Fording No Rivers: When the Only Way Forward Is a New Path
Comfort is not Neutral: Refusing Reconciliation with Injustice in the Name of Allyship.
At the urging of a fellow union member, I recently finished reading The Message by Ta-Nehisi Coates, a work clearly not intended for me as its primary audience. However, precisely because I am not the intended audience, I believe that I, and people like me, need to read it more than ever in our current political and social climate. Coates writes unapologetically to Black readers, particularly to those who have struggled within systems of oppression that have long defined the American experience, and that despite current and historical efforts to delete that oppression from the historical record persist today. I admire his prose, rich, floral, and evocative, is both poetic and intellectually rigorous. It is a writing style evocative of a language talent that I can barely begin to dream of developing.
The narratives he crafts in this collection of essays are not merely stories but incisive explorations of how oppression is designed, maintained, and continually repackaged to sustain hierarchies embedded in our institutions and collective consciousness (Coates, 2023). The book, and his writings from the Atlantic, cleverly exposes the reader to the sleight of hand used to keep people fighting for crumbs, unaware of those wielding power from above. He shows how most of us sit in the stands of the coliseum, watching others battle to the death, oblivious to the fact that we too are oppressed, all because we still get the privilege to say, “At least I’m not them.” This book is the capstone document that all doctoral students dream of being able to write, and so many of us fall short of.
Reading as someone who is white, cisgender, middle-aged, and male, Coates’ work masterfully unsettles without alienating. It forced a reckoning between the worldview I have inherited and the lived reality Coates exposes. It would be easy to interpret his words as a personal attack, or to accept it as an attempt to strip my power, or negate me for who I am as many on the far right do every day. However, to sit with discomfort is a privilege afforded to those who, like myself by mere birthright alone, benefit from systems that disadvantage others. It is a privilege I have that many do not, and I need to lean into that as I reflect on myself, the world around me and the privilege I harness in the world. As McIntosh (1989) famously described, whiteness grants “invisible knapsack” privileges that are unearned but deeply consequential. Thinking through unacknowledged male privilege, McIntosh came to see that "hierarchies in our society are interlocking," and that while she was taught to see racism as disadvantaging others, she "had been taught not to see one of its corollary aspects, white privilege, which puts [her] at an advantage" (McIntosh, 1989). I now recognize that I too once wore those blinders willingly. I maintained my comfort by avoiding reflection on how systems bent in my favor. Coates’ writing challenges me and readers like me to confront the nature of the privilege we enjoy. Privileges we receive not as something earned through merit, but inherited through structures that reward conformity to dominant norms.
Admittedly, this is not my first toe dip into examining this positionality. There is much reading I have done thinking about positionality, and examinations of power in my personal, academic, and professional life. This writing came at the right time for me however, and reflecting on it at the end of this school year seems like the right thing to do.
Often, when discussions of race, gender, or power arise, there is a reflexive tendency of those who come from places of institutional and cultural privilege, including myself, to retreat into the comforting platitude: “We have more in common than what divides us.” While this sentiment offers temporary relief from discomfort, it also conveniently avoids the deeper work of justice, accountability, and reflection. Let me be clear, this essay is not trying to live in comfort, but acknowledge the awkward discomfort as a way to grow and expand my own limited view. Yes, we might bond over shared interests, hiking, pets, comfort food, favorite TV shows, but those surface-level connections do not outweigh foundational moral differences. When someone refuses to recognize the humanity of entire communities, whether based on race, gender identity, sexuality, religion, or immigration status, those surface-level shared interests cease to matter. Coates (2023), alongside Mills (1997), reminds me that the myth of equal access is just that, a myth rooted in colonial, classist, and white supremacist frameworks that structure inequality. Government and social systems were not built for everyone; they were built to privilege some at the expense of others.
Once we come to understand these systemic inequities, we face a choice. Do we continue trying to bridge divides with those who stand in direct opposition to our values? Or do we acknowledge that some moral lines are not meant to be blurred or crossed? To borrow a lesson from childhood hours spent playing The Oregon Trail, fording the river isn’t always the wisest choice. Sometimes the river is too deep, the current too strong, or the cargo too precious to risk. Are you willing to risk the life of your family or well being in order to ford the river? Maybe if you know you are going to die of dysentery three more decisions from now… but I digress. Sometimes the obstacle in front of us isn’t a river at all, it’s an immovable object. When someone plants themselves firmly on the other side of your moral line, denying dignity to those you love, or your own humanity, you are under no obligation to meet them in the middle. You can simply choose another path. Not all journeys require reconciliation. Some demand redirection. I also recognize the irony to be thinking about Coates writing, and invoke the game Oregon trail as part of that narrative given the colonial glorification and problematic nature of the original game being played on large floppy disks on a black screen with green graphics.
I find a peculiar resonance in this critique through my appreciation of Chinese historical dramas, specifically those exploring palace intrigue and rigid social hierarchies. These narratives that come from these soap operas are deeply invested in the politics of power, and they illustrate how societies justify domination through tradition, caste, gender, and status. Watching these dramas, I am reminded that power has not been historically in any culture neutral and is most often preserved through the subjugation of others, even when we do not recognize our participation in those systems.
As I have written about previously, Dr. Kim Watson-Benjamin, a political activist I deeply respect, has said: true allyship means standing "10 toes down" with the communities we support. Being an ally, particularly during Pride Month, demands that we interrogate our own positions, even when it is painful or uncomfortable. I cannot, in good faith, claim solidarity with marginalized groups like my transgender siblings, while retreating to the safety of cisgendered neutrality when true solidarity requires confrontation, courage, or risk and sometimes loss. Identity and the interactions we have in our relationships create an intersectionality that isn't simply a theory, but a call to action, to see and act upon the overlapping injustices that shape people’s lives (Crenshaw, 1991).
This has become especially evident as we witness the renewed dehumanization of immigrant and transgender communities in today’s political landscape. I watched in horror as a video circulated showing ICE agents violently arresting a man, bragging about it being “a good day” in front of detained individuals (Smith, 2025). I read about a Bronx high school student arrested outside an immigration hearing, only to see social media posts by NYC educators mocking him, ignorant of the fact that he attended a transfer school specifically designed for students in his situation. These responses reflect just how far cruelty has been normalized,and worse, celebrated, within systems that should instead offer care and understanding.
In the broader national landscape, I am further outraged by the increasingly hostile treatment of elected officials and community leaders engaged in civil resistance. In the past month alone, reports have surfaced of a senator being violently removed and arrested for demanding accountability from public officials, and of a NYC mayoral candidate being detained simply for accompanying immigrants to legal hearings. This is not merely governmental intolerance, it is the criminalization of dissent.
In The Message, Coates (2023) warns that the written word, especially when it comes from the oppressed, threatens entrenched power because it dismantles the mythology of American exceptionalism. These narratives force us to confront the lie that our systems were ever designed to be equitable. As we live through a moment in which cruelty is openly celebrated, we must be prepared for the backlash that comes with saying, “This is not okay.”
Speaking out may invite mockery, dismissal, or even derision from colleagues who resent having their comfort disrupted. It may mean having to see the tears as we confront our own actions, or refuse to accept someone else's. Some of these same colleagues cheer or remain silent as politicians from their preferred parties post gleeful commentary about the murders of their political opponents, but fein shock when we no longer wish to allow them open access to our lives. The indecency is no longer coded; it is bold, public, and performative (Coolican, 2025). In our own workplaces across the city, the dehumanization of entire communities has been institutionalized under the guise of neutrality, where we are asked to “leave our politics at the door” and just do our jobs.
But in union work, and in education, what we call politics are in fact questions of humanization versus dehumanization. They ask whether the people and communities we serve are seen as fully human. As Giroux (2001) reminds us, all education is inherently political. I carry that truth into both my education work and my union work, refusing to set aside my politics simply to maintain the comfort of the status quo.
What does it mean to be comfortable in a system built on the suffering of others? American history is steeped in the politics of exclusion. It has always operated through what David Roediger (2007) termed the “wages of whiteness,” offering status and privilege to some by ensuring the marginalization of others. Every generation has identified a new group to “other.” Whether it be Black, Jewish, Irish, Italian, or the far right’s more politically acceptable current other, transgender and immigrant communities, othering is an act of violence to control and subjugate people. The mechanism of social control remains the same: define who belongs, who is respectable, and who must remain outside.
Growing up in a Connecticut neighborhood with, what I can now reflect upon was an exclusionary HOA, I witnessed this logic of othering firsthand. At the time my family moved in, Jewish families were only beginning to be allowed to buy homes. A high school acquaintance recently shared with me the pain and violence he experienced growing up Jewish in that community where I always felt safe. As a teenager, I did not stand with him. In times where I was not oblivious and sheltered from the dehumanization he suffered, I chose silence, because it kept me safe. I now understand that silence as complicity. The cost of my safety was empathy towards his plight. None of us can undo the past, but we can learn from it.
This reflection leads me back to Pride Month, and the question: what does it mean to stand "10 toes down" for trans lives, immigrant families, and other marginalized communities?
It cannot mean platitudes like “we have more in common than not,” when that sameness is used to excuse the erasure of others’ humanity. Nor can it mean retreating into religious or political justifications for oppression. After all, religion has often been weaponized to harm. Hitler invoked Catholicism in his claims of righteousness (Shirer, 1960), and American ministers once used their pulpits to preach Black inferiority (Jim Crow Museum, n.d.).
The expansion of whiteness in America to include other groups of people, is a reminder that “inclusion” has often served to strengthen the walls of exclusion. When we are told we are now part of the privileged class, we are too often expected to police the boundaries for others. But true allyship requires something different: not guarding the gates, but tearing them down.
This is where our work as union labor organizers becomes relevant. The UFT has not always gotten it right, but there is history we must stand upon and uphold against the onslaught aiming to remove power from working Americans. In a post by Leo Casey, I was reminded of the paper In Solidarity with Those Which Share Our Purposes by Stephen Lazar (2021). It documents the entwined history of the UFT and the civil rights movement from 1963 to 1965. As Lazar notes, during that period, the freedom of labor and the freedom of Black Americans were one and the same.
Once again, we must recognize that the freedom of labor and the freedom of all oppressed groups, including the LGBTQIA+ community, especially our transgender members, students, and families, must be central to our fight. We cannot shrink our footprint to the bread-and-butter issues that make others comfortable while ignoring the broader fight for human dignity and justice in our communities.
Today, as our military seeks to discharge transgender service members, as states ban even the discussion of trans lives, and as immigrants are terrorized in public spaces, we must remember that our task is not to preserve comfort Rather it is to confront power.
Standing 10 toes down means standing up, even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when it means confronting our past silences. Even when it means letting go of the center of power to walk alongside those who have never been allowed through the door.
Our task is not to lead, but to listen. And to stand:
Firmly.
Radically.
Relentlessly.
For the dignity of every human being. Especially in times when it would be much more comfortable to acquiesce and close our eyes again.
References
Coates, T.-N. (2023). The Message. One World.
Coolican, J. (2025, June 21). Sen. Mike Lee takes down controversial X posts after widespread criticism. Minnesota Reformer. https://minnesotareformer.com/briefs/sen-mike-lee-takes-down-controversial-x-posts-after-widespread-criticism/
Crenshaw, K. (1991). Mapping the margins: Intersectionality, identity politics, and violence against women of color. Stanford Law Review, 43(6), 1241–1299. https://doi.org/10.2307/1229039
Giroux, H. A. (2001). Theory and resistance in education: Towards a pedagogy for the opposition (Rev. ed.). Bergin & Garvey.
Jim Crow Museum. (n.d.). What was preached: Religion and racism. Ferris State University. https://jimcrowmuseum.ferris.edu/what.htm
Lazar, S. (2021). In solidarity with those which share our purposes: The United Federation of Teachers and the Civil Rights Movement, 1963–1965. American Educational History Journal, 48(2), 71–90.
McIntosh, P. (1989). White privilege: Unpacking the invisible knapsack. Independent School, 49(2), 31–36.
Mills, C. W. (1997). The racial contract. Cornell University Press.
Roediger, D. R. (2007). The wages of whiteness: Race and the making of the American working class. Verso.
Shirer, W. L. (1960). The rise and fall of the Third Reich: A history of Nazi Germany. Simon & Schuster.
Smith, D. (2025, June 20). Border Patrol agents brag in front of detained immigrants: “It’s a good day.” Los Angeles Times. https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2025-06-20/border-patrol-agents-brag-in-front-of-detained