumstance I find myself in and my reaction to my interpretation of my circumstance are even more powerful factors that affect how I see myself and the world I am in. The memories expressed in autoethnographic writing are not simply retelling of memories; they are what I experienced, plus the circumstance it took place in, plus my interpretation of my circumstance, plus how I react/treat this interpretation of my circumstance.

Because the main focus of this work is about exploring personal experiences in a larger social context in an attempt to understand self and others through introspective analysis, I use autoethnography as the mode of inquiry for this work. Autoethnography is a “hybrid literary form” where personal involvements and understandings are used “as the basis of analysis.”6 Autoethnographers explore how their experiences relate to cultural experiences by first “focusing outward on social and cultural aspects of their personal experience” and then looking “inward, exposing a vulnerable self that is moved by and may move through,

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refract, and resist cultural interpretations.”7 Like Robin M. Boylorn, I use autoethnogra- phy as a way to talk to myself and others simultaneously.8

. . .

When I express my concerns about experiences I have shared, the people around me often do not seem to see my point of view, which makes me feel that I am a strange, ungrateful person to think the way I think. Not being understood oftentimes deftly trans- forms itself into self-doubt. No one seems to see why I am offended. I, one person, versus the people around me: who is more likely to be wrong? Maybe I am being too sensitive. Someone even suggested that I should visit my homeland, where I feel less “other” and then come back so my sensitivity to these matters (that is supposedly being fed by my home- sickness) would lessen. Why don’t I feel like I should be grateful that this person didn’t just say, “Go home” but also said, “Come back”? It is maybe because it carries the implication of coming back “fixed,” thereby attempting to negate my experience of otherness.

All of these stories have something in common: a painful and a discriminatory “even.” Even Muslims’ kids go to hell . . .We should be tolerant even to Muslims . . .Whether it is said or implied, or used to be inclusive or discriminatory, the “evens” in the stories I mentioned are hurtful to me. What does my daughter’s experience mean for me and for others? For me, it is a constant reminder that I (and my family) can never be seen as authentic members of U.S. American society in the eyes of some people whose numbers are not too small to ignore. These people see themselves not only as the rightful rulers of this world, but also as the ones who are on the rightful path of the divine, and who place a terrible fate on the others who have different beliefs and practices. This type of thinking gives them power to impose on and demean others, exclude them and at times ridicule them, no matter what. “You are not like me, so I am superior to you” is an argument as old as the history of humankind.

What can I do if I cannot eradicate something? I try to reduce it. How do I reduce what I consider to be the oldest problem of humanity? One way to do it is to make my story and myself known in writing. As an academician, I find autoethnography a perfect tool for this. Autoethnography is not just about letting yourself and your story be known; it is also about getting to know yourself through storytelling of yourself and your cir- cumstance. After all, when I write about myself with introspective lenses, I don’t simply express what is in my mind with letters. I also think through the writing process. When I think, I oftentimes find ways to eliminate my problems or lessen the severity of the burden they place on me. That’s what autoethnography does for me. It shows others that our perception and reaction of a similar circumstance can be very different from that of others. Because of the very personal touch of autoethnography, hopefully the others would be able to understand where these different perceptions and reactions stem from. Another way autoethnography helps me is by reminding my current and future self the way I once processed things by preserving my thinking in a very personal writing style. I could just do this without writing, but autoethnographic writing makes my thinking process more tangible, to guide and inspire myself and hopefully some other people who read it with open hearts to see the world from my soul’s window. Perhaps this would be a starting point in building bridges between “us” and “them.”

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I still ask myself the following question: What does the “welcome” sign that I perceived to be “‘even’ Muslims are welcome” and “even Islam/Muslims” speech mean in educa- tional institutions? On one side, I am surrounded by at least some people who see not only me (and fellow Muslims) as things to be burned in hell. They go beyond that and see (and have enough courage in themselves to say to others) that even children of people like us would deserve to be burned in hell. This is a dangerous “other” category. It is one thing to believe in something, and another to say it in front of people, especially if it is about eternal condemnation. It is even more heinous to view our children—who are as innocent as all other children—as fuel for hell. If this perception belonged to an uneducated group and were voiced, it probably wouldn’t be as hurtful, but the people making these com- ments were teachers, teaching our children. It is very perplexing to imagine a caring, responsible teacher figure who thinks that some of the children they are teaching are nothing more than hell material. On another side, I am also surrounded by people who are “trying” to be inclusive, yet in doing so, portray us “the other”—out of the range of normalcy, but still the subject of mercy and tolerance granted by a self-appointed “spokesperson” of such normalcy. My current understanding is that it tells people that society and its educational institutions have reached a new level of tolerance that even Islam (and/or Muslims) are welcomed, despite being perceived as well outside the accepted range of values. This “welcome” statement, unintentionally I believe, declares at least two things: (1) Islam and/or Muslims are so “out there” and are very much outliers, but (2) No worries, we, as the unique tolerance-bestowing power, are so accepting that our open-mindedness reaches so far as to even cover Islam and/or Muslims. “Do you see how great, how superior we are? We even tolerate Islam and/or Muslims!”

In an intolerant climate, unfortunately, the “tolerant” speech about “even Muslims” manifests itself, unintentionally, as a negative portrayal of Muslims. In Spectacle of the Other, Stuart Hall brought our attention to the binary form of representation in which certain imagery suggests both that a person (or a group) “represented through sharply opposed, polarized, binary extremes: good/bad, civilized/primitive, ugly/excessively attrac- tive, repelling-because-different/compelling-because-strange-and-exotic. And they are often required to be both things at the same time.”9 In the same vein, the “welcome” image and statement conveys both meanings at the same time; Muslims are significantly different from the majority, and thus, they are extreme (and outliers), yet they are attractively exotic enough (see the headscarf) to be tolerated by “us,” the majority who are “the” tolerance-bestowing power.

To function in a society where I am the outcast, I can do only so much to change how people see me. To keep my sanity, I need to remember that one of the things I can do is to examine how I react to my interpretation of my circumstance. This does not mean that I do not push hard for social change, but I find ways to keep myself from being worn out too soon by examining how I react to my interpretation of my circumstance. It is not hard for me to become bitter when frequently faced with microaggression, mistreatment, and discrimination, but I should keep in mind that I need to build bridges with “the other.” Building bridges, rather than burning them, is a good step forward. Telling my stories to “the other” is a good way to “humanize” myself in the eyes of “the other.”

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Another thing I can do is to remind myself that the words I use are more than vibrated air or symbols appearing on a surface. They can, among other things, empower, comfort, discriminate, humiliate, or produce hate. Having good intentions is very important, yet not enough. When a section of a society is under pressure to prove that they are on the “good side” of their religion or to prove they are patriotic, it is already a heavy and uncomfortable burden. One peculiar thing about any burden is that it feels a lot heavier when you know it is not placed evenly on others. When “even” is uneven, it leaves an uneven toll behind.

As I tried my best to voice my discomfort when “even” was used in an “uneven” manner, I approached the library staff and expressed what I felt about the “welcome” image. Similarly, while I did not (and could not) tell Walter Isaacson what I felt about his poor choice of “inclusive” quotation,

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