Growing up in Washington D.C. provided me with the ultimate liberal bubble. Since residents were granted the right to vote in 1961, the city has not once gone red, not even close. I attended an elementary school that was by all descriptions “hippy-dippy,” celebrating a secular “Spread the Love” week rather than Valentine’s Day each year, just to name one example. My high school experience was characterized by diversity, discourse, and walkouts. I have also spent the past seven summers at a camp that upholds social justice as one of its pillars.
This series of bubbles — my family, my neighborhood, my city, and my school — are each inflated cushions of comfort that have swaddled me in privilege.
Yet, inevitably and unavoidably, I experience these microcosms of diversity from the perspective of a white person. Sure, I can tote around my female, Jewish, queer identity to fend off accusations of bigotry, but whiteness is undeniably and unavoidably pervasive to my experiences and worldview.
During the first week of March, I spent my Thursday evening watching globally recognized philosopher and writer Kwame Anthony Appiah speak as part of Skidmore’s annual Steloff lecture. Though I was initially drawn to the presentation simply as an extra credit opportunity for one of my classes, I found myself thinking about Appiah’s words even after the lecture was over and my assignment was turned in. Drawing upon anecdotes from his own life, popular culture, and the work of other philosophers, Appiah spent the hour exploring the intricacy of identity.
The various states of quarantine and isolation over the past year have granted me more time than I know what to do with. Like most of the world, it seems, I’ve occupied myself with a series of fleeting hobbies, many hours of TikTok, and a deep examination of the self. Once, at summer camp, I was instructed to do an activity in which I wrote down every identity group I feel that I belong to, then gradually eliminated one until I was left with a single label — supposedly the group I subscribed to most steadfastly. I had just finished middle school at the time, and while my sense of self has changed dramatically since then, I remember mulling earnestly over my choices, reluctant to weigh one identity against the other.
In his talk, Appiah referred to these identities or social groupings as “tribes.” I was struck first by his wording because the notion of tribal identity conjured up images of tradition and values, something much more spiritual than a mere group. (I wondered if this was accurate — could a group of friends crowded around a plate of fries in the dining hall really constitute a tribe?) But there is undoubtedly something apt about Appiah’s observation — whether it be a collective as simple as a classroom of strangers, the groups we find ourselves in are bound by some sort of shared morale.
Recently I’ve grappled with my choice of a school that is not just predominantly white but overwhelmingly so. Anyone with a phone — or their wits about them — knows that Skidmore consistently falls short of creating a safe environment for students of marginalized groups, and reacts to issues on campus with an air of apathy. But throughout the process of selecting and applying to colleges, I hardly paused to consider the racial composition of campuses or the administrations’ reputation. In fact, I’m ashamed to admit that it fell to the bottom of my priorities as if my upbringing in a diverse city exempted me from seeking out a college experience where that continued to be reflected.
Returning to his presentation, Appiah asserted to an unseen Zoom audience that identity is just as much an internal exploration as it is a mechanism for the ways we present ourselves to the world. These performances of identity are one way — perhaps the primary way — in which we are constantly interpreting other human beings. Consequently, Appiah pressed on; these interpretations inform the way we engage with one another.
The philosopher went on to describe identity and politics as inextricably linked. He defined politics not as the blue-red binary that frequently comes to mind, but as the “ethical lives of individuals,” an offshoot of social life, a series of daily interactions. Modern life, he said, warrants the invention of new, nuanced identities. Our so-called political interactions, then, are preceded by identity, not a consequence of it.
Whether we are aware of it — and whether we like it — our interpretations of and interactions with each other are politically charged because unique identities have unique needs. Appiah translated these needs to a more loaded “demands,” stating that identities without such demands are useless. Upon first hearing this, I found myself skeptical and even combative of the idea. If identity on its own has no purpose, is it also meaningless? How could the identity I’ve spent so much time grappling with and cultivating be rendered utterly obsolete in a handful of words?
The alternative is a weighty thought, that every time I step out of my dorm room I’m making a potentially political statement. But as I’ve spent more time sitting with the notion, it rings with increasing truth. My choice of a college surely falls into this category. The ease with which I disregarded diversity now scares me. Clothing, similarly, is an example of Appiah’s conflation of identity, appearance, and priority.
Though inward identity and the outward presentation of it is malleable and ever-changing, there are some skins I will never be able to shed nor don. Whiteness is one of them, an unpoppable bubble of privilege. In many ways, identity is an armor. It functions as a protective exterior that deflects me from particular experiences. In the same breath, however, identity can be a source of pride, a shiny shield. Appiah’s lecture enlightened me to the intensity of identity and the duty each person has to themself and others to explore their social stance. What does my presentation communicate to others? More importantly, what do I want it to communicate? How do I incorporate intersecting identities? By approaching social groups as tribes, I have gained a renewed sensation of belonging and community. Identity is a shapeshifting force that will likely be in flux for a while, if not permanently. Still, Appiah’s guidance granted me unexpected insight into the empowerment that is intertwined with identity.