The Accountability of Allyship
by Jordan Boswell
Introduction
My name is Jordan Boswell. To position myself, I am a white, treaty land inhabiting, cis-gendered man. I know that I am incredibly privileged because of that. But I also know that for much of my life, I didn’t really understand my privilege, or how much easier life is for me because of it.
To be honest, I didn’t start to understand my privilege until I got involved with politics. I have been fortunate to meet and work alongside a diverse group of activists over the years, and I’ve learned so much from just being around them. Together, we were a part of progressive, barrier-breaking campaigns, where people who didn’t look like me were often at the centre.
While I am proud to consider myself a progressive, a feminist, and an ally, I have also made poor choices that have caused harm to others. This has led me to understand how high of a standard being an ally truly demands. It’s a label that is easy for us to apply to ourselves, but to consistently be on the right side for the right reasons takes work. And when we are not on the right side, owning up to our past wrongs and committing ourselves to do better - being accountable - is incredibly important.
Coming to this realization has motivated me to share my experience with accountability. I don’t think it's a story that is unique in any way. In fact, the problem is that it is likely the opposite of unique. But it has impacted my life significantly so my hope in sharing it is that it may encourage other young men to reflect on their own privileges and the active role they must play in allyship. Maybe it will even serve as a call to action for them to encourage others to step up and do the same.
My Story
I was born and raised in Brampton, Ontario. Anyone who knows Brampton knows how diverse the city is, and how its diversity is embraced and celebrated. This definitely made for a pretty cool place to grow up and call home.
For as great of a place as it was to grow up, Brampton also has its challenges. I had many friends from a diversity of backgrounds, many of whose parents or grandparents were first-generation Canadians. I can remember times when they would talk about different struggles their families faced, and the institutional and intergenerational racism they experienced.
As I got older, I really started to realize that not every other family was like mine. A lot of them had some really hard challenges to overcome, just because of who they were. Realizing that helped me understand how fortunate I was to grow up in the environment I did. But I’ll be the first to admit that I did not fully appreciate how lucky I was to grow up in such a positive home. I had two loving, supportive parents who went above and beyond to prioritize my two younger brothers and I. We certainly didn’t have everything, and there were times when things were tight, but my parents made plenty of sacrifices over the years to make sure we never missed out.
As I became more aware that the lived experience of others didn’t always mirror mine, I started developing a more progressive world view. I began supporting progressive causes like inequality and racial justice, which ultimately led me to politics. It seemed like a vehicle to make the kind of change I wanted to in my community, so I thought it would be good to get more involved.
I was a second-year university student when I volunteered on my first campaign. And believe it or not, I was probably one of the older people that came out. It was a youth-driven campaign, with droves of high-school-aged volunteers powering the way. It was such an incredible experience, and really paved the way for the beginning of my professional life. After completing a Masters Degree and working on a few more election campaigns, I found myself working for the Leader of a national party, and feeling as purposeful as ever.
I was so inspired by the progressive movement I was a part of that I wanted to get more involved to serve my community. So, a few years later at 25 years old, I put my name forward to run as a candidate in the 2019 federal election in my home riding of Brampton Centre.
Deciding to put myself out there like this came with a bunch of emotions. It was exciting and scary all at once. Most of the campaign was a blur, as I rode the highs and lows of a fast-paced, high-pressure couple months. There were definitely a lot of highs. Getting to see my face on a lawn sign, doing a bunch of TV and radio interviews, and having a really dedicated team of people supporting me. It was such an empowering experience, and I will be forever grateful for everyone who was there alongside me the entire way.
But there were lows as well. The long hours and grueling schedule, having people slam their doors in my face, and the constant criticism that came from people who were not supportive of my candidacy or the party. Being judged and critiqued by the public comes with the territory of running for office. But even experiencing this throughout the campaign, I was definitely not prepared for the level of criticism that came just a few days before election day.
A screenshot of a social media post I made when I was 18 years old surfaced, in which I made a hurtful, misogynistic, and downright disgusting comment about a woman who was a survivor of sex trafficking. It included a demeaning remark about her physical appearance, and explicitly mocked her experience as a survivor. It’s hard for me to put into words the feeling that came over me when I saw the post. The feeling of absolute sickness is something I will never forget, and something that still comes over me when I think about it today.
Why I was Wrong and Symptoms of Privilege
Thinking back to when I saw the post had resurfaced, I cannot express how shocked I was that this was a part of my past. I can honestly say I had not once thought about it over the eight years since it resurfaced, and the account itself it was made from had been deactivated long before I decided to run. But it has forced me to reflect deeply about why I would at any point think that it was something remotely appropriate to say. And to be honest, I still struggle to come up with an answer.
Maybe in the moment, I thought making that post was funny. Or maybe it was a way for me to somehow seem cool to my friends. The blatant sexism and misogyny to comment on somebody else’s appearance. Making light of a lived experience and trauma that I couldn’t possibly understand. And the utter disregard to talk about another human being like that, who has feelings, a family, and just as much of a right to feel good about themselves as anyone else.
I also now better understand how ignorant I was to the implications of using language like that. Plain and simple, making sexist and misogynistic jokes or comments or posts reinforce harmful stereotypes and normalize violence against women – particularly Indigenous, Black, and racialized women. It’s harmful and dangerous. And whether intentional when we make them or not, it contributes to a vicious cycle that structurally oppresses women. It doesn’t matter whether harmful comments are made directly to a person’s face with the intention of hurting them, online through social media, or behind closed doors. We need to educate ourselves on why these comments are so problematic and oppressive.
Far too often, when comments like this are made, they’re just a joke. I’m sure we can all think of a time when someone said something that crossed a line, but tried to pass it off as no big deal. I definitely did. I can’t remember how many times I’d get the “relax bro, it’s just a joke” follow-up. I heard it with friends, old co-workers, and definitely with my teammates in the locker room, and was used as some form of justification for what was said.
This speaks to a much bigger problem. For a lot of us, especially white, male privileged folks like myself, there is a sense of entitlement or invincibility that making comments like this can come without consequence. We may know it’s wrong to say something offensive to someone’s face, but if it’s done behind closed doors or on social media, there’s a perception of no harm being done. And in the moments when someone does challenge a comment that’s wrong, they’re often told they’re being “too sensitive.
The main source of this problem stems from a lack of education about our privilege. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t grow up having conversations about racial injustice, colonialism, and systemic discrimination with my family. Or frankly, in school, either. I also didn’t grow up learning how the systems that underpin our country were designed to work for people like me, and oppress those who were not. I didn’t learn any of that.
So, even though growing up we are taught to be respectful and treat others how we want to be treated, we aren’t taught the root causes of discrimination and privilege. The awareness and education of this needs to change.
Reckonings like the #MeToo movement have painfully demonstrated exactly why we need this education. We’ve seen the powerful impact of Black Lives Matter and the fight for racial justice, and an escalating campaign for reconciliation and Indigenous land sovereignty. And what all of these movements hinge on is fighting for equity and justice from those with privilege. It is up to us to be allies in this work in dismantling systems of patriarchy and oppression. This starts by addressing these comments and challenging these jokes, whether they’re made in the locker room, online, or around the kitchen table.
Why I Want to be an Ally
I’m sure some people will think that the only reason I have gone through this journey and have shared my story is for the optics. That this is somehow a way to redeem myself or is purely politically motivated. But that’s not true. I don’t know what my future in politics will involve, if any, and I don’t know what the outcome of sharing this will be.
The reason I am doing this is because I want to be an ally. I learned so much in the years since that post was made, and am a completely different person than I was in 2012. I want to be part of the solution, to show what progressive masculinity can look like. To show other men who are maybe less aware of the importance of education, and positioning ourselves within a patriarchal society to create space and give the floor for voices that aren’t like ours. And why being accountable when we’re wrong is so important. We all make mistakes. But sometimes just saying you’re sorry isn’t enough. Words matter, but actions are so much more impactful.
This is something I have gotten more perspective on over the past several years, and have learned first-hand from some incredible people on how important it is to put in work to truly reconcile our mistakes. One of the first people who really opened me up to this is Sheelah McLean.
Sheelah is a co-founded of the Idle No More Campaign – a social movement that has strongly advocated for the rights of Indigenous peoples in Canada – and was one of the first people I was connected with after the campaign. She was incredibly generous with her time, and willingness to share the perspectives of someone actively involved in advocating for the rights of Indigenous women. We have talked about the process of reparation as white settlers in Canada, and the importance of recognizing that our individual actions are reflective of broader structural oppressions.
Another person that has been a part of my journey is Humberto Carolo from White Ribbon Canada. White Ribbon was an organization that I knew about before, having heard of them during my time with the NDP and seeing some of their content on social media. Humberto and his team work on breaking down toxic gender norms, and supporting a culture of healthy masculinity. They do awesome work with boys and young men around the country, and challenge them to be true allies.
To be honest, I was pretty nervous before I connected with Humberto. I didn’t know what an organization like his would think of me, and how seriously they would be willing to work with me. But from the first time we spoke, he has been nothing but supportive. What I appreciate the most about my conversations with Humberto is how empowered I feel about putting in this work. He makes me feel like it’s worth it, no matter how hard it can be.
Sheelah and Humberto are just a couple of the people that have offered their time to me since the election, and I am so appreciative of them and the others who provided support. Collectively from them, I have learned so much about the work that (white) men like me need to undertake to better position ourselves and support marginalized folks in our communities. And, why committing to this work is so important to reconcile the moments when we make mistakes.
We need to educate ourselves. We need to acknowledge our privilege. We need to make space for those who don’t have it. And we need to be ready to speak out, even when it’s not the most comfortable thing to do. Doing this isn’t easy, but it is necessary and I encourage other young men and those who have engaged in harmful behaviours to think about how they can commit themselves to this process as well.
Trying to Make Amends
Better understanding the magnitude of this has also made me regret how I responded in the immediate aftermath of the post coming to light. I posted an apology and meant it unequivocally, but never explained why I was sorry. Or really, what I was sorry for. It was a generic, brief, to-the-point apology that left no room for interpretation, and didn’t allow me to communicate how I was feeling. Or, frankly, to use the opportunity to speak directly to other young men who may at some point may be influenced or pressured or feel allowed to make comments that cause somebody else harm.
Above all else though, I wanted to apologize directly to the person that was harmed the most by it. I tried doing that the next morning; reaching out to the woman who was the subject of the post. I can’t imagine how re-triggering it must have been for her - to see her name and picture shared online, in local media, and being lumped into a political campaign. Really, she was an innocent bystander, whose lived experience was weaponized for political gain.
I wasn’t able to make direct contact with the woman, but one of the central campaign staff did and passed on a written apology I had prepared. I really hoped that would lead to some kind of meeting, where I would be able to apologize to her directly and tell her how sorry I was. It wasn’t something I pushed or put pressure on, because I knew that may have caused more trauma.
Selfishly, a part of me also thought that would be a way to bring closure, and make me feel better about the effort I made to repair the harm I caused. That wasn’t the main reason why I wanted to meet, but I would be lying if I said it wasn’t something I had thought about. But it didn’t matter, because that opportunity never came. I respect her decision not to connect, and never pushed it further. I am still hopeful that opportunity will come one day, and will be as open to have that conversation as I was back then.
For me though, making amends has involved more than making an individual apology. It has involved recognizing the systemic impacts of posts like this, which normalize and perpetuate violence against women. They send a signal to other young men that posts like this are acceptable, which in turn causes irreparable harm not only to the individual, but to communities as a whole. Posts like this contribute to broader systemic discrimination of and often forms of violence toward marginalized communities.
That’s why I am working so hard to educate myself on these issues, and have been so fortunate to learn from folks like Sheelah and Humberto and to utilize tools such as Women and Gender Equality Canada’s Gender Based Analysis Plus program and the University of Alberta’s Indigenous Canada course. Allyship is a lifelong process, and I am committed to continuing to educate myself and never stop learning how to be a better ally.
What this Experience Has Meant for Me
This experience has changed my life. I know that sounds pretty dramatic, but I mean it. Not a day has gone by since it happened that I haven’t thought about it. In those moments, all of the emotions come rushing back – the shame, disappointment, regret, and sadness. A lot of sadness. It has made me question myself as a partner, a progressive, and a decent human being.
I don’t think I really understood how much this experience impacted my mental health until long after the election. For months I struggled with depressive episodes, anxiety, and a lot of self-doubt. I felt like my whole life had become defined by a bad decision I made when I was 18 years old. It made believing in myself to move forward really hard.
I questioned my ability to move forward past it. I was hesitant to re-connect with friends and former colleagues and was scared they wouldn’t want to associate with me. And I read every single comment made about me on social media. I know that probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but I did, and internalized so many of those comments.
I finally started therapy in the summer of 2020, and it has made a world of difference. It took me a long time to accept the fact I needed it, and that this wasn’t something I could deal with and get better by myself. It made me feel weak when I couldn’t, and realizing that this was not something I needed to go at alone was a really big moment for me.
Making sense of this experience has been incredibly challenging, and is something I am still actively working through today. I still get incredibly anxious whenever I think about my experience as a candidate. It’s truly overwhelming to think about how making a comment about someone’s experience that I didn’t understand could have such significant future ramifications. I was told point blank on multiple occasions that my comment posed a threat to future opportunities and called into question my character. Even when I was able to move on professionally, I was ambushed about it at work and asked to offer an explanation. And I’ve stopped my involvement in politics and campaigning, which was such a source of purpose for me. So in a lot of ways, I feel a bit lost about what is to come.
But seeking professional support for my mental health has helped, and made it easier to navigate those moments that seem too much to handle. I used to suppress the negative emotions when they bubbled up, but now I feel like I have the tools to experience that discomfort in a productive way. It’s given me the opportunity to really reflect on the choice I made, and better understand not only the privilege I still carry today, but the system I was implicitly a part of. It’s helped me grow, and because of that, I am grateful for those who encouraged me to get help.
Moving Forward
This entire experience has been incredibly difficult for me. Committing myself to sit with the most vulnerable of thoughts and memories to finish this piece has been painstaking, and took more than three years from start to finish to complete.
It’s had personal and professional consequences, and is something I am still working through almost four years later. I have beaten myself up so much for making this choice, and I will carry the shame, regret, and disappointment for the rest of my life. But I also know that for how tough this has been for me, it’s nothing close to the challenges faced by women, Indigenous, 2SLGBTQIA+, and other equity-seeking groups each and every day. Our society is designed in such a way that makes things harder for them. It’s not fair, and the only way to change things is if other people like me who grew up with privilege understand this and commit themselves to being a part of the solution.
Frankly, that starts with an acknowledgement of the colonial and paternalistic structure of our society. For people of my generation who grew up during such an influential time, especially with the rise of social media, we have been exposed to so many unhealthy social constructs that inform the decisions we make.
For young men and boys like me, exposure to traditional gender conditions us to accept sexism and violence against women are normal components of masculinity and not something we should push back against. Most times, we don’t even realize it. And when we do, it’s often chalked up as just locker room talk. Or banter with buddies. Or boys being boys.
But it’s not just that. And this needs to change.
We need to challenge conventional forms of masculinity, and the ways men often look at and talk about women. This involves a process of learning and de-socializing ourselves individually, and must continue expanding on a much larger scale. I can remember Sheelah emphasizing this idea a lot during our conversations. Placing a greater societal emphasis on teaching healthy gender norms and roles, with the goal of breaking down the toxic forms of masculinity many of us are guilty of. The goal of this is to embrace a more modern and progressive construct of what it means to be a man – especially a white man like me – and ultimately how that can translate into playing a more productive role in building a more equitable society for everyone.
I always took pride in considering myself an ally, and even though I thought I was, I never really stopped to think about what it means. And what it really involves. But over the past several years, I have. Allyship involves work. And learning. And improving. And owning up when you make the wrong choices along the way. What allyship really involves is lifelong, ongoing accountability and constantly pushing ourselves to be better. It needs to.
