“So what?” Noah says. Personally, I think this is abrupt, even rude. Especially when the subject of this – what is the word? – expostulation is as eminent, as exquisite, as the professor.
But I am alone in feeling this way – his interlocutor is unmoved. I suppose he becomes steeled to such solecisms in the bearpit that is the modern lecture room.
“So a lot!” exclaims the prof. “If all groups are socially constructed, then none has an inherent validity. Each and every one is identified by criteria that are the subject of choice. They are, as they say these days, political. So no group is innate, ineluctable, ineffable, call it what you will.
“I can see why you might say this about a rugby team. I understand that they are protected as the sporting representatives of a nation state, itself a construct, who are selected to compete by reference to a set of rules predefined by the progenitors of the game.
“I can see the supporters, as a group, can equally be viewed in this way: they wear the clothes, hats, scarves and other regalia with a pride that proclaims, if not their identity, at least the body with whom they identify. But surely there are some groups that are immanent in themselves?
“No, none. A group is an artefact of the mind. We conceive it as coherent and this gives it the quality of the combination. No group is self-selecting.”
This philosophising leaves me cold. The tea is beginning to share that quality. Something must be done. I say, selecting my own group like the proud hostess I should be, “Do you like your tea with milk, my dearest prof?”
My tone is cool. Being cool is the politic – ha! – way of saying “So what!?”
Unchilled
Noah ploughs on. When he is on a roll, he is unchilled.
“Surely some groupings are innate. Take sex, the quality not the act. Half the world is male, half female. Those are groups whose defining character is not a construct.”
“Oh, but it is!” The prof is himself becoming animated. “It is we who opt to group them so. We did so by distinguishing between the anatomy of each baby and categorising accordingly. Then we raise them by reference to their position in the group and send them out into the world so schooled. In this we are singular; I mean, our fellow creatures don’t make such distinctions. At least, I don’t think they do.”
My imagination runs riot. I picture a gentle gorilla proudly presenting the latest offspring and crying “Look, darling, it’s a boy!”
“Ok, but again I ask, so what?!”
“Well, if we all understood this, I suspect we would have far fewer hang-ups. Knowing that nothing but social convention determined who is a man and who a woman, people would fuss less about dress codes and genital appurtenances. Asked what they were, they would say, ‘You want the categorisation, you tell me’.”
This is too glib, I think.
“Just plain ain’t”
“But, Prof, we do categorise and we do act in conformity with our choices. I know you would like it otherwise, but it just plain ain’t.”
Noah nods in agreement. To secure his endorsement would be enough to make me preen were I still the flower of my youth. Since I am not, the best I can do is look gratified.
“Yes, of course we do. But if we knew what we were doing, we might be a lot less racist, sexist and, I suppose, ageist. On top of this, ‘we’ could stop being quite so silly about identity politics. Finally, I would find the result personally gratifying. Very.”
“Personally. How so?”
“Well. People would stop giving me the look that says, plain as hell, ‘How does a darkie like you get to be so klevvah?’”
If fair is the opposite of dark, my response would be “fair enough”. Meanwhile I shall proceed on my pretty way, Miss Gendered though I be.
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