The Invisibility of Privilege: A Letter to the “Good Guys”
“When you're accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression.” ~anonymous
When The Article about incidents at the New York Philharmonic was published last month, the fact that sexual assault had occurred in an orchestra wasn't a shock to me. Men doing horrible things to women? Not a surprise.
While I haven’t perpetrated any such crime, I’m finally understanding why someone would hold me responsible. I have supported assumptions and attitudes that are part of the culture in which misdeeds and crimes are more likely to occur.
Yes, it’s a bit late for me to realize this. I’m sorry.
So, what ARE the problematic attitudes I’m guilty of that enable bad behavior?
Here are some examples I’ve heard lately. I’m sure I’ve made similar statements in the past:
“This has nothing to do with me.”
“Well, it’s not my fault.”
“I’m not the one who hired a rapist.”
“I don’t even know those guys.”
In the past few years, these types of statements have started making me more uncomfortable than they used to. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t understand why sooner—every time people with power (mostly white, straight men like me) minimize problems, every time we cast doubt on accusations before taking time to learn the circumstances, every time we claim something has nothing to do with us, we’re turning our backs on the people who need our help.
Does that feel like too much? Does it seem like I’m taking this logic too far? If so, my message is for you.
This is a good time to point out that many eloquent, convincing people—mostly women—are speaking up about the incident and the culture that enabled it. I’m not as knowledgeable or articulate as they are, but that doesn’t absolve me of responsibility to join them in saying something.
I don’t want to take away from ANYTHING these brave people have contributed to the discussion. My intent is to show support, and to add my thoughts in case I can influence anyone.
Let’s flip those same statements and see how they feel:
“This has EVERYTHING to do with me.”
“It’s my fault.”
“I now see that I’ve been supporting abusers.” (Unwittingly, but same impact.)
“I know lots of people who might do the same thing.”
Today, I realize the second set of statements is more true than the first. If you disagree, keep reading.
Consider this—because I am one of the people who has greater power in the culture of professional classical musicians (unfair as that might be), I have more ability to effect change than the victims. Therefore, it’s my responsibility to try to make a difference. It’s my responsibility to do anything I can to prevent this from happening in the future.
If you look like me and have a job like mine, you have that same responsibility.
Questioning Privilege and Denial
“Privilege is when you think something is not a problem because it’s not a problem to you personally. Fun fact…it turns out there are other people…”
This is a good metaphor for cluelessness regarding privilege: “But I just took one slice!”
(Photo Credit: reddit/SrirachaFlash)
As a straight, white, cisgendered male, who plays a brass instrument in a major orchestra, I have enjoyed a lot of privilege.
No one questions my views, no one doubts me when I feel I’ve been wronged, and no one challenges me when I have a complaint. I am met with understanding, patient staffers, who jump through hoops to make sure I am happy, comfortable, feel heard and seen, and am able to go back and do my “important” work unencumbered.
Growing up, I also enjoyed unconditional support from my parents. I was always the “golden boy” of the family, who could do anything with his life he pleased. Their response when I said I wanted to become a music major and play the trumpet? “Great—you can do anything you want.”
That support continued when I was out of school. Jobs were handed to me, freelance work was plentiful, and I always felt confident and validated. I belonged to a community. People had my back, and I assumed I deserved all of it.
Sure, I worked hard. But my wins and losses made sense. When I had setbacks, or problems with coworkers, or something didn’t go my way, it was never because of my gender, skin color, or sexual orientation. It was because I didn’t play well, or someone didn’t like me, or I got unlucky. In other words, it was just life.
Many people think that “privilege” means wealth or special treatment. But there’s a lot more to it. Privilege can also be freedom from the problems and attitudes that make life harder for other people. Here is an extremely incomplete list of problems that never affect me:
Feeling unsafe walking to my car after a concert.
Spending a lot of time and money worrying whether my concert attire is too provocative, or maybe not provocative enough to make the contractor more likely to keep hiring me.
Having to turn away from schools, teachers, and gigs so as to avoid known predators. In other words, not being free to accept all of the opportunities I am offered.
Worrying about the professional impact of being excluded from all of the locker room conversations and jokes.
Having to change my tone of voice or accent to be taken more seriously.
Freedom from issues like these is a form of privilege.
“What men fear most about going to prison is what women fear most walking down the sidewalk.”
There are many, many people who encounter challenges every day that I don’t have to worry about. These problems result in lost income, lost opportunity, lost experience, and lost confidence. The accumulated toll is huge. And if someone facing these challenges has the audacity to complain, people like me often say, “Well, looks like you didn’t work hard enough to get what you wanted. That’s not my problem.”
What I’m saying is that when you are steeped in privilege, you can’t imagine what it’s like to be on the outside of all of the opportunities, support, and validation. Any complaints about an injustice strike you as unbelievable, because you have never experienced anything like it.
When I first met my wife at Tanglewood, she told me a story about a band director she had in high school who was so abusive that he made almost everyone in the band cry on a regular basis. He was especially abusive and dismissive to the females. I heard story after story about how he practically ruined music (and high school) for her. She eventually quit the band and learned a completely different instrument so she could join the orchestra. The band director took his vengeance further and got her barred from participation in any regional and statewide competitions and awards on her new instrument.
I listened patiently to the story of the band director because I wanted her to like me! I thought she was really cute, but her stories of the tyrannical band director seemed absurd. I mean, who would actually do that? I thought she was exaggerating for dramatic effect.
I gave a sympathetic smile and then promptly forgot about the whole story.
Years later, we were living in Spain. On tour, we met a female bassoonist who was a young private lesson teacher at the same high school, at the same time that my wife was a student. Upon recognizing each other, the two of them instantly broke down into tears and embraced in a hug that lasted a very long time. I think I overheard them saying, "He was so horrible! It's okay. It’s okay.”
That moment was a big revelation for me. I had assumed my wife wasn’t really telling the truth. I didn’t think she meant to lie, I just assumed she wasn’t seeing things clearly and that she was blowing the incident out of proportion. But here was another woman saying she had experienced the same thing. Ten or so years older than my wife, she had been an adult at the time, and so it was harder to argue with her memories. It now seemed pretty clear to me that this man was, in fact, a f****** a******.
Why on earth had I assumed I knew the truth better than my wife, who had first-hand experience of the band director? Why wouldn’t I believe her? I certainly trusted her. But nothing like this had ever happened to me. I lived in a bubble. I didn’t think any teacher would treat their students that way, and I certainly didn’t think that a school’s administration would let it continue for years.
(FYI, this particular story doesn’t involve any sexual abuse, just “run-of-the-mill” emotional and verbal abuse. I tell this story because it was a milestone for me, but it’s far from being the worst thing that happened to my wife in her career as a professional musician.)
Take a minute to think about what I’m saying.
Have you ever responded to a story of injustice the way I did? Have you ever minimized the seriousness, the facts, or the impact when someone with less power than you told a story about a time when they were harmed? Every time that we discount their experience, downplay the impact, doubt their details, we’re contributing to a bigger problem.
To be clear:
I've never raped anyone.
I've never given anyone date rape drugs.
I’ve never worn an offensive t-shirt while making an offensive YouTube video.
I’ve never threatened a student with retribution if they didn’t sleep with me.
And so on…
But that doesn't mean that I’m blameless.
What if my wife had needed a confidante when something else happened to her? What if she needed support to report something to the authorities? After seeing me respond with disbelief to one story, how comfortable would she feel sharing something else?
Look at it this way: privilege puts us in a bubble. People who are blind to their privilege have no incentive to recognize the struggle faced by others.
It's tempting to distance ourselves, dismissing these issues as someone else's problem. But if the “good guys” won’t listen, who will? If the people who didn’t actually commit the crime won’t provide support, where should victims turn? We accidentally become links in a wall of disbelief or unconcern, blocking efforts to right wrongs and create any change.
Don’t tell me that we can just leave it these issues to the police and the authorities. We all see what happens to people who report crimes. The victims in the NY Phil story are no longer with the orchestra, and the perpetrators were reinstated. The professional cost to victims is terrible. How does that happen? Who is exacting that professional cost? Long story short, it’s the people with the power. It’s the “good guys,” just like me.
Challenging Innocence and Inaction
One more time: who is to blame?
Being privileged isn’t a crime. But privilege itself is a problem.
Why are there so few women who play brass instruments?
Why are there so few black people in classical music?
Why aren’t there many new orchestra members over 40?
Why aren’t there many people with learning disabilities?
Why aren’t there many trans people?
(The list of people who are excluded is long—I don’t mean to exacerbate the problem by failing to mention all of them here.)
Is it just because we don't hire them when they reach the finals of an audition? That almost certainly happens. But another problem is that our world makes it harder for them to reach the finals in the first place.
Of course we want to hire “the most qualified candidate” in an audition. The problem is, how do people BECOME “the most qualified candidate”?
In short, it’s hard work and talent combined with opportunity. People like me are awash in opportunity. Other people face hurdles at so many stages of the ladder to the top.
Would I have made it to the LA Phil if I had faced the following early obstacles (this is a short list drawn directly from my wife’s personal experiences):
Not having the option to attend several of the most famous schools because the teachers were known predators
Having to leave my first orchestra job without another job to go to, because the pressure to sleep with the principal got too intense
Not getting gigs in a new city where almost all the players of my instrument were the opposite gender, despite making the finals for permanent positions with many of the ensembles
Being pestered, touched without permission, and leered at frequently during gigs
I don’t know. It was my privilege to avoid all of these situations, and many more.
(I used the real life experiences of a woman for this list, but it also works if you substitute gender issues for racism, prejudice against a sexual orientation, ageism, or other biases.)
When confronted with uncomfortable truths, the “good guys” are quick to deny any involvement or responsibility.
We have to quit looking the other way when we hear about problems. It's time to acknowledge that active participation isn’t the only way to cause harm.
Your lack of interest is not innocence. It’s time to face the music.
A Bridge Too Far
Right now, I’m hearing a lot about how the people speaking up are taking the “wrong tone.” There are a lot of comments like “sure, that was a terrible thing that happened, but those people talking about it are taking the wrong approach.” I disagree.
Why do we have to wait until the situation is on fire to react? Why did it take rape to get us to listen? We have been turning a blind eye to the continuum that leads to assault. Excuse my language, but we “good guys” are the main construction workers on this road to hell.
How can we claim that some of the people speaking up are going too far when we never took them seriously until rape was involved? Until they screamed? What could they have said to get us to listen? Is it their job to be verbal ninjas, to know how to use the perfect, magical words just to get us to pay attention?
No. It’s our job to listen long before they have to raise their voices (although they should certainly raise their voices as loudly as they want to).
No one listened when victims went through the official channels. No one listened when they spoke politely, or when they pleaded, or when they repeated their words.
I’m grateful to the people who are speaking up, because that’s what it took to get the “good guys” to listen.
Please, scream louder. You’re brave and I admire you.
One more thought on that—if you’re one of the people complaining about the “hysterical tone” or “scorched-Earth approach,” you need to think about your priorities. Is your personal comfort so important to you that you can’t stand to listen to people who are justifiably outraged?
Action Steps: What the “Good Guys” Can Do Right Now
Listen without judgment. Create a safe space for sharing. Approach conversations with an open mind. Encourage individuals to come forward without fear of reprisal.
Listen with the intention to learn and truly comprehend. Actively engage in understanding others' experiences and perspectives.
Listen empathetically. Show genuine concern and validate the feelings of those who speak out. Avoid the temptation to suggest victims are exaggerating.
Take action based on what you've heard. Stand up against injustice, advocate for change, and support marginalized individuals and communities.
Don’t shield perpetrators with your social silence. If you don’t tell others about the credible complaints, you’re giving cover to the perpetrators.
If a victim is reluctant to speak up, don’t imply that the consequences are their fault.
I can’t begin to count the number of times I have said and heard, “well, why don’t you just speak up?”
We need to recognize that the consequences of speaking up are much harsher for some people than others, and we need to find ways we can still support people who have been wronged.
Instead of shaming victims into silence, we must listen to them. It’s not enough to say, “well, the bad apples shouldn’t commit crimes.” It’s on the “good guys” to create an environment where speaking up is not only encouraged but expected, and where perpetrators rightly fear being held accountable.
Here’s something you can do every single day—if you hear someone saying disparaging things about women, minorities, or any group with less power, make them feel effing awful. Embarrass them. Make them ashamed of their words. Peer pressure might seem trite, but it’s more powerful than you think.
Also, it’s readily available to you. How often do you hear slightly sexist, racist, ableist, and other offensive language? It’s true there’s less of it every year, but I still hear a lot. Every instance is an opportunity for us to make a small change in our culture.
Please know that I’m directing this message as much to myself as I am to other men.
I understand that the problems are complex, deep, and that we need to throw every single tool we have at them. But right now, I’m focusing on opportunities I see every single week of my professional life:
Reluctance to speak out when I see prejudice and injustice
Tolerating colleagues who refuse to take these problems seriously
We need to start by speaking up in small ways, whenever we can. “That’s not cool.” “Why is that funny?” “What if someone said that about you?” “Are you sure you know all the facts?” “Why are you defending jerks and criminals?” Sure, these sentences are small things. But we need to take every opportunity to add more mass to the snowball of change. I may not ever have the opportunity to fire a colleague who commits a terrible act, but I can say something every time I see a colleague abusing the power dynamics in my orchestra.
Is it scary to speak up? Does it make you vulnerable? Yes. But think about how vulnerable we’ve made all of the other people, every single day, across centuries of this classical music culture ruled by white men. We need to quit forcing other people to bear all of the injustice alone.
Do you think of yourself as one of the “good guys”? Look at some of the other people claiming to be “good guys” right now. Apparently, table stakes for the title are just “don’t be a rapist.” Shouldn’t they be higher?
If you want to DO good, rather than just claim to BE good, quit turning away from the issues. Take some time to come up with your own action items, or maybe borrow mine. Quit accepting a world where it’s normal for men to do terrible things to women, where it’s normal for any marginalized or minority group to enjoy less opportunity than we do.
If we were really as good as we think we are, the NY Phil incident (and all the others like it) wouldn’t have happened. If we were really “good guys,” we wouldn’t waste words explaining why we’re not personally responsible. We would put our energies towards creating change.
Christopher Still
Second Trumpet, Los Angeles Philharmonic
Founder, Honesty Pill Coaching
P.S. Thanks to my wife for discussing these issues ad nauseum, sharing some of her personal stories, and for helping me edit this article.
