Understanding How I’m the Problem: Autoethnographic
Reflections on Falling into Straight Allyship
John
Hoben, Memorial University
Author’s Note
Correspondence concerning this article should be addressed to Dr. John Hoben at jlhoben@mun.ca.
Abstract
What
does it feel like to be a novice ally navigating the inevitable tensions
between privilege and solidarity? This self-study reflects on allyship from the
perspective of a straight cisgender academic who participated in a
collaborative arts-based musical drama project celebrating neuroqueer
identity. It explores the challenges of
belonging and anxiety, the role of a supportive, welcoming community, and the
moral complexities of ‘standing with’ rather than ‘standing for’ marginalized
groups. A thematic analysis highlights the importance of humility,
relationship-building and agency as these emerge within the context of participatory
action research (PAR). The paper closes with suggestions for further critical reflection
and ongoing challenges. Rather than presenting ‘good allyship’ as a static
achievement, the essay maps how an ally’s agency is co-constructed in relation
and continuously under development.
Keywords:
creative arts-based methods (CAE), straight allyship, critical autoethnography,
positionality, critical agency
Understanding
How I’m the Problem: Autoethnographic Reflections on Falling into Straight
Allyship
Standing
With, Not Standing For: An Ally’s Point of Departure
If we
are being sincere, allyship is hard. This difficulty may explain why allyship has
become a critical area of inquiry in social justice research, especially within
LGBTQ2SIA+ scholarship (Catalano & Christiaens, 2022). Allies are members
of the dominant class who work against systemic and localized forms of
oppression alongside members of the ‘insider group’ (DiStefano et al., 2000; Jackson
& Hardiman, 1988; Washington & Evans, 1991). Allyship can be a powerful
means of social transformation, but it also entails complex power dynamics and thus
calls for reflexivity and humility among allies who may unintentionally
reproduce dominant cultural norms (Shelton, 2019; Yep, 2021). Straight allyship
remains a growing research area, yet few autoethnographic accounts by straight
allies reflect on their motivations and experiences (Grzanka et al., 2015;
Vicars & Van Toledo, 2021).
My road
to allyship started with a personal crisis of meaning. After attaining tenure, I
felt surprisingly stuck and unsure about the future of my scholarship, amid
significant change at the university. Despite achieving this significant
milestone, I felt tired and disconnected from the academic community. Once I
had secured a permanent position in the university that I had so long coveted,
how would I know if it mattered? As a white, straight, cisgendered,
neurodiverse professor, I had long been drawn to critical adult education and
arts-based research. However, my academic work no longer felt as if it mattered
to me or to the world at large, really.
Around
this time, a friend and colleague approached me to collaborate on the Blackout project. This arts-based,
community-focused, student-led musical drama explores and celebrates
neuro-queer identity. The musical emerged in response to anti-Pride protests in
local high schools during 2022, which saw an unlikely alliance of opponents to
pro-LGBTQ2SIA+ voices, creating a hostile climate for members of the trans and
queer communities. My participation in Blackout introduced me to the
complex dynamics of allyship, challenged my own conceptions of identity, and
helped me to understand how a cisgendered straight ally might ‘stand with’
rather than merely ‘stand for’ non-hegemonic communities.
Accordingly,
what follows is an autoethnographic account of the challenges arising from my
complex positioning as an ally and how I came to understand my own limitations
and develop agency. My intended audience comprises other potential allies,
including those in the early stages of allyship who may be trying to make sense
of the role. I draw on relational ethics and the work of the French
Existentialist Gabriel Marcel (1948, 1949) to conceptualize the moral tensions inherent
in allyship. I also aim to show how the ‘good ally’ narrative can serve as a
subtle form of self-protection, and how relational accountability can redirect
that impulse toward shared work. Towards
this end, I discuss themes of anxiety, disillusionment, and hope, culminating
in an exploration of how community-based artistic collaborations can foster
more impactful and meaningful academic work. In short, I aim to explore the
question: What does responsible critical agency look like for an ally?
Theoretical
Framework: Reflexivity, Care, and the Problem/Mystery Distinction
There is
a long tradition of scholarship examining the nature of allyship within the
broader ambit of social justice education (Broido, 2000; Jackson & Hardiman,
1988; Washington & Evans, 1991), and LGBTQ2SIA+ scholarship in particular
(Catalano & Christiaens, 2022; Clark, 2010; Gelberg & Chojnacki, 1995; Fingerhut,
2011; Yep, 2021). This scholarship recognizes the importance of creating
strategic alliances and forming communities that move beyond superficial
inclusivity (Vicars & Van Toledo, 2021). Allyship has been promoted as a
powerful means of transforming institutional spaces and cultivating positive
social change by supporting advocacy efforts for greater rights, participating
in public expressions of solidarity, and spreading awareness. Indeed, more
broadly, research indicates that creating accepting spaces where LGBTQ2SIA+
individuals can feel safe and belong is an important part of reshaping
attitudes within the broader community (Vicars & Van Toledo, 2021). Unfortunately,
to date, within education, the experiences of straight allies remain a
relatively under-researched area (Clark, 2010; Grzanka et al., 2015; Ji, 2007; Vicars
& Van Toledo, 2021).
Research
has focused on the limitations of allyship and the need to avoid surface-level formulations.
It also recognizes the importance of intra-group differences within both allies
and LGBTQ2SIA+ populations (Forbes & Ueno, 2020). More importantly, scholar-activists
aim to foster deeper engagement rather than a transactional approach that fails
to produce meaningful transformation (Catalano & Christiaens, 2022; Edwards,
2006; Yep, 2021). The academic literature also highlights the importance of a
relational sense of identity, which understands identities as in process and
part of a greater effort at progressive ‘worldmaking’ (Berlant & Warner,
1998). Allies are rightly urged to be careful that their efforts do not
unintentionally reproduce heteronormative norms (Berlant & Warner, 1998;
Yep, 2021). Others have noted that
allyship is highly complex and contextual, and that allies may often experience
doubt, underscoring the need for more nuanced views of ally identity and
development (Russell & Curtin, 2016; Shelton, 2019).
Intersectionality,
while adding to our understanding, can also increase the likelihood of
misunderstanding and misrecognition when allies assume that they ‘get it’
solely based on partial overlap in experiences with a disenfranchised group (Forbes
& Ueno, 2020; Rosqvist et al., 2020). Issues related to allyship and
representation become even more fraught within the broader ambit of
Participatory Action Research (PAR), which explores neuroqueer
identity (Walker & Raymaker, 2021). Research on neuroqueer
issues is a relatively new yet growing field, and it is imperative to examine
the complex interplay among marginalized identities (Egner, 2019; Rutkowski
& Cepeda, 2021).
Allyship
is also closely related to an ethics of care discourse (Held, 2006; Noddings, 1984) and, more broadly, to relational ethics
(Bergum & Dossetor, 2005). This way of thinking about right action
emphasizes the importance of context, interdependence, empathy, and understanding
how these ideals play out in relation to power dynamics (Bishop, 2015). In such
a framework, other human beings should not simply be reduced to a stand-in for an
ideal or merely serve a transactional role; instead, they should be encountered
through mutual dialogue and respect (Held, 2006; Noddings,
1984). Seen more broadly, allyship becomes an intimate gesture, the act of
standing with another while recognizing the relational exchange of care through
presence, words, and action. In the
context of allyship, the risk is not simply ‘ignorance’ but a mode of
engagement that reduces identity to a solvable object rather than an encounter
with communities whose testimonies exceed the ally’s capacity to understand.
Two
concepts from the French existentialist philosopher Gabriel Marcel (1948, 1949)
help me frame the moral complexities I encountered as a novice ally. The first
is his distinction between problems and mysteries. Problems invite instrumental
rationality and control, while mysteries require presence and commitment. The
second is Marcel’s distinction between observation and testimony: observation
can remain detached, whereas testimony requires the commitment of the self and
makes the speaker accountable in relation (Marcel, 1948, 1949). For novice
allies, the task is not to become an expert witness who speaks over others, but
to become a reliable participant who can listen and remain present without
attempting to control or impose a single story.
Methodology:
Autoethnography and Thematic Analysis
Autoethnography
refers to writing about the self (Ellis, 2004).
As a critical research methodology, it uses writing to examine narrative
experience as a means of understanding individual experience and to explore
those insights, constructing knowledge about the self and the world (Bochner,
2012). Critical autoethnography does not view the self as a source of possible
bias or as an objective standpoint from which to view the world; rather,
researchers who use this methodology believe that the self is multifaceted and
relational. Writing serves as both method and analysis, allowing researchers to
critically construct meaning from lived experience as it unfolds. Autoethnography
allows us to use writing to examine our experiences and the complex, sometimes
counterintuitive ways in which humans construct ideas that inform how we engage
with one another and with culture (Bullough & Pinnegar, 2001; Holman Jones
et al., 2013; Leavy, 2020).
In this
case, my research question about the nature and meaning of allyship prompted
narrative reflections and vignettes. The goal was not to ‘prove’ allyship, but
to trace recurring tensions as I entered the work and tried to find my footing.
How do I make sense of my experience as a white cisgender male academic trying
to come to terms with the meaning of allyship in a neuroqueer
community-based project? I wrote these narratives as situated accounts of
embodied moments of uncertainty and my attempts to find belonging, and then
returned to the texts to try to identify recurring patterns. These narratives
were analyzed to generate broad categories, which were then synthesized into
core themes through comparative analysis. These themes, detailed below, are
offered as my interpretation of my experiences, rather than as generalized
findings that make definitive statements about the nature and meaning of
straight allyship.
The Blackout
Project: Learning through Discomfort
Vignette 1: First Encounters
Never
underestimate serendipity. I came to the Blackout project through a
longtime friend and colleague, Sarah. During one of our many conversations on
campus, she asked whether I would be interested in meeting some people at her
house to discuss a potential collaboration with community partners on neurodiversity
and LGBTQ2SIA+ identity. She thought I would be a good fit since the project
was arts-based and focused on critical approaches to neurodiversity.
I was immediately
intrigued, but expressed some concerns. What could I possibly contribute?
Sarah assured me that they wanted the perspective of a straight, cisgender person
on the project, especially one who was neurodiverse. I trusted Sarah’s
judgment, but I still could not shake my unease. As we spoke, I peered
awkwardly down an empty hallway. I imagined a garish sign at the end, flashing
in large neon letters: “Allies wanted. Apply within.”
“Just
come and see,” she said. And so, I reluctantly agreed.
Our
first meeting was at Sarah’s home, which was warm and inviting with plants that
created a laid-back atmosphere. I felt like I had entered a cozy, chic bungalow
in Northern California, except for the unseasonally cool temperatures and grey
skies. Two dogs immediately greeted me at the door, in a scurry of tails and
fur. There was also a cat, ‘Shadow,’ who soon was purring, stretched out across
my lap. “O.k., so far so good,” I thought as I petted the cat.
Although I knew Sarah and everyone seemed relaxed,
I felt nervous. Could they tell? I wondered. I noticed one of my black socks
was darker than the other and hoped no one else did. I scouted out the most
inconspicuous chair, plopping down as if I had just found the one solid piece
of ice in the middle of a thawing river. What if I said the wrong thing
or got my acronyms mixed up? What if I seemed too staid or old or straight? I
worried about my ADHD taking over, causing me to interrupt people with off-topic
ideas. “Pull yourself together!” I told myself. I was regressing, the knot in
my back tightening. I had a flashback to another time, when I was putting the
finishing touches on the liner notes for a mix tape before handing it over to a
high school crush. What would they think?
It
helped that they already knew each other, except for me, of course. I tried to
listen and resist interrupting. I was also acutely aware that I was the only
cisgender person with a predominantly heteronormative frame of reference. Even
though everyone knew Sarah, I worried I might be perceived as an outsider, the literal
“odd man out,” or that they might wonder why I was there. As I listened to each
person introduce themselves, I was struck by their warmth, humour, and positivity,
which were so different from those of many of my academic colleagues, who often
seemed less genuinely happy to be in a collaborative space.
When it
was my turn to say a little about myself, I shared about my ADHD and struggles
with depression, and I acknowledged feeling uncertain about my role as a
straight person in the project. I felt a little like the new kid at summer
camp, squeezing my hands together gingerly, hoping I would not be the last one left
when it came time to pick teams. I looked eagerly at the assembled smiling
faces, trying not to make a gaffe that would have everyone make a collective gasp
of horror, before I was politely asked to return the cat and leave.
Despite
my awkward internal monologue, none of this happened. I saw some affirming
nods, the odd laugh, and, most importantly, there were fabulous cookies. Shadow
so far had proven to be a model companion. Gradually, the group put me at ease.
I connected with one of the community
educators, and we talked about art, drama, and the writing process. She was
like a screenwriter-turned-Broadway performer who had known me since fifth
grade. She was the community lead for the musical drama. She ran her own performing
arts school, creating a welcoming space for kids who felt out of place in more
conventional educational settings. Another teacher at the school, who had been
with the group since she had been a student there, was passionate about
planning the production. Witnessing their collegiality was inspiring, and I was
equally impressed by how concerned they were about working with kids to
co-create a play that faithfully reflected real-life dynamics.
Another
member of the group, a teacher with a background in both music and psychology, was
especially mindful about resisting the temptation to sloganize or oversimplify LGBTQ2SIA+
identity. He seemed to glide effortlessly between the worlds of academia and
performance art like a champion goalie sliding deftly from side to side. In
true ADHD fashion, I also noticed he had great hair, perhaps not a surprising
observation, given my own advancing male-pattern baldness. In my head, I wryly imagined
an infomercial in which I played the untreated control, and he was the final
cutaway for the stand-alone miracle cure.
As a
teacher, he was keenly aware that educational institutions often implement well-intentioned
interventions that fall short. However,
this was not theoretical; he lived it every day. It was apparent why Sarah was
drawn to this group. They were all willing to tackle difficult problems and had
confidence in their ability to effect change. I cupped my hands more tightly
around my warm cup of coffee, feeling happy and hopeful. These were cool,
interesting people. Eventually, maybe some of that would rub off on me like glitter
backstage at an elementary school concert.
Despite
my internal insecurities, I knew that, deep down, I had connected and been
recognized in turn, despite our differences. I left that day excited about not
only the project but also, for the first time in a long time, about my work. I
did not have to spend the rest of my life in an institution; the very word
made me feel as if my tongue were coated in dry sand. Our encounter broadened
our view of education. We did not have to spend our time branding ourselves,
nor did we have to pretend that we knew everything. Instead, we could leverage
our positions to empower others to grow and lay claim to a space for the critical
imagination. I began to see this project as a break from the university, where
differences did not shut people out but opened up new forms of connection. I
left Sarah’s house that day, surprised and, more importantly, a little more
hopeful.
Vignette 2: Stage Pedagogy
The
first showing of the musical at the LSPU Hall, a historic downtown St. John’s theatre,
was a turning point for me because it made the project’s stakes publicly visible.
There was a professional-looking playbill, and the Dean and Associate Dean of
our Faculty came to watch. People were smiling and making small talk with the
drama coaches and the artistic director. The place was filled with a bustling
energy. I was anxious, even though I knew the script and the music were
good, really good. It was the thrill of anticipation.
As the
lights came up and the audience’s attention fell on the silhouetted figures onstage,
I felt the rush of being so close to something so public-facing. Along with the
rest of the crowd, I laughed and felt my eyes brim with emotion. Although there was distance, I felt close to
the actor’s eager, upturned faces, filled with intensity. It was my initiation
into a new form of cultural work, and it was exhilarating. The play featured many great songs, peppered
with pop-culture references, witty and full of verve. The script evoked the
fundamental need for love and recognition, even as the search for those things
leaves us vulnerable to the rawness of human emotion. There were betrayals and
unexpected alliances, as a trans-kid sided with bullies, and there was always an
underlying threat of violence. Yet, throughout, the protagonists displayed a
stubborn, stumbling, utterly brilliant courage.
After
the show and the applause, as the noisy crowd slowly filtered out of the hall, I
overheard a young couple discussing the play’s ending. In this final scene, the
principal enters and delivers a preachy, staid message about everyone just needing
to get along. A stock figure offering tired old platitudes. The couple seemed invested
in the scene, and it reminded me of our own animated conversations about the
motivations of different characters. Suddenly, I was struck by how wide a net a
work of art could cast. I had never experienced anything like this in the
academic world. The whole endeavour had
opened up a moral space, without being didactic, where people could feel the
hurts of others, where someone else’s wrong became translated into the language
of their own love and pain. This was exactly what the project aimed to do:
highlight the complex richness of our inner lives and the importance of
resisting the temptation of easy solutions.
In the
weeks that followed, much happened. Another outstanding, bright, and sensitive graduate
student joined our team. I had some unused grant funds that I allocated to the
project, and we soon secured two additional community partnership grants. This
led us to create a lab for participatory action-based research on neuroqueer issues, which we called the ECHO lab (Equity
Collective for Hope and Opportunity). More recently, another exceptional
teacher with academic expertise in gender and digital critical literacy joined
our team, raising exciting avenues for future work. Over time, I began to
reimagine my academic work through the lens of participatory, arts-based action
research. Working with Sarah and the community educators introduced a new
dimension to my academic work, one rooted in humility and solidarity. I had gotten over myself, but also into
myself, and what I found was not all bad, though there were a lot of corners
that needed to be swept clean.
Reflection
and Themes
My
narrative vignettes trace how I entered the work through a relationship and
shared neurodiversity, and how, in my case, action often preceded understanding
of my new role. Through my critical autoethnography, I identified recurring
tensions that resurfaced as I sought to find my footing, which I explore in the
following thematic reflections.
I.
Entry points: The
Desire for Belonging and Legitimacy
I did
not seek out this role; instead, it found me through a relationship (Broido,
2000; Shelton, 2019). In my case, allyship was enabled by the support, kindness,
and understanding of LGBTQ2SIA+ community members who welcomed me. Nevertheless,
I experienced myself simultaneously as an insider and an outsider in these new
spaces. Being neurodivergent, I experienced a growing sense of belonging and excitement
about the possibility of meaningful contribution. Yet, I remained acutely aware
of my positioning within the dominant straight male culture. Although I
understood the concept of straight privilege, that “members of dominant social
groups […] benefit from unearned privileges given in the form of unearned
entitlements” (Edwards, 2006, p. 40, emphasis in original), I still did not
fully grasp how these entitlements function from the vantage point of those who
are excluded. Only after joining the Blackout project did I begin to
appreciate these harms more concretely.
My
engagement with Blackout marked a shift in how I understand allyship, from
an abstract commitment to a practice enacted with others. Communities don’t
just provide context for solidarity; they define and enact its very meaning, even
though “allyship remains a process with little to no consensus, and sometimes
with conflicting goals,” whether those are political or more intensely personal
(Forbes & Ueno, 2020, p. 173). Although, as a critical scholar, I had
implicitly understood this, my new role helped me to appreciate the importance
of communities as sites of struggle more viscerally. Reflecting on these experiences, Patricia
Leavy's (2020) work on arts-based research resonated strongly with me. As she
observes, “Arts-based researchers are not ‘discovering’ new research tools,
they are carving them. With the tools they sculpt, so too a space opens within
the research community” (p. 3).
It was
important to me, as an ally, to recognize how my positioning as a straight male
simultaneously confers unearned advantages and closes off certain forms of
understanding. However, my LGBTQ2SIA+ friends helped me understand that my
privilege was not all that I was, nor all that I could be. While privilege
entails social responsibility (Gelberg & Chojnacki, 1995), it need not
define the totality of one’s identity or potential contribution. Oppressive
dominant norms exact real, concrete costs on all members of society, including
oppressors, whose humanity is diminished by their moral complicity (Berlant
& Warner, 1998; Ji, 2007).
In
today’s troubled world, establishing communities in which the ideas and
experiences of historically marginalized groups can be shared through dramatic storytelling
constitutes a vital form of praxis. In the words of one scholar,
“LGBTQ worldmaking is an aspirational project—one that is in ongoing
contestation, transgression, change, and transformation of heteronormative
culture and its institutions” (Yep, 2021, p. 76).
In my
case, the entry point also posed a risk: because the group
felt meaningful and welcoming, I could conflate my sense of belonging with
ethical legitimacy. The warmth I experienced could become a form of reassurance
that I was “doing it right”, potentially obscuring the ongoing work allyship
required. Instead, I realized, the work itself, not the feeling of acceptance,
had to be my measure of accountability.
II.
When the Stakes
Become Real: Proximity and Responsibility
What
makes an ideal like solidarity real? How can we see what is ubiquitous and
taken for granted as “normal”? Unfortunately, the cruelty and hatred of straight
culture are often invisible to those who share heteronormative identities (Berlant
& Warner, 1998). Yet, as friendships developed with my collaborators, I
came to care more about their personal experiences than about abstract
political commitments. As Bochner (2012) notes, “there may be no better way to
come to terms with how we want to live and what we can understand and say about
how others live than to listen and converse with their stories” (p. 162). Bishop
(2015) frames this well within the allyship context:
When
learning to see yourself as an oppressor, the experience is by definition
hidden from you, because part of the process of becoming a member of an
oppressor group is to be cut off from the ability to identify with the
experience of the oppressed. It is this lack of empathy, this denial that
anyone is hurt, that makes oppression possible. (pp. 156-157)
This is
why Blackout is meaningful. It is art that examines social issues at the
local and individual scales. It uses the imagination to help people see issues
on an intimate level. Written and performed by community members, it also seeks
to give voice to the tensions and contradictions within the community. It underscores
that communities are not monolithic and that it is equally important not to view
the experiences of individuals from underrepresented groups as merely a series
of problems. Although these problems are real, there are also positives,
including optimism and lives lived with courage and authenticity. Like the
young adults in Vicars and Van Toledo’s (2021) study, whose actions were
“grounded in and affected by the participants’ relational interactions” (p. 8),
or as found by others (DiStefano et al., 2000; Knepp, 2022), friendship can be
an important motivator for engaging in solidarity work.
Adopting
a relational lens also changes the meaning of action. Here, collaborative
action entails standing with and co-creating, rather than operating within a
framework of dominance and possession. It also requires humility, especially as
allies become immersed in relationships where the human reality of struggle
unfolds and allyship becomes integrated into the fabric of their lives (Gelberg
& Chojnacki, 1995). Here, the ally is aware of the separateness of the
other’s identity and experience, yet remains committed to being fully present
and to deep listening. This capacity to recognize both connection and
difference, and to be in a relationship without collapsing the other’s
experience into one’s own, is at the heart of ethical engagement. Mutual trust
develops when both sides recognize the need to avoid reducing people to types
or group members, but rather to recognize them as real human beings with
distinct identities and histories (Catalano & Christiaens, 2022). In our
case, our shared interest in a single project, Blackout, gave rise to a
“collective-action group identity” (2011, p. 390). The theme of ‘proximity and
responsibility’ helps describe what made my invitation consequential, as
abstract ideals become real-life responsibilities. This is where the stakes of ‘showing
up’ become real.
III.
Embracing
Vulnerability: Moving Beyond the “Good Ally” Role
If we
problematize our desire for belonging and our default mode of operating in the
world, where does that leave us as developing allies, even ones who recognize
the importance of proximity and responsibility? Acknowledging one’s privilege
is only the beginning. The more difficult work involves moving beyond the
desire to be seen as a ‘good ally,’ sitting with discomfort and accepting one’s
position as a perpetual novice. This entails seeing yourself as someone who
will inevitably make mistakes and must depend on the patience and grace of the
very communities you hope to support. While I sometimes experienced
trepidation, that doubt could be ‘generative’ (Shelton, 2019), pushing me to
experiment with new ways of thinking about myself and my role in spaces where I
lacked control. Although, as a novice ally, it is all too easy to focus on
problems, I am gradually moving away from a spectator role toward standing
alongside community members.
Allies
often have feelings of doubt and failure. However, these emotions can reshape ally
identity and move beyond a dichotomous conception of allyship, where “one
either was or was not an effective ally” (Shelton, 2019, p. 602). One crucial
realization emerged. My fixation on a simple insider-outsider framework kept me
from being authentically present. While I recognized my straight privilege, I
also feared that my positioning as an ally was not active or strong enough, or
that I was an imposter. I worried that as a straight white man, I could never
be entirely accepted. In this sense, my
experience echoed the aspirational identity work described in Edwards’ (2006) or
Suyemoto & Hochman’s (2021) models, as I began to see allyship as an
ongoing, iterative process.
Instead
of feeling terrible about my positioning, I began to listen to my LGBTQ2SIA+
friends and colleagues and to see my role in a new light. Like the participants
in Grzanka et al.’s (2015) study, I began to realize that “being an ally is
less a pre-scripted role to be taken on and more of a nascent identity
formation crosscut by [many]…intersecting dimensions” (p. 176). Yet I also
recognized a troubling pattern. My constant self-reflection could become a form
of avoidance. I talked about agency and humility, but remained at some level
reluctant to move forward, perhaps because doing so meant accepting my ongoing
discomfort. While being reflexive was important, what value did reflexivity
have if it led to disengagement and paralysis? As some scholars have noted,
allyship requires a complex and tenuous form of ‘identity choreography,’ an
ongoing effort to navigate the demands of authentic activism while safeguarding
against inadvertently reproducing heteronormativity (Grzanka et al., 2015). In
practice, the question becomes less about achieving the right stance and more
about whether I am willing to stay in the work when it is awkward and
uncertain.
My
self-assessment revealed that I am a novice, predominantly passive ally (Edwards,
2006). While this admission concerns me,
I recognize the importance of resisting two temptations. Either seeing my novice status as a failure
and withdrawing, or, conversely, using it to assuage guilt by presenting myself
as an unproblematic ‘good example’ (Clark, 2010). Instead, I came to see that
my agency as an ally arose from my willingness to try to unlearn dominant
conceptions of heteronormativity. In
other words, there was power in being in process. I also recognized that my
unease would not go away, and that there was no easy solution except to work
through my anxiety with the help of those who welcomed my allyship. Following
Knepp (2022), I realized that “it may be conceptually important to consider allyhood as a development process instead of a static
state” (p. 135).
Synthesis:
Co-Constructed Agency and the Shift towards the Enigma of Identity
Although
I recognized myself as a novice ally and the importance of viewing learning as
a form of agency, I still felt that my positioning as a straight ally was
fraught with tension.
These
three themes: entry points, proximity and responsibility,
and vulnerable learning, helped me understand my experience. However, they
did not resolve a deeper moral question: What does it mean to act
responsibly when one’s very position carries the risk of harm?
As one
scholar points out, even “the very decision to ‘move over’ or retreat can occur
only from a position of privilege” (Alcoff, 1991, p.
24). Even if I do acknowledge my
privilege, this does not absolve me of the ongoing responsibility to
interrogate my motives and my participation in oppressive structures (Gelberg
& Chojnacki, 1995; Russell, 2011).
Some
concepts that help me make sense of my role can be found in the work of the French
existentialist Gabriel Marcel (1949), namely his distinction between a problem
and a mystery. Marcel argued that problems are issues the subject can observe
from a distance and solve through instrumental rationality. In contrast, a
mystery is something in which the subject is implicated and must be encountered;
it requires commitment and engagement, whereas relying solely on instrumental
logic reduces and objectifies a complex, enigmatic reality. As Marcel (1949)
noted, “A problem is something which I meet, which I find complete before me,
but which I can therefore lay siege to and reduce. But a mystery is something
in which I am myself involved” (p. 117). The subject cannot stand outside a
mystery; they must encounter it through commitment and by being present to others'
experience. Identity and the nature of human subjective experience are such
mysteries; for an ally to treat identity as a problem risks
objectifying and trivializing a deeper human reality.
Marcel (1949)
made another important distinction relevant to the present topic related to
observation and testimony. Observation, Marcel (1949) notes, is impersonal and
factual. A subject may carry it out, but it is detached and functional. The observing
‘I’ is interchangeable, and it makes no difference who performs the act, apart
from any quality or characteristic that would impair the quality of the
observation. Witnessing, in contrast, is a relational practice that requires
commitment. When we speak of what we witness, it matters profoundly who the witness
is since testimony is intimately tied to the subject’s identity and positionality.
As Marcel (1948) writes, “the witness always conceives of himself (sic) as
standing in the presence of someone” (p. 102). “My testimony…commits my entire
being as a person who is answerable for my assertions and for myself” (p. 103).
Reading
Marcel, an ally stands in a peculiar position, caught in a third space between
observing and witnessing, continually at risk of conflating social problems
with the fundamental enigma of human identity. An ally must retain a respectful
attitude towards the space of testimony. And yet, they may nonetheless be
invited into that space by those invested, or they may otherwise have some
relational connection to a particular community, especially given the
intersectional nature of identity (Bishop, 2015). In a sense, entering the space requires
reverence and humility, which are prerequisites for genuine engagement. However,
this willingness to be open to the unknown and the uncertain can be an
important impetus for gaining knowledge (Shelton, 2019).
Marcel’s
work provided the conceptual framing that helped me understand a shift in my
thinking. I stopped seeing the project as something I could stand outside and
assess, and instead came to see it as something I had to encounter through
specific relationships and what people entrusted to me. As Linda Alcoff (1991)
wrote, there are moments when I still cannot help but ask myself, “Is my
greatest contribution to move over and get out of the way?” (p. 8). Over time, though, I have come to see the
difference between knowing something propositionally and
understanding someone through deep listening and perspective-taking. It
was one thing to know trans and queer people experience bigotry and hatred, and
quite another to hear a young teacher share how he endures offhand remarks from
students nearly every day he substitutes. That seemed so profoundly wrong and
hurtful. I also marvelled at his dignity and strength, especially since he was
more concerned about the students who had to hear homophobic comments from
another teacher than about his own harmful experience.
Equally
remarkable was a young community educator who battled depression yet turned her
struggles into a play about mental health that she shared with students,
becoming a force for positive change. Hearing these experiences made me realize
that, as a straight male, I never have to declare my sexual identity or even
think about it because the world is structured around my norms (Berlant &
Warner, 1998). I listened to people who could not get married because of the
laws in their home country, who could not hold hands in certain neighbourhoods
for fear of assault, developing a background awareness of these types of
threats because of past experiences of bigotry or hatred. It struck me how deeply wrong this is, yet it
also showed me how music and drama can bring these realities to life by
creating moments of insight and empathy.
Over
time, I came to understand allyship as a form of relational witnessing.
Belonging and personal connection are important factors that contribute to the
emergence of an ally identity (Vicars & Van Toledo, 2021). However, this
relationality must be grounded in authentic presence and taking responsibility
(Bishop, 2015). Allies “bear witness” by committing to relationships within
real-life communities. The challenge, and the ongoing tension, is that allies
constantly face the temptation to reduce lived human experience into a simple
problem to be solved, rather than a relationship requiring authentic
commitment. These moments of connection
helped me understand that engagement and relationship-building are core to the
process of becoming and learning as a novice ally.
Backstage
Praxis and the Limits of the Good Ally Story
Where
does this leave me? As I complete this autoethnographic reflection, I am
acutely aware of the risk that my reflective narrative might inadvertently
center my experience in ways that reproduce the very dynamics I seek to resist.
Clark (2010) warns against allies who end up “centring whiteness and
straightness” to become “position[ed] as ‘good’ examples of white, straight
people” (p. 707), and I recognize that my essay flirts with this danger. Ultimately,
I have come to realize that allyship involves co-constructed agency. An ally
cannot take sole credit for success, as if it were simply the product of their
own merit or hard work, especially given that the success of allyship depends
heavily on the interaction between the ally and the insider group (Catalano
& Christiaens, 2022).
It is
well known that LGBTQ2SIA+ people are at increased risk of verbal and physical
abuse and violence (Shelton, 2019), and since Blackout began, violence against LGBTQ2SIA+ people has intensified
in many places (Chang, 2025; Flowers & Trotta, 2025). This authoritarian
backlash is built upon cruelty, especially toward members of the queer and
trans communities (Pengelly, 2023).
Historically, education has been central to this struggle, and it
remains so today (Clark, 2010; Griffin & Ouellett, 2003). Collectively,
these developments have raised the stakes for allies. The question becomes uncomfortably concrete:
Will we show up when visibility entails costs to do work that is not glamorous
or self-exonerating?
Fortunately,
public-facing projects like Blackout offer a vital space for reimagining
social reality and cultivating shared empathy. I find myself turning towards
imagination, feeling, and intuition, recalling Cixous’s (2005) interminable
question, “Of what secret lights are we made?/Of what densities?” (p. 7). The
question exemplifies the refusal of easy answers, instead relying on encounters
with mystery to guide us away from hatred and towards discovery and possibility.
More
fundamentally, I have learned that an ally’s identity is not a “static identity
experience or achievement” (Suyemoto & Hochman, 2021, p. 114). Growth is
always the primary aim of allyship, but this also implies that the process of
becoming an effective ally is never complete (McDonald et al., 2023; Suyemoto
& Hochman, 2021). Allies will inevitably make mistakes and will need to
constantly revisit their preconceptions, even as they try to remain mindful of
the risk of self-congratulation or settling for token displays of commitment
(Catalano & Christiaens, 2022; Gelberg & Chojnacki, 1995).
While
this account traces my development through key insights, these realizations nonetheless
remain, despite my efforts, partial and aspirational. I have revisited them many times and in many
different ways, making progress in some areas, but losing momentum in others (Suyemoto
& Hochman, 2021). The three themes I have identified: belonging and
legitimacy, when the stakes become real, and embracing vulnerability, are not
completed stages but ongoing challenges that I endeavour to navigate. As I have
described, my self-reflection has marked a shift from treating allyship as an
implementable solution to encountering it as a moral relation that implicates
me fully as a human being.
Ultimately,
this account offers no easy resolution, only an acknowledgement of the ongoing demands
of allyship and the necessity of commitment. I remain a novice ally, aware of
both my privilege and my desire for solidarity. I realize that responsible
allyship is not about achieving a final state of being a ‘good ally’ but
showing up consistently for the unglamorous, uncertain work of standing with
communities of difference. It means accepting that I am part of the problem
since I am structurally positioned within systems of oppression, while also
recognizing that this positioning can be leveraged to support change. The question
of what responsible critical agency looks like for an ally is never fully resolved.
But perhaps the question itself, revisited continually, will help keep me
accountable to the relationships and communities that make the work meaningful.
In many ways, we do not feel the pain we cause, which is why, all too often, it
goes on unchecked. My entry into allyship made me feel less like a
spokesperson and more like a learner with daunting new responsibilities. From
here, perhaps, I can engage in my backstage praxis, one eye on the unfinished action,
the other on my fraught positioning, trusting that what we notice, we can
slowly begin to change.
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