“The political struggle then becomes: to find a better way of answering questions, ways of questioning the questions, so that the world that makes some beings into questions becomes what we question.”
– SARA AHMED (LIVING A FEMINIST LIFE)
“Where are you from? And where are you from?”
As a fourth-generation, biracial Asian American whose racial identity is frequently read as ambiguous, my answer to these questions is often met with perplexity. “I’m from Idaho.” “No, I mean, where are you from?” “Idaho.” “But where are your parents from?” “They’re from Idaho, too.” And so it goes, quickly devolving into a frustrating and disappointing experience for everyone.
Typically defended as benign curiosity, the tendency to ask again, with emphasis, can be experienced as a microaggression that reveals a tacit assumption: you are not from here. Studying race as a visible identity has helped make sense of these experiences but being asked such questions over a lifetime can complicate a sense of belonging. Hence my surprise when, upon joining a newly formed equity and inclusion committee, these questions were posed as our first icebreaker.
I suppose context matters. The intent was to create space for committee members to share about their culture and background, what shapes their experiences and identities. Our facilitator offered an example, “I’m from Denver, but I’m from a big family where the louder the gatherings, the more the love.” But even with the example, I felt strange and anxious to respond, suspecting my most authentic answer would still confound expectations. Uncomfortable, I shared it anyway: “I’m from Idaho, but I’m from a long line of feminist writers and scholars who have shaped me. María Lugones, Audre Lorde, Gloria Anzaldúa, and many others. My teachers have been some of my greatest influences, and many of my students are among them. I’m a feminist philosopher, and like bell hooks, I found a sense of self, home, and healing through theory.”
* * *
Feminist theory came into my life at the exact right time in a completely unexpected way. Two years into college, frustrated and struggling to find an academic home, my advisor presented an alternative to dropping out that would allow me to still graduate on time. Leveraging credits from several courses on Eastern religions, I majored in philosophy with a concentration in religious studies. The next semester I registered for a course, “Meaning and Truth in Religion,” taught by a vibrant Catholic theologian in residence, David Deane, and my world cracked open.
The course spanned from St. Augustine and Thomas Aquinas to post-modern theology. Generally lost on the foundations of western theism I was wholly captivated by diverse critiques of post-Enlightenment notions of Reason. Starting with Friedrich Nietzsche, we traced questions of what becomes reified as real, who says, by what means, and to what end, which included perspectives from feminist theory and queer theory that challenged dominant assumptions of power, materiality, and reason. Judith Butler’s notion of performativity explained how socially constructed realities, like gender, come to matter, materially, and for my first research paper, I took it upon myself to explore how Julia Kristeva’s murder mystery novels contained clues from her earlier scholarly writings on the symbolic and semiotic. Ruminating on form, style, and the affective dimensions of effective writing, I recall being particularly intrigued by David’s passing mention that many critical scholars we read did not hold traditional appointments in philosophy departments. Comparative Literature. Psychoanalysis. Philology. Unbeknownst to me, this is when and how I inherited my burning questions, meta-philosophical questions simultaneously about meaning and gatekeeping: “Who is the philosopher?” “What counts as philosophy?” “What can philosophy do?” (These questions have since been brilliantly captured by philosophers like Kristie Dotson.)
The following spring, I attended my first conference, “Postmodernism, Culture and Religion, 2: Feminism, Sexuality and the Return of Religion,” held at Syracuse University in 2007 (the papers presented there were eventually published as a book). A junior in college, enthusiastic, and remarkably naïve, I was giddy to see people whose articles I read in class. More than names for citations, they were real flesh-and-blood humans walking about the room!
After much persistence, I finally caught up with the person who gave my favorite talk. Like a student showing up to office hours without a well-formed question, I mentioned appreciating the implicit demonstrations of what could not be uttered in her paper, to which Hélène Cixous replied, “I am not trying to do anything with my writing. I am a poet, even if I am a philosophical poet. Derrida is a philosopher, although as a philosopher he is quite poetic. But that is not my project. Maybe it is your project.” Feeling quite embarrassed and confused about what I didn’t understand, nevertheless, Hélène Cixous suggested I had a project! I wondered if she might consider me a philosopher.
* * *
Identifying myself as a feminist philosopher has felt honest but become more complicated over time. Seven years ago, I earned a dual-title doctorate degree in philosophy and women’s studies. Technically, by training, I am a feminist philosopher. However, since then, by title and responsibilities, I am and have been an administrator, not a professional philosopher.
Thus far, my career has kept me in higher education leading diversity and inclusion efforts, including gender equity initiatives. Through trainings, programs, consultations, and changing policies, the point is to improve the culture for people of diverse backgrounds. Feeling very much like a philosopher disguised as an administrator, I see how my background in feminist theory provides a critical lens for understanding the issues at hand; this work is fundamentally concerned with how our identities position us differently within institutions and systems of power with the goal of remedying inequities and ending oppression. As for most philosophers who approach philosophy as a matter of praxis, the challenge becomes one of translating theory into practice and grounding concrete practices in particular values.
Feminist epistemology is most instructive for how I move through life and work, but amongst colleagues who earned degrees in higher education leadership and social justice education, I am an anomaly. Whereas they were trained as scholar-practitioners, I’ve had to do a lot of my own “connecting the dots” to put theory into practice. While I know about things, at times I feel envious that I wasn’t taught how to navigate these systems, build community, and create programs that uplift and serve those most marginalized by dominant cultures. And whereas their studies provide models of identity development through cycles of socialization and cycles of liberation, it took me years (and conversations with practitioners) to recognize my investment in practicing philosophy in relevant and accessible ways as being about more than personal transformation – it’s part of a movement. What an important and humbling epiphany! Also, what a ridiculously obvious realization, that people in other disciplines do and value similar things, even when they go about them differently. What I learn from colleagues about their anti-racist and social justice frameworks makes me a better professional, which also makes me question if the kind of disciplinary arrogance many philosophers display is a condition for, or byproduct of, the culture and standards of professional philosophy.
* * *
Intellectual and personal spaces where I continue to develop a sense of self and understand my location in the world dramatically expanded once I was no longer strictly a philosophy student in a philosophy department. For years into my professional roles after graduate school, I taught in women’s studies and ethnic studies. I also created interdisciplinary first-year seminars that I hoped would connect with new college students in ways that might prevent them from soon wanting to drop out. While developing new courses, the texts in my syllabi began to shift. Rather than staying current with scholarship in feminist philosophy, I felt a deep sense of connection working through classic essays written by women of color, such as those in This Bridge Called My Back, particularly when exploring practices of what I call, feminist friendship. Many of my favorite philosophers were still included – after all, “Have We Got a Theory for You?” by María Lugones and Elizabeth Spelman inspired my interest in feminist friendship – but I felt a responsibility to introduce students to the type of foundational texts I wish had been assigned throughout my studies – personal essays, poems, and letters that, had I read them as I found a home for myself in feminist theory, would have made my philosophy richer and my feminism that much better from the start.
Back in the day, my advisor convinced me to major in philosophy because it would teach me how to read, write, and think. Whenever I teach, I elaborate by telling students they will also learn to listen and articulate their ideas when they speak. Clearly, yes. Critically, yes. And, I hope, with a decent amount of creativity, for as valuable as I know theory to be, we must also develop skillful practices for learning how to collaborate, organize, love, and be in relationship with each other differently. These remain my learning edges of choice, which I believe are very much in line with feminist theory and, one can hope, the purpose of philosophy.
As I lead diversity and inclusion efforts, hone practices for equity and social justice, and align myself more passionately for liberation as part of collective movements, my experiences resonate with Sara Ahmed’s articulations in Living a Feminist Life – questions of belonging, becoming, and being a feminist, and of complicity working within incongruent institutions that may eventually lead to a break, a snap. Because I am committed to feminist work, I am thrilled to encounter people working in sophisticated and inspiring ways beyond the boundaries of higher education. In addition to select feminist philosophers, my nightstand holds books on rotation from organizers, healers, spiritual leaders, and activists, a blueprint for how I seek to expand my own community. With influence of these perspectives, my work – personal and professional – feels more political than ever, and I have embraced the potency of a beginner’s mind for carving out ways to live a feminist life. I am excited knowing there is much to learn and many ways to keep growing. With gratitude, I reflect on how graduating with terminal degrees ushered in more of a beginning than an ending for me.
I am often asked to explain what about feminist theory I find so compelling. Feminist theory offers a critical lens through which we can understand all our disciplines and systems and interrogate connections among multiple oppressions. When done well, it provides tools to shape the world and change our ways of being for our shared liberation. When people ask, “What can one do with a degree in feminist theory?” although the path may be ambiguous and those around you might change, the answer is simple, “Anything.”
* * *
Moments of surprise upon learning I’m from Idaho reveal assumptions about folks from Idaho that don’t neatly map on to me, and while feminist philosophy permeates my ways of being, I am similarly dis/connected to both locations where I am from but no longer live every day. It’s a unique feeling of strangeness and familiarity.
Walking through downtown Boise, I carry the faintest anticipation of running into someone I know, but for the most part, I don’t. I’m more the outsider who’s just visiting. Most connections I have to people with whom I grew up are limited to what I see on social media, and it’s much the same with respect to philosophy. Without attending conferences, what I tend to know these days about fellow philosophers is largely based on what gets shared through posts and status updates. I witness their art, plants, and projects develop from afar while vicariously appreciating photos of hikes and holidays. It’s not scholarly, but a little more personal, a little more flesh-and-blood, and I kind of like it that way.