#keepyakind

Kindness is, I think, what will redeem us in the end. The kindness of friends, people in my online communities, and strangers– it’s brought me through dark and terrible places more times than I can remember; it has literally saved my life, several times. It’s one of the lights by which I try to live; Kelly Zen-Yie Tsai’s poem “kindness over genius” is tattooed onto my brain.

And yet. And yet.

Again and again, I’ve seen the idea of “kindness” — this demand that we be kind to those who harm us — abused and twisted, used as salt in wounds, or smaller blades to drive the injury deeper and make people who have been wronged bleed.

I’ve seen people use “keep YA kind!” to try to silence those who are speaking out against injustice and that most fundamental unkindness: the refusal to see certain other people as fully human. I’ve seen people bemoaning the lack of kindness in their communities even as they allow those who are most vulnerable, those who daily face the thousand thousand papercuts and bruises of microaggression, to face their battles alone. I’ve seen people hold their belief in kindness up as a banner proclamation of their refusal to take a stand against oppression, injustice, the perpetual dehumanization of their fellows, because what’s most important to them is the appearance of gentleness rather the prevention of further harm.

(Listen: if you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.)

This isn’t kindness. This is cowardice. This is further callous, cruel harm — no, it isn’t just “standing by”, it isn’t “refusing to pick a side”, it’s the active causing of pain, and to be honest often it hurts more than the initial instance of harm.1

Your kindness isn’t kindness. It’s only another face of injustice.

When people talk about how marginalized people should react in situations where the power of the center is used against them, they often like to bring up several “truths”:

You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

Turn the other cheek.

Leaving aside whether flies prefer honey to vinegar, it’s interesting to note that the saying contains this assumption that the addressee would benefit from catching more flies. (Okay, let’s say… butterflies. I would like to catch more butterflies.) In fact, the benefit to the marginalized person of getting people of privilege to agree with them is– practically nil. Even if a brown person being incredibly patient and ~kind~ about educating somehow magically persuaded a white person to stop being racist to every person of color they met– how does the brown person benefit, personally, for themselves? Indeed, is this even a fair exchange to consider, to theorize about, to expect? Is the hypothetical cessation of harm so meaningful that putting oneself further into harm’s way — because make no mistake, fitting oneself to invisible, irrational expectations of “kindness” is allowing very real harm to be done to oneself — somehow becomes a worthwhile endeavor?

You’ll notice that the onus, even here, is still on the marginalized person. We must do the work of remaining civil, of fitting ourselves to impossible standards of good behavior2 while the person who already holds all the structural and societal power benefits: they’re getting an education without paying anything for it. Why are we setting out honey for the flies, I ask you? Can the flies not find their own sustenance without our labor? That is, can privileged people not find the resources that will teach them about their own wrongs, and leave us to lick our wounds — wounds they’ve inflicted on us — in peace?

Corollary to “you catch more flies with honey than vinegar” is the pattern of complaint whenever people are met with “educate yourself”. I choose to see “educate yourself” as shorthand for “I am exhausted from my daily struggle to survive in a world that is bent on my annihilation; I will not perform kindness for your sake as I refuse to accept your demands for my emotional labor; Google exists or there are also other search engines out there, such as DuckDuckGo, which has the benefit of having a very cute name.”

On turning the other cheek– well.

The thing that got me out of bed this morning as I absolutely had to write was the idea that many people who tout kindness as a response to injustice (“I fully agree black lives matter, but they don’t have to be so toxic about it! I’m happy to engage with anyone who can be calm and respectful!”) point to Jesus Christ as an exemplar of this type of kindness. “Look,” they say, “he even said turn the other cheek!” How radical, how revolutionary, how very wrong.

Yet.

Isn’t it possible that turning the other cheek, far from offering the oppressor another opportunity to do harm, is instead a form of defiance? I read this via hellotailor on Tumblr a while ago, and it is so cogent I am quoting it here:

This specifically refers to a hand striking the side of a person’s face, tells quite a different story when placed in it’s proper historical context. In Jesus’s time, striking someone of a lower class ( a servant) with the back of the hand was used to assert authority and dominance. If the persecuted person “turned the other cheek,” the discipliner was faced with a dilemma. The left hand was used for unclean purposes, so a back-hand strike on the opposite cheek would not be performed. Another alternative would be a slap with the open hand as a challenge or to punch the person, but this was seen as a statement of equality. Thus, by turning the other cheek the persecuted was in effect putting an end to the behavior or if the slapping continued the person would lawfully be deemed equal and have to be released as a servant/slave.

The discussion further down is so good, too.

I also wanted to point out that Jesus, far from being a person who accepted injustice without complaint, actively fought against injustice: he raged against those who had turned a place of worship into a place of commerce, or are we conveniently forgetting that in what is called the Cleansing of the Temple he overturned tables and drove people out with a whip? Jesus was a radical revolutionary, driven by anger at injustice and compassion for the oppressed, by a passion to see the world transformed; he was so dangerous the authorities had to have him killed to maintain the peace. People who point out kindness as if it were an antithesis to anger at injustice are vastly oversimplifying both things, and in so watering them down deprive them of their strength. Because kindness, and anger at injustice, come from the same root.

4 Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, 5 Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; 6 Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; 7 Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

I Corinthians 13:4-7, King James Version

Here’s another thing I’ve seen often. “Look,” people who want me to be kind and patient say, “if you truly had love in your heart, you would [behavior that requires a great deal of emotional labor on my part so I can minimize the discomfort of the person who harmed me]! Because you have to be patient and kind, Mia!”

Yeah, it even says there, see, that love suffers long. Which, you know, I do. I do, and one thing privileged people seem to completely overlook is that marginalized people already endure a great deal without saying anything, otherwise we would get literally nothing done; we’d be consumed by our pain and our rage. We are long-suffering; you just don’t see it. Nor are we easily-provoked; it’s a survival skill.

And indeed: love is kind. Love, however, does not tolerate untruth or wrong. And this is where, I think, a conflict comes for some people: one cannot be kind and still fight oppressors; one cannot have love and tell racist writers to their faces, “that was racist, it has done me great harm” or speak to other people saying, “this is a terrible, racist book”. How unkind and unloving.

What kind of simple, naive reality do you live in?

It was fiery, sharp, bright and ruthless, ready to kill, ready to die, outspeeding light: it was Charity, not as mortals imagined it, not even as it has been humanised for them since the Incarnation of the Word, but the translunary virtue, fallen upon them direct from the Third Heaven, unmitigated. They were blinded, scorched, deafened. They thought it would burn their bones. They could not bear that it should continue. They could not bear that it should cease.

That Hideous Strength, C.S. Lewis

I’ve been told to answer hatred with love. The thing is, I do. Love isn’t a sheep to the slaughter. Love is not a coward covering her face. Love, too, is a sword. And if we’re looking, again, at readings of the Bible, at the nature of the Divine, we’ll see that angels, messengers of the Divine who exist in close proximity to that perfect radiance of love — they are hardly easy to look at. They aren’t comfortable beings to confront. They say, “do not be afraid!” — they burn.

And so this is where I’m at, standing in this place where every terrible perpetuation of injustice is met with rightly deserved outcry — and the outcry is then condemned, every comfort is laved upon the offender, and little thought given to the unseen and the vulnerable whose worlds have been just that little bit more shattered, their hearts a little bit more bloody and broken.

I have no time to spare for people who are only interested in furthering oppression; whose desire to learn about social justice is prompted primarily by the need to know the acceptable degree of harm they can cause; who, when taken to task for the injustice in their words, double down and explain that the readers have it wrong, it wasn’t their intent, and in any case, couldn’t you have been kinder doing it? –No. I notice that things like “keep YA kind” always seem to act only in one direction: we must be kind when we confront those who have hurt us, when we speak the truth of the marginalized to the powers in the center — but there is no kindness for those who have been hurt, who see themselves once again turned into monsters, savages, people not deserving of humanity or redemption. There is never enough kindness in the margins.

So what I’m doing is using more of my energy to try to be kind in the margins, rather than reaching out to the center in the belief that any attempts to educate it will work and make it, somehow, more kind.3 I’m tired of the expectation that I must pour out my heart’s blood in the hopes that white “allies” or straight people will, somehow, attain a degree of empathy through dipping their fingers into my pain. Kindness toward the center, it feels, is an impossible demand: there is never enough that I can give.

Instead, then, here is my kindness and here is my love: I will create for myself and for my kapatid in the margins; I will thrive and flourish and rejoice and that will be my defiance of hate; I will hold on to love as light and warmth and refuge and shield — and also love as a sword, as a blade of truth, just as kindness is not merely the open hand but also the hand that protects the most vulnerable and oppressed from the harm dealt by the powerful.

I’ll burn.

For instance: I fully expect racism from people like Sad and Rabid Puppies. You know what I don’t expect it from?* White people who talk about diversity, but then say work centering brown people is “difficult to relate to”. White women who talk over me when I speak about being fetishized, about my experiences about street harassment which — of course — are always, always racialized. (*This is a simplification, of course. One learns that even white “allies” — especially white allies — may cause one harm. But sometimes one trusts, or would like to.)

I say impossible because it absolutely is. Note, for instance, the stereotype of the angry black woman.

On March 8th, Vice published an article by their writer Hugh Ryan entitled "The Failure of Male Societies: Author Andrew Smith Tackles Monsters and Sex." In and of itself, this article wasn't anything spectacular; it was a short interview with an award-winning YA novelist, not designed to cause a splash or launch an online campaign.

However, in Ryan's opening to the article, he commented that "female characters are Smith's real Achilles heel: he doesn't have many of them and they tend toward the stereotypical." He then asked Smith about the lack of female characters in his books. "I was raised in a family with four boys, and I absolutely did not know anything about girls at all," replied Smith. "I have a daughter now; she's 17. When she was born, that was the first girl I ever had in my life. I consider myself completely ignorant to all things woman and female. I'm trying to be better though."

Smith then went on to talk about how his newest novel The Alex Crow was about the failure of male societies.

Boys are less likely to share their feelings and emotions during adolescence, preferring to hide them or withdraw. 

Boys are afraid to be honest.

Boys are afraid of admitting outwardly that they’re sad or that that they fear something, whatever that something may be. 

Boys are afraid to admit that they like certain girls or that they like other boys.

Boys are afraid to admit that they’re wrong, that they’re right, that they have no fucking idea.

Boys are afraid to admit that they’re failing.

Boys are afraid to admit that they just don’t know how to express what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling, and even why.

Boys are afraid of admitting, of sharing, of believing for fear of being ostracised. 

By friends. By schoolmates. By brothers and sisters, by parents. By colleagues and strangers.

For fear of being treated differently.

For fear of doing something wrong, for saying something wrong.

For fear of looking weak.

Of being ridiculed for what they do or say.

Society and popular culture reinforces the behaviour that men should be self-reliant, heroic. Men should be fearless, resourceful, strong. Men should face whatever’s in their path alone. 

That is the ideal male.

That is the type of male boys want to be, to become. 

Many boys have experienced gentle fathers who were emotionally distant growing up, who rarely, if ever, cried or expressed affection outwardly. 

Other boys have experienced abusive fathers growing up, punished for expressing their feelings and thoughts because boys should be men. 

Fearless men. 

Resourceful men. 

Strong men.

And other boys have not had the presence of a father figure growing up.

Yet boys still look up to them as we look up to the heroes that grace the comic strips.

So boys, in most cases, act, pretend, keep everything bottled up, even well into adulthood. This withdrawnness could very well lead to catastrophic circumstances, unable to seek help when they most need it. 

Boys fear a multitude of things.

But what many boys and men fail to do is take the risk of showing vulnerability, of sharing their weaknesses with people who they feel safest with.

And now this is where I get to Andrew Smith. 

Andrew, in an interview of a number of interviews and articles and promotional material for The Alex Crow, was asked rather ignorantly a question that quite blatantly made a divide between books for boys and books for girls. Moreover, that Andrew’s books are missing good female representations (this is where I say to get yourself a copy of and read Stick or 100 Sideways Miles).

Andrew agreed that he was trying to do better. He admitted that his work was missing strong female characters because he simply did not understand women. 

But the fact of the matter here is: 

Andrew Smith revealed ALL – his painful youth, his rollercoaster journey as a published author, his love for the kids he teachers, and more – in a wonderfully written and responded Entertainment Weekly article by Anthony Breznican.

He discussed the themes inherent in The Alex Crow:

“It’s not only that idea of control, but the control that it’s so masked behind this façade of compassion, but ‘the real reason that we’re doing this is because we’re really nice,’ and really that’s not it at all,” Smith says. “The book is really about the failure of male-dominated societies. Every single one of these male-dominated societies is really misguided, a failure—the survivors on the boat, too. They just think that they’re doing something that’s good and really, they’re not. They’re just steering themselves off the edge of a cliff somewhere.”

He shared his life’s journey with us, something that the article stated he rarely ever did – and I, as a supporter of his work and the person that he is, have even experienced that in the way he expresses himself over social media and  how I perceived Andrew in various videos he did.

Andrew gave himself permission to be human, to bring himself closer to others, to bring a sense of relief. He felt he was safe enough to share.

He shared because he felt apart of a supportive and kind community.

More:

In 2011, Wall Street Journal columnist Meghan Cox Gurdon caused an uproar in the YA world by publishing this scorching essay that singled out one of Smith’s fantasy novels as particularly dangerous.

That was The Marbury Lens.

Smith wasn’t alone among YA authors criticized in that piece. But he felt alone.

The Wall Street Journal article sparked myriad blog posts, became a topic for conversation at places like NPR and Salon, and was overwhelmingly rejected as pearl-grasping alarmism by many librarians and readers, young and old alike. But Smith, who had spent his life trying to be a good parent – at least, a better one than the ones he had – and trying to improve the lives of the young people in his classes was crushed by the accusation that he may actually be hurting his readers. He didn’t believe it, but that didn’t matter. It still hurt.

“That was a thing I definitely lost a lot of sleep over, and I got really depressed about it,” Smith says. “I was ‘damaging young people.’” Some of his supporters didn’t help his state of mind. “The thing that bothered me just as much was the reaction on social media from other people, from writers and stuff, that was just mean,” he says. “They were using obscenities, they were calling her terrible, terrible names, and, again: We need to elevate our discourse sometimes, especially if we want to have an actual academic discussion about something that probably is deserving a good, open discussion.”

His publishing career had lasted three years. That’s when he decided it should stop. “I was so fed up, that I was going to quit at that point,” he says. Winger was not yet released, but had already sold. Smith decided he wouldn’t quit writing, but he would quit publishing. “I left the agency that was representing me,” he says. “I just came back home, went up into my office that summer … and that’s when I wrote Grasshopper Jungle.”

Andrew wrote The Marbury Lens as a means of expressing himself and the world he grew up in, feeling that his work would hopefully be accepted for what it held but not what it was.

He was writing for the kid he was, writing for the boys (and girls) he felt are or were in similar circumstances. 

But he and his work were ostracised (along with a number of other authors).

I’m glad that wasn’t the last of Andrew, of his writing. and I’m glad that he wrote Grasshopper Jungle as a means to escape from the pain he was experiencing, the ridicule for writing something that was labelled wrong and dark and painted out as hurting the very kids he adored – Andrew’s a teacher after all, that loves teaching.

And then we look to the barrage of decry over Andrew’s response to a badly worded and thought-out question.

And Andrew answered in the only way he knew: by being honest. 

He was honest. 

A virtue he has instilled in his novels, from his debut novel Ghost Medicine all the way to Winger and now The Alex Crow.

Andrew did what very little men do:

HE ADMITTED.

He admitted that he struggles.

And then a horde suddenly manifested out from a community he felt most safest in.

THAT is the very fear that boys have.

THAT was the very fear that I had.

THAT is the fear Andrew now has. 

Once again.

This is only an assumption due to Andrew distancing himself away from social media. 

(And this is where I, at 11:30pm Australian Eastern Standard Time in writing this, began crying.)

Throw around how sexist the comment was. It was very clearly a man feeling safe to admit that he needed to do better. 

Andrew’s name was definitely NOT thrown around lightly, too. 

It was everywhere.

And he became someone – through people’s own misconceptions and self-perception – completely different to who he is, who he was, who he believed he was.

To take a couple lines of an answer and have it interpreted on that alone, does affect his character in the eyes of people who ONLY read those lines quoted and whatever is being attributed or misattributed to it, including from people who don't know him or his books,

He became a scape goat for feminism in literature to be heard.

And if that means crushing how someone expresses themselves in their work and as a person, I want no part of this world.

Feminism is meant to be positive. It’s meant to equate to change.

But how do you make change when you only see everything from a singular point of view.

This is not political.

This is not a debate.

This is a matter for us as a collective to discuss, as a community, no matter what we promote individually. This is a group effort.

Literature is an art form like any other about expression, expressing how we individually (and collectively) see the world, see the people around us, see the strengths and weaknesses that make us human, to reflect on the past and build a better future.

Expression is the very thing that is being forgotten here.

if ONE MAN is not allowed to express themselves for fear of being called out by women for doing something wrong, and vice versa, then how are we as a community able to move forward?

If ONE MAN is unable to write a book about the failure of male-dominated societies, and still be criticised for being a MAN, than how are we to move forward and change?

I’m still learning how to express myself. I have yet to feel happy with anything I write.

Nine books in and Andrew is still finding ways, however inventive and clever and well-written, to express himself.

If you’re a woman and have a husband or boyfriend or son and you ask them how are they feeling and they shrug their shoulders and give you a one-worded answer, it’s because they don’t feel they have the support they need to express themselves and say how they feel.

But Andrew gave us much more than a word.

He gave an answer.

He shared his life.

And that’s why we need more men like Andrew Smith.

I can write female characters if I want to. Nobody says I can't write excellent female characters. I live every day of my existence with females. I went to an all-boys private school and I don’t have even one close male friend (only females). My father moved interstate when I was 13 and I never felt like I had someone to look up to.

I still don’t have the courage to say ‘I love you’ (to my father) because I still feel like I don’t matter in the larger picture and have not found a way to express my anger, or my affection, too.

I know I’m distant when we’re together. That is something I try to fix.

I write to express myself, to express my own need to feel that male friendship or bond I never felt I had. And if there’s a lack of females that’s a problem I see but subconsciously omit. Because whatever I write is from a natural source, the source of emotion and expression, and I’m male, your female, we’re humans, so what.

But that doesn’t make me blind.

I observe and I write. That's all we do to make sense of the world around us, in a fictional or real setting. We're always learning. Forever trying to understand.

But as a bookseller, I write books DIRECTED for boys (there's no STRICTLY FOR there) because I feel that more is still needed to be done. And Andrew Smith was an author who came at the time - now more widely recognised - who managed to not conform to any expectations. He wrote what he believed he needed to write to improve his craft and what would be different enough to attract readers of any nature.

Thankfully it was boys he was writing for the most (once again no STRICTLY FOR).

To boys who felt that they could not experience happiness again, to boys who feel like they do not belong, to boys who like both guys and girls, to boys who feel unwanted, to boys who feel different.

We all matter, some more than others (doing special needs work in Tanzania has always been on my list of things to do).

Boys and girls. 

Expression is universal. 

Expression is life.

Don’t take that away.

We are all trying to be better, to do the best that we can do; we're not all perfect, and we're not all good guys.

-------

After I witnessed Andrew’s dismissal from social media I wrote an email to him:

I miss your presence. You inspire me to be better, to believe in myself, to believe that my writing is worthwhile. It wasn't until I read the Marbury Lens at the end of 2010, the first book I read of yours, that I realised there was something seriously missing in young adult fiction: content that challenged teenage readers beyond what was just strictly there on the page. You showed me through your stories that not conforming to society's standards was okay, that I could write whatever I wanted, write whatever stories I wanted to tell. To not let anyone dictate what I can or cannot write, can or cannot think, can or cannot say. From then on I've looked up to you, respected you, seen you as a guardian for the type of work you produced. And I still do. You've never let me down with your stories. I hope that doesn't stop. I believe in you and your work.

I’ve read a number of posts from both sides, but I felt like the inherent nature of men and women is significantly missing.

I’d like to add something else: the publisher and editor of Grasshopper Jungle and The Alex Crow is a woman. A wonderful woman at that. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

UPDATE (3:45 a.m.):

I’m losing sleep.

So I thought I’d give an update, one that unquestionably gives a reason to why I had to write this post in the first place.

No one sees the problem. Because there are too many problems. And they all blur. And the lines leading between the problems blur even more.

I’ll tell you that I cried. 

And cried. 

Because I was feeling the exact same way that Andrew had. I had a difference of opinion, I spoke it, I wrote this god-fucking-awfully-personal post, and I get crapped on.

I get bullied. 

Personally attacked like I don’t give two cents about women.

I am made to think that I am worthless. That my opinions don’t matter against hers.

It’s hypocritical at best.

I have never been that student to raise their hand to answer a question or share my thoughts on something. I have a fear of being called wrong, of being made guilty for thinking a certain way.

And I know I’m not right. I never said I am. It’s impossible to be right.

But to be attacked?

No. Not in my books.

Having been bullied in school, especially in my older years, it stings just a bit more, especially with the bullying permeating through social media and into the physical school environment.

I found myself mocked shortly after by Rebecca Schinsky, affiliated with Bookriot, on Twitter - many of the tweets are now removed. 

(I must add I also work in a female-dominated environment. I attend publisher roadshows and I wouldn’t even need all my fingers to count how many men there are as booksellers.)

Ms Schinsky said to Justina Ireland something along the lines of, “maybe if some of their friends are women [some awkward smiley face]”  in response to men not understanding what constitutes as a good female character.

Now that was a clear mockery of the social environment I, as an individual – a male individual to add emphasis – had no hand in creating. It just happened that way. I socialise with girls more. My mum even knows that. She hates that I don’t have a group of male friends. 

I hate that too (but I’m lucky to have the female friends I do).

But to mock me? To ridicule me? That was just cruel.

And then I point it out to her:

Justina Ireland just got in the middle of it at that moment. Unfortunately you don’t see Ms Schinsky’s tweets but I have what she barraged me after this:

The fact that it pertained to my feelings, she made it an attack. And @’ing me? Clearly, she was trying to shut me down.

And I never, not once in this whole debacle, approved of any threats being made. It’s unfortunate that it has happened from both sides. 

She says she gets it and then tells me to get some perspective.

Would she say the same thing to people battling with depression and other forms of mental illness, in some cases leading to suicide because no one is listening to them, as their feelings are made insignificant because people like Ms Schinsky are telling them to get some perspective? I don’t know. That’s what baffles me.

This is how people come to the point where they don’t know how to ask for help. 

They abandon their existence.

I paraphrased the above from an Australian YA novel coming out from Random House Australia next month titled The Pause by John Larkin. It involves suicide and the sadness that not being brave enough to speak out brings.

I’m wrong for listening to women? What/Who does she want me to be? I’m confused. I’m tired. 

A coworker of mine at the bookstore is a feminist. I listen to her - she calls them rants. I listen to it all. We discuss. I agree. I disagree. I agree. I disagree. And then the next day I ask her for her opinions on something else. And the whole cycle starts again.

So, you know what, I’ll accept Ms Schinsky’s failed attempt at snark.

At the end of this I felt defenceless, vulnerable, and unworthy of so many characters in a tweet.

in my state, I had a passing thought of wishing that perhaps I could be someone else. Start anew. 

Be a perfect man.

But perfectionism is not what I strive for. 

I strive for tolerance, for kindness, for honesty.

Facebook post 1 hr ago:

just feel like I have this weight on my chest now. That whatever I say has no meaning. That whatever I feel means nothing. It's not a great feeling.

Facebook post 1 hr ago:

And here I am at the kitchen bench now saying 'Fuck, Braiden. Get it together.' But I can't. I can't get it together. Because I was singularly made worthless.

My initial post was meant to resonate with anyone that has been made to feel lesser, not just by men or women, or by other children, or brothers, or sisters, husbands or wives and any other possible type of person there is including politicians and other people with authority.

The update is an example of what will happen if you speak out, for expressing your feelings, male or female. And that’s something I’m not afraid of now. 

I haven’t done this to be vindictive. I’m not that kind of person. 

I haven’t done this to play the victim. Because being the victim sucks.

I’m just appalled.

I’m appalled that no one has won and that no one will ever win.

Feminism is good. Feminism is a movement for equality. But don’t forget what Equality actually means. It means the inclusion of all voices and all opinions of all types of people across status, rights, and opportunities.

That was the real thing that was missing. There was no equal.

I want equality. But don’t shame me for being male. Don’t shame anyone for who they are.