The Lens:
I have probably mentioned somewhere in one of my posts, my husband and sons are musicians. My husband has been playing music since high school in a variety of bands, each with a different genre of music. Still, his circle of bandmates has been pretty small. He has played with one of his current bandmates in many bands since high school.
At the time we started dating, my husband’s band included this same bandmate from high school along with his brother. This band played mostly bars and clubs. Most of the time, the wives and girlfriends would go to the gigs and hang out. Often, the brothers’ sister and mom, Mrs. F, would come along, too.
I don’t recall a lot of conversation among the ladies. The music was loud – really loud. During breaks between bands when conversation was possible, the guys would come over, changing the dynamic of the group.
This was our lives for a couple of years.
I always assumed Mrs. F was widowed. The brothers’ father never came to any gigs. I never heard Mrs. F, the brothers or their sister mention him.
Imagine my surprise when I found out he was very much alive and well. Here I thought, for a few years no less, he was dead. I don’t remember how I came upon this revelation. I just remember that feeling of “Boy, was I wrong.”
In time, I got to know the bandmates pretty well along with their families, including the not-deceased Mr. F. He eventually did pass away . . . more than 20 years after I prematurely put him in the past tense.
The Refraction:
Suppose I broke up with my husband instead of marrying him. I likely never would have known my error. I doubt there would have been any dire consequence to that error. Still, that’s a pretty big misconception – someone being dead when they are alive.
I was reminded of my misconceptions recently when I was reading “The Ethicist” advice column in the New York Times. It started with a column in which a writer asked the Ethicist how to read to children an old classic book with racist stereotypes (https://www.nytimes.com/2024/02/02/magazine/seuss-book-racism-ethics.html). In his answer, the Ethicist mentions he has “brown” skin.
I was surprised to read that. I assumed he was white. Yes, there is a picture of him at the top of the column, but it is miniscule. And I never looked that closely at it. At reading that, I took a hard look at the photo.
This isn’t the first time I have assumed someone’s ethnicity incorrectly, often assuming the person is white. Mostly, I will read something without the benefit of an accompanying photo. Still, it jars me to make that mistake.
I do the same thing with regard to gender. Though not always the case, more often than not, I assume the person is a man not a woman. It doesn’t just jar me when I do that. It really pisses me off that my default sex of a someone is a man unless overtly a woman. I guess, though, it should piss me off just as much to make the default assumption someone is white unless given evidence to the contrary.
What was interesting about “The Ethicist” error was another reader wrote in to say he had made the same mistake (https://www.nytimes.com/2024/02/07/magazine/son-outcast-children-ethics.html). I am guessing he was similarly taken aback to warrant openly admitting his error and wanting to express his enlightenment.
I wonder how often we go through life making assumptions that are entirely wrong and don’t catch the error? And, does it really matter?
I’d say “yes.” We are full of biases whether we like to think so or not. Where misconceptions come into play is when we place weight or ascribe a different meaning/feeling based on the ethnicity or sex of a person.
I’ll give an example. I get a monthly newsletter from a writing group that runs regular contests. Each newsletter is signed by two people, both of whom I assumed were women. Like the Mr. F story, I have been getting this newsletter for a few years. With the last newsletter I got, I realized the founder/editor was a man.
This really took me aback. I had kind of felt a kinship to this group being run by women, and that women, like me, were reading and judging my stories. It was a jolt, almost like being duped, to find out that wasn’t the case – even if it was my own carelessness that was the cause of the duping (I misread an “l” as an “i” at the end of his first name).
So, then comes the question, why did it matter to me at all if the editors were women? It wouldn’t change the way I write or the ideas behind my stories. It wouldn’t stop me from submitting a story. I’m not sure the answer. Maybe I would have felt more intimidated knowing a male, not a female was going to be critiquing my story. But, why would I even think that?
And, that is the problem – the way we think. Whether we like it or not, we put weight on frivolous things like ethnicity or sex. We have been taught who matters more and, like the man admitted who made the same error as I did regarding the Ethicist, it likely happens subconsciously. In the end, ethnicity or sex should simply be descriptors, not determining factors of things like superiority in knowledge, expertise, opinion, etc. I know that. And, still I make that damn mistake. The final question, how do I stop doing that?