The Right Looks for Converts; the Left Looks for Traitors
Description
After publishing my essay about my life as an anarchist a few weeks ago, I got a message from a stranger on Instagram that read: “I’m trying to decide if you’re secretly a centrist.” I told her that I had a whole pile of essays and podcast episodes where I openly shared my politics, but she told me she wouldn’t read anything of mine until she decided whether we were sufficiently politically aligned (which seemed a tad cart-before-the-horse to me). Her evidence that I was a centrist stemmed from the fact that I was reading geographer David Harvey’s companion to the great centrist classic: Capital, by Karl Marx. According to her, Harvey is—GASP—a social democrat. I told her that inferring the totality of my politics from one book that I am reading is a type of puritan thinking that I do not recommend (if only she knew how much more treacherous my reading list gets!), which she did not appreciate hearing. Resisting the overwhelming urge to wish her luck with the internal purges, I ended our conversation.
It was a striking interaction because I felt like I was talking to a decade-younger me. I remember well that, back then, I would only befriend people whose politics were identical to mine, and I would only read authors who were devoted to social justice politics. Proud of my diligence, I would google the name of every author I came across, alongside the word “problematic”, to make sure they hadn’t been ostracized over a subcultural infraction. I believed that my political beliefs were so clearly and self-evidently true that it was a waste of my time to read anything that challenged them in the slightest. Besides, I didn’t want to support—or be seen as supporting—bad people, and in social justice world, reading or mentioning a wrongthinking author could be interpreted as an endorsement. Guilt by association was felling people’s reputations left and right, and I desperately wanted to avoid such a fate.
At a Vancouver event last spring, hosted by and of the Fucking Cancelled podcast, artist suggested that the left could stand to have a bit more fun: why were we stuck eating carrots and hummus while the right wing cheers’d with champagne and smoked salmon? There was a time when leftists were rebels who embraced the risqué. When did we become so subdued, so easily upset, so supportive of censorship and frightened by viewpoint diversity? How come the left feels more like a passive aggressive, power-tripping HR department than a coherent political movement?
I’ve lost track of the number of times that a reader has told me they have a friend who would benefit greatly from reading my writing, but that they’re too nervous to send it because of the potential for backlash. I understand this—the younger me would have revelled in cancelling the current me—but it also haunts me, that the people who most need to think critically about social justice culture are the least likely to do so.
That woman who messaged me on Instagram has undoubtedly put my name on her personal naughty list. She may even pop up in the future, perhaps at a moment when I’m experiencing some modicum of success, to share her troubling discovery of my true nature. And if she does, I guarantee you she’ll have convinced herself that tearing me down publicly is a righteous political act. She may also grow tired of her own rigidity and come to a less anti-intellectual, anti-nuance, anti-solidarity perspective in time, and I truly hope she does, because seeing enemies everywhere is an excellent way to sabotage a successful leftist mass movement.
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