The Third Perspective: Reminder That Understanding Isn’t Synonymous With Acceptance

In an increasingly divided and noisy world, how do we learn to communicate, connect and endure others' viewpoints so different to our own, from strangers to colleagues and those closest to us personally, the people we care about? The Third Perspective: Brave Expression in the Age of Intolerance addresses crucially how we can build strength and confidence in our own voices and beliefs and find a route to brave expression in the modern age.

An Excerpt From The Third Perspective

Is there still room for us as human beings to stumble, fuck up, learn and grow – privately and publicly – without the overwhelming pressure to be perfect? I got my answer to that question in January 2021 when I wrote the open letter that would change the course of my personal and professional life. This letter, which has been read and shared by over 19 million people (and counting), was titled ‘Why I’m Leaving the Cult of Wokeness’. If the title incites an unpleasant reaction within you and assumptions start rising to the surface, pause for a moment, stay with the unease and continue reading. That’s why you’re here. 

Around the time I wrote this letter, after a series of high-profile events, people all over the Western world were rightfully demanding greater awareness of racial injustice, discrimination and sexual assault. As a black woman, I agreed with many of the progressive values being championed, and I stand by them today. Equality. Bodily autonomy. Access to resources. Diversity. Yet something didn’t feel quite right. Why was ‘diversity of thought’ not being considered an important part of the equation? I noticed an aversion to any questions or open discussions that brought up psychological discomfort, highlighted contradictions or pointed out untruths.

The biggest questions I had included: when we talk about social justice, are we considering the whole story of the past and the way people lived and thought back then, or are we judging yesterday based on today’s beliefs in a way that might be too simple? Are we dismissing people too quickly if they don’t share our views? Shouldn’t we concentrate more on making things right and mending relationships, instead of putting all our energy into getting even and penalising wrongs? By calling every differing opinion ‘problematic’, aren’t we risking missing out on important conversations that could challenge us to think differently? 

As the goalposts kept moving and more and more conversations continued to be shut down, even in spaces that were lauded as ‘safe’, this restrictive way of engaging with the world was becoming somewhat of a distorted mirror. Inside that mirror I saw a version of myself that made me very uneasy: an insufferable, self-righteous, self-proclaimed ‘ally’ and ‘good person’ who signalled her virtue noisily. I was in denial about the mismatch between what I was saying and what my behaviour showed. I was saying that I wanted white people in America, Britain and Europe to understand how different life is as a black person existing on the margins of Western society. Fair. I was saying that I wanted men to grasp how society worked against women. Fair.

I was saying that I wanted to create dialogues about these kinds of subjects. Fair. But I was not listening to anyone whose views failed to match my own. Questionable. I was quick to judge, becoming close-minded towards others.

I began to reject the idea that people can change their behaviour (you’ll think that is rich when you learn more about me in a moment). And it wasn’t just me – well-meaning people all around me had become more intolerant of anyone not echoing their beliefs. The year I wrote my open letter was the year I had to admit that my own fight against intolerance was marred by the fact that I’d become a physical representation of the intolerance I claimed to oppose. I had unknowingly neglected my innate curiosity, empathy and understanding – especially when it meant understanding viewpoints that didn’t align with my agenda. In my quest to be perceived as a ‘good’ person, I had forgotten how to be a fully rounded human being, one who recognises their own flaws as well as those of others. 

This wasn’t fun stuff to admit to, but I needed to be honest. I owed it to myself. Continually nodding along to ideas that no longer resonated with me was becoming draining. The oversimplification of intricate issues weighed heavily on my conscience. I rejected the idea that my skin colour inherently labelled me oppressed, or that every white individual I encountered was prejudiced. I resisted buying into the narrative that cast men in a perpetual shadow of threat. I was sick of being told that I was doomed to victimhood. It dawned on me how much these beliefs had unknowingly caged my sense of agency. 

While I acknowledged that there’s a spectrum of truths within these ideas, the strain of masking my true feelings with superficial agreement was reaching a breaking point. It’s evident to me now that my letter was an act of personal liberation, an attempt to soothe my nervous system and nurture my mental health. It was my ‘hands-up’ moment. I couldn’t play the game any longer. And if that made me a target for cancellation, I was more than willing to take the hit. This letter ended up serving as a permission slip for many others worldwide. Millions. It turns out, I wasn’t the only one questioning what ‘virtuous people’ were supposed to think. Others, too, felt trapped and unable to freely express their thoughts and opinions.

My letter had started an important conversation. If you’d heard of me before you bought this book, it was probably through social media. These days, most of my online sharing focuses on my widely known work, which I will detail, but, starting from 2016, my first years of public writing focused on my experiences with getting sober after a decade-long struggle with alcohol and other recreational drugs. This dance with my own darkness included seven spectacular relapses, fractured relationships, compulsive sexual behaviour, a missing front tooth, cheating, manipulation, pathological lying, kleptomania and an identity crisis from which I didn’t expect to recover. That’s as tidy as I can list it all.

These are messy, uncomfortable, ugly things that most of us hide from the world. But getting my shit together to make it past the age of 24 meant accepting responsibility for my disastrous life. No one was

coming to save me. After a lifetime of repressing the truest parts of myself, I wanted to know why we pull the plug on ourselves and silence our voices out of fear of what others might think. It turned out there were specific terms to describe these phenomena: self-sabotage and self-censorship.

Excerpted with permission from The Third Perspective, Africa Brooke, Hodder & Stoughton /Hachette India.