“I abandoned the pitch because I don’t think I’m the right person to write this story – I have

no idea what it’s like to be Black... I can send you the Google doc with my notes, too?”

I flinched inwardly. It was an innocent and properly motivated offer: Helen, a freelance
journalist, was offering to give up something for me, stemming from her concern to live out
an ethos of racial justice. But I worried that it was also a trap. Even setting aside the mistake
about the power dynamics of the conversation (I am Black, but also a tenuretrack
professor), there was a problem here that I had seen many times before. Behind the
assumption that I had experiential insight she lacked was the recognizable cultural
imprint of a much discussed, polarizing perspective on knowledge and politics:
standpoint epistemology.

If you consider a textbook definition of standpoint epistemology, it may be hard to see

the controversy around this idea. The International Encyclopedia of Philosophy boils it
down to three innocuous-sounding contentions:
1) Knowledge is socially situated
2) Marginalized people have some positional advantages in gaining some forms of
knowledge
3) Research programs ought to reflect these facts.

Liam Kofi Bright argues persuasively that these contentions are derivable from a combination
of 1) basic empiricist commitments, and 2) a minimally plausible account of how the social
world affects what knowledge groups of people are likely to seek and find. So, if the problem

1
isn’t the basic idea, what is it? I think it’s less about the core ideas and more about the
prevailing norms that convert them into practice. The call to “listen to the most affected” or
“centre the most marginalized” is ubiquitous in many academic and activist circles. But
it’s never sat well with me. In my experience, when people say they need to “listen to the
most affected”, it isn’t because they intend to set up Skype calls to refugee camps or to
collaborate with houseless people. Instead, it has more often meant handing
conversational authority and attentional goods to those who most snugly fit into the
social categories associated with these ills – regardless of what they actually do or do not
know, or what they have or have not personally experienced. In the case of my
conversation with Helen, my racial category tied me more “authentically” to an experience
that neither of us had had. She was called to defer to me by the rules of the game as we
understood it. Even where stakes are high – where potential researchers are discussing how to
understand a social phenomenon, where activists are deciding what to target – these rules
often prevail.

The trap wasn’t that standpoint epistemology was affecting the conversation, but how.

Broadly, the norms of putting standpoint epistemology into practice call for practices of
deference: giving offerings, passing the mic, believing. These are good ideas in many
cases, and the norms that ask us to be ready to do them stem from admirable
motivations: a desire to increase the social power of marginalized people identified as
sources of knowledge and rightful targets of deferential behaviour. But deferring in this
way as a rule or default political orientation can actually work counter to marginalized
groups’ interests, especially in elite spaces.

Some rooms have outsize power and influence: the Situation Room, the newsroom, the
bargaining table, the conference room. Being in these rooms means being in a position to
affect institutions and broader social dynamics by way of deciding what one is to say and do.
Access to these rooms is itself a kind of social advantage, and one often gained through some
prior social advantage. From a societal standpoint, the “most affected” by the social
injustices we associate with politically important identities like gender, class, race, and
nationality are disproportionately likely to be incarcerated, underemployed, or part of
the 44 percent of the world’s population without internet access – and thus both left out
of the rooms of power and largely ignored by the people in the rooms of power.
Individuals who make it past the various social selection pressures that filter out those
social identities associated with these negative outcomes are most likely to be in the
room. That is, they are most likely to be in the room precisely because of ways in which they
are systematically different from (and thus potentially unrepresentative of) the very people
they are then asked to represent in the room.

I suspected that Helen’s offer was a trap. She was not the one who set it, but it threatened to
ensnare us both all the same. Broader cultural norms – the sort set in motion by prefacing
statements with “As a Black man…” – cued up a set of standpoint-respecting practices that
many of us know consciously or unconsciously by rote. However, the forms of deference that
often follow are ultimately self-undermining and only reliably serve “elite capture”: the
control over political agendas and resources by a group’s most advantaged people. If we want
to use standpoint epistemology to challenge unjust power arrangements, it’s hard to imagine
how we could do worse.

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To say what’s wrong with the popular, deferential applications of standpoint epistemology, we
need to understand what makes it popular. A number of cynical answers present themselves:
some (especially the more socially advantaged) don’t genuinely want social change – they
just want the appearance of it. Alternatively, deference to figures from oppressed
communities is a performance that sanitizes, apologizes for, or simply distracts from the fact
that the deferrer has enough “in the room” privilege for their “lifting up” of a perspective to
be of consequence.

I suspect there is some truth to these views, but I am unsatisfied. Many of the people who
support and enact these deferential norms are rather like Helen: motivated by the right
reasons, but trusting people they share such rooms with to help them find the proper practical
expression of their joint moral commitments. We don’t need to attribute bad faith to all or
even most of those who interpret standpoint epistemology deferentially to explain the
phenomenon, and it’s not even clear it would help. Bad “roommates” aren’t the problem for
the same reason that Helen being a good roommate wasn’t the solution: the problem emerges
from how the rooms themselves are constructed and managed.

To return to the initial example with Helen, the issue wasn’t merely that I hadn’t grown
up in the kind of low-income, redlined community she was imagining. The epistemic
situation was much worse than this. Many of the facts about me that made my life
chances different from those of the people she was imagining were the very same facts
that made me likely to be offered things on their behalf. If I had grown up in such a
community, we probably wouldn’t have been on the phone together.

Many aspects of our social system serve as filtering mechanisms, determining which
interactions happen and between whom, and thus which social patterns people are in a
position to observe. For the majority of the 20th century, the U.S. quota system of
immigration made legal immigration with a path to citizenship almost exclusively available to
Europeans (earning Hitler’s regard as the obvious “leader in developing explicitly racist
policies of nationality and immigration”). But the 1965 Immigration and Nationality Act
opened up immigration possibilities, with a preference for “skilled labour”.

My parents’ qualification as skilled labourers does much to explain their entry into the
country and the subsequent class advantages and monetary resources (such as wealth) that I
was born into. We are not atypical: the Nigerian-American population is one of the country’s
most successful immigrant populations (what no one mentions, of course, is that the 112,000
or so Nigerian-Americans with advanced degrees is utterly dwarfed by the 82 million
Nigerians who live on less than a dollar a day, or how the former fact intersects with the
latter). The selectivity of immigration law helps explain the rates of educational attainment of
the Nigerian diasporic community that raised me, which in turn helps explain my entry into
the exclusive Advanced Placement and Honours classes in high school, which in turn helps
explain my access to higher education...and so on, and so on.

It is easy, then, to see how this deferential form of standpoint epistemology contributes
to elite capture at scale. The rooms of power and influence are at the end of causal
chains that have selection effects. As you get higher and higher forms of education,
social experiences narrow – some students are pipelined to PhDs and others to prisons.

3
Deferential ways of dealing with identity can inherit the distortions caused by these
selection processes. But it’s equally easy to see locally – in this room, in this academic
literature or field, in this conversation – why this deference seems to make sense. It is
often an improvement on the epistemic procedure that preceded it: the person deferred
to may well be better epistemically positioned than the others in the room. It may well
be the best we can do while holding fixed most of the facts about the rooms themselves:
what power resides in them, who is admitted.

But these are the last facts we should want to hold fixed. Doing better than the epistemic
norms we’ve inherited from a history of explicit global apartheid is an awfully low bar to set.
The facts that explain who ends up in which room shape our world much more
powerfully than the squabbles for comparative prestige between people who have
already made it into the rooms. And when the conversation is about social justice, the
mechanisms of the social system that determine who gets into which room often just are the
parts of society we aim to address. For example, the fact that incarcerated people cannot
participate in academic discussions about freedom that physically take place on campus is
intimately related to the fact that they are locked in cages.

Deference epistemology marks itself as a solution to an epistemic and political problem. But
not only does it fail to solve these problems, it adds new ones. One might think questions of
justice ought to be primarily concerned with fixing disparities around health care,
working conditions, and basic material and interpersonal security. Yet conversations
about justice have come to be shaped by people who have ever more specific practical
advice about fixing the distribution of attention and conversational power. Deference
practices that serve attention-focused campaigns (e.g. we’ve read too many white men, let’s
now read some people of colour) can fail on their own highly questionable terms: attention
to spokespeople from marginalized groups could, for example, direct attention away
from the need to change the social system that marginalizes them. Elites from
marginalized groups can benefit from this arrangement in ways that are compatible
with social progress. But treating group elites’ interests as necessarily or even
presumptively aligned with full group interests involves a political naiveté we cannot
afford.

Such treatment of elite interests functions as a racial Reaganomics: a strategy reliant on

fantasies about the exchange rate between the attention economy and the material economy.
Perhaps the lucky few who get jobs finding the most culturally authentic and cosmetically
radical description of the continuing carnage are really winning one for the culture. Then,
after we in the chattering class get the clout we deserve and secure the bag, its contents will
eventually trickle down to the workers who clean up after our conferences, to slums of the
Global South’s megacities, to its countryside. But probably not.

A fuller and fairer assessment of what is going on with deference and standpoint
epistemology would go beyond technical argument, and contend with the emotional appeals
of this strategy of deference. Those in powerful rooms may be “elites” relative to the
larger group they represent, but this guarantees nothing about how they are treated in
the rooms they are in. After all, a person privileged in an absolute sense (a person
belonging to, say, the half of the world that has secure access to “basic needs”) may
nevertheless feel themselves to be consistently on the low end of the power dynamics

4
they actually experience. Deference epistemology responds to real, morally weighty
experiences of being put down, ignored, sidelined, or silenced. It thus has an important
non-epistemic appeal to members of stigmatized or marginalized groups: it intervenes
directly in morally consequential practices of giving attention and respect.

The social dynamics we experience have an outsize role in developing and refining our
political subjectivity, and our sense of ourselves. But this very strength of standpoint
epistemology – its recognition of the importance of perspective – becomes its weakness when
combined with deferential practical norms. Emphasis on the ways we are marginalized often
matches the world as we have experienced it. But, from a structural perspective, the rooms
we never needed to enter (and the explanations of why we can avoid these rooms) might
have more to teach us about the world and our place in it. If so, the deferential approach
to standpoint epistemology actually prevents “centring” or even hearing from the most
marginalized; it focuses us on the interaction of the rooms we occupy, rather than
calling us to account for the interactions we don’t experience. This fact about who is in
the room, combined with the fact that speaking for others generates its own set of important
problems (particularly when they are not there to advocate for themselves), eliminates
pressures that might otherwise trouble the centrality of our own suffering – and of the
suffering of the marginalized people that do happen to make it into rooms with us.

The dangers with this feature of deference politics are grave, as are the risks for those outside
of the most powerful rooms. For those who are deferred to, it can supercharge
groupundermining norms. In Conflict is Not Abuse, Sarah Schulman makes a provocative
observation about the psychological effects of both trauma and felt superiority: while these
often come about for different reasons and have very different moral statuses, they result in
similar behavioural patterns. Chief among these are misrepresenting the stakes of conflict
(often by overstating harm) or representing others’ independence as a hostile threat (such as
failures to “centre” the right topics or people). These behaviours, whatever their causal
history, have corrosive effects on individuals who perform them as well as the groups around
them, especially when a community’s norms magnify or multiply these behaviours rather than
constraining or metabolizing them.

For those who defer, the habit can supercharge moral cowardice. The norms provide social
cover for the abdication of responsibility: it displaces onto individual heroes, a hero class, or
a mythicized past the work that is ours to do now in the present. Their perspective may be
clearer on this or that specific matter, but their overall point of view isn’t any less particular
or constrained by history than ours. More importantly, deference places the accountability
that is all of ours to bear onto select people – and, more often than not, a hyper-sanitized and
thoroughly fictional caricature of them.

The same tactics of deference that insulate us from criticism also insulate us from
connection and transformation. They prevent us from engaging empathetically and
authentically with the struggles of other people – prerequisites of coalitional politics. As
identities become more and more fine-grained and disagreements sharper, we come to
realize that “coalitional politics” (understood as struggle across difference) is, simply,
politics. Thus, the deferential orientation, like that fragmentation of political collectivity
it enables, is ultimately anti-political.

5
Deference rather than interdependence may soothe short-term psychological wounds. But it
does so at a steep cost: it can undermine the epistemic goals that motivate the project, and it
entrenches a politics unbefitting of anyone fighting for freedom rather than for privilege, for
collective liberation rather than mere parochial advantage.

How would a constructive approach to putting standpoint epistemology into practice

differ from a deferential approach? A constructive approach would focus on the pursuit
of specific goals or end results rather than avoiding “complicity” in injustice or adhering
to moral principles. It would be concerned primarily with building institutions and
cultivating practices of information-gathering rather than helping. It would focus on
accountability rather than conformity. It would calibrate itself directly to the task of
redistributing social resources and power rather than to intermediary goals cashed out
in terms of pedestals or symbolism. It would focus on building and rebuilding rooms,
not regulating traffic within and between them – it would be a world-making project:
aimed at building and rebuilding actual structures of social connection and movement,
rather than mere critique of the ones we already have.

The water crisis in Flint, Michigan presents a clear example of both the possibilities and
limitations of refining our epistemic politics in this way. Michigan’s Department of
Environmental Quality (MDEQ), a government body tasked with the support of “healthy
communities”, with a team of fifty trained scientists at its disposal, was complicit in covering
up the scale and gravity of the public health crisis from the beginning of the crisis in 2014
until it garnered national attention in 2015. The MDEQ, speaking from a position of
epistemic and political authority, defended the status quo in Flint. They claimed that “Flint
water is safe to drink”, and were cited in Flint Mayor Dayne Walling’s statement aiming to
“dispel myths and promote the truth about the Flint River” during the April 2014 transition to
the Flint River water source. That transition was spearheaded under the tenure of the city’s
emergency manager Darnell Earley (an African-American, like many of the city residents he
helped to poison). After the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) circulated a leaked
internal memo from the federal Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) in July of 2014
expressing concern about lead in Flint water, the MDEQ produced a doctored report that put
the overall measure of lead levels within federally mandated levels by mysteriously failing to
count two contaminated samples.

The reaction from residents was immediate. The month after the switch in water source,
residents reported that their tap water was discoloured and gave off an alarming odour. They
didn’t need their oppression to be “celebrated”, “centred”, or narrated in the newest academic
parlance. They didn’t need someone to understand what it felt like to be poisoned. What they
needed was the lead out of their water. So they got to work.

The first step was to develop epistemic authority. To achieve this they built a new room: one
that put Flint residents and activists in active collaboration with scientists who had the
laboratories that could run the relevant tests and prove the MDEQ’s report to be fraudulent.
Flint residents’ outcry recruited scientists to their cause and led a “citizen science” campaign,
further raising the alarm about the water quality and distributing sample kits to neighbours to
submit for testing. In this stage, the alliance of residents and scientists won, and the poisoning
of the children of Flint emerged as a national scandal.

6
But this was not enough. The second step – cleaning the water – required more than state
acknowledgement: it required apportioning labour and resources to fix the water and address
the continuing health concerns. What Flint residents received, initially, was a mix of
platitudes and mockery from the ruling elite (some of this personally committed by a
President that shared a racial identity with many of them). This year, however, it looks as
though the tireless activism of Flint residents and their expanding list of teammates has won
additional and more meaningful victories: the ongoing campaign is pushing the replacements
of the problematic service lines to their final stage and is forcing the state of Michigan to
agree to a settlement of $600 million for affected families. This outcome is in no way a
wholesale victory: not only will attorney fees cut a substantial portion of payouts, but the
settlement cannot undo the damage that was caused to the residents.
A constructive epistemology cannot guarantee full victory over an oppressive system by
itself. No epistemic orientation can by itself undo the various power asymmetries
between the people and the imperial state system. But it can help make the game a little
more competitive – and deference epistemology isn’t even playing. The biggest threats to
social justice attention and informational economies are not the absence of yet more
jargon to describe, ever more precisely or incisively, the epistemic, attentional, or
interpersonal afflictions of the disempowered. The biggest threats are the erosion of the
practical and material bases for popular power over knowledge production and
distribution, particularly that which could aid effective political action and constrain or
eliminate predation by elites.

The capture and corruption of these bases by well-positioned elites, especially tech
corporations, goes on unabated and largely unchallenged, including: the corporate
monopolization of local news, the ongoing destruction and looting of the journalistic
profession, the interference of corporations and governments in key democratic processes,
and the domination of elite interests in the production of knowledge by research universities
and the circulation of the output of these distorted processes by established media
organizations. Confronting these threats requires leaving some rooms – and building new
ones.

The constructive approach to standpoint epistemology is demanding. It asks that we

swim upstream: to be accountable and responsive to people who aren’t yet in the room,
to build the kinds of rooms we could sit in together, rather than merely judiciously
navigating the rooms history has built for us. But this weighty demand is par for the
course when it comes to the politics of knowledge: the American philosopher Sandra
Harding famously pointed out that standpoint epistemology, properly understood,
demands more rigour from science and knowledge production processes generally, not
less.

But one important topic stands unaddressed. The deferential approach to standpoint
epistemology often comes packaged with concern and attention to the importance of lived
experience. Among these, traumatic experiences are especially foregrounded.

At this juncture, scholarly analysis and argument fail me. The remainder of what I have to say
skews more towards conviction than contention. But the life of books has taught me that
conviction has just as much to teach, however differently posed or processed, and so I press
on.

7
I take concerns about trauma especially seriously. I grew up in the United States, a nation
structured by settler colonialism, racial slavery, and their aftermath, with enough collective
and historical trauma to go round. I also grew up in a Nigerian diasporic community,
populated by many who had genocide in living memory. At the national and community level,
I have seen a lot of traits of norms, personality, quirks of habit and action that I’ve suspected
were downstream of these facts. At the level of individual experience, I’ve watched and felt
myself change in reaction to fearing for my dignity or life, to crushing pain and humiliation. I
reflect on these traumatic moments often, and very seldom think: “That was educational”.

These experiences can be, if we are very fortunate, building blocks. What comes of them
depends on how the blocks are put together: what standpoint epistemologists call the
“achievement thesis”. Briana Toole clarifies that, by itself, one’s social location only puts a
person in a position to know. “Epistemic privilege” or advantage is achieved only through
deliberate, concerted struggle from that position.

I concede outright that this is certainly one possible result of the experience of
oppression: have no doubt that humiliation, deprivation, and suffering can build
(especially in the context of the deliberate, structured effort of “consciousness raising”,
as Toole specifically highlights). But these same experiences can also destroy, and if I
had to bet on which effect would win most often, it would be the latter. As Agnes Callard
rightly notes, trauma (and even the righteous, well-deserved anger that often
accompanies it) can corrupt as readily as it can ennoble. Perhaps more so.

Contra the old expression, pain – whether borne of oppression or not – is a poor teacher.
Suffering is partial, short-sighted, and self-absorbed. We shouldn’t have a politics that
expects different: oppression is not a prep school.

When it comes down to it, the thing I believe most deeply about deference epistemology is
that it asks something of trauma that it cannot give. Demanding as the constructive approach
may be, the deferential approach is far more demanding and in a far more unfair way: it asks
the traumatized to shoulder burdens alone that we ought to share collectively. When I think
about my trauma, I don’t think about grand lessons. I think about the quiet nobility of
survival. The very fact that those chapters weren’t the final ones of my story is powerful
enough writing all on its own. It is enough to ask of those experiences that I am still here to
remember them.

Deference epistemology asks us to be less than we are – and not even for our own
benefit. As Nick Estes explains in the context of Indigenous politics: “The cunning of
trauma politics is that it turns actual people and struggles, whether racial or Indigenous
citizenship and belonging, into matters of injury. It defines an entire people mostly on
their trauma and not by their aspirations or sheer humanity”. This performance is not
for the benefit of Indigenous people, but “for white audiences or institutions of power”.

I also think about James Baldwin’s realization that the things that tormented him the most
were “the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, who had ever
been alive”. That I have survived abuse of various kinds, have faced near-death from both
accidental circumstance and violence (different as the particulars of these may be from those

8
around me) is not a card to play in gamified social interaction or a weapon to wield in battles
over prestige. It is not what gives me a special right to speak, to evaluate, or to decide for a
group. It is a concrete, experiential manifestation of the vulnerability that connects me to
most of the people on this Earth. It comes between me and other people not as a wall, but as a
bridge.

After a long discussion, I answered Helen’s offer with a proposal: why don’t we write
something together?

Olúfẹ́ mi O. Táíwò is an assistant professor of philosophy at Georgetown University. His

theoretical work draws liberally from the Black radical tradition, anti-colonial thought,
German transcendental philosophy, contemporary philosophy of language, contemporary
social science, and histories of activism and activist thinkers.