When asked to contribute to this platform, I faced a range of emotions. I was honoured and excited – but also seriously insecure about writing alongside Cambridge graduates. I find myself feeling like this when I consider many writing opportunities – particularly those concerning politics, or other cultural and sociological issues. My insecurity comes from the fear that someone more eloquent, experienced or powerful will shut me down by asking ‘who are you to bring ideas to the table?’. I’m a blogger and freelance writer, but my lack of a degree or even A-levels means I feel I have no answer to this question – no certificate to wave that says ‘I’m allowed to be here.’ However, as I was discussing potential pieces with my mum, she asked me how I’d like to be described as a writer, and the word ‘approachable’ came up. There seemed to be an interesting dissonance there – I felt intimidated by other writers and speakers, but I wanted to be accessible to everyone. In my opinion, it’s crucial that this kind of discourse is accessible and diverse. Yet, there seem to be rules which restrict who can speak about politics, and how.
So, who is the ‘right person’ to talk about politics? If we look at the data on UK journalists alone, that would tell us that the ideal candidate is almost definitely white, possibly male (if they’re in a senior position, that becomes a probability), and very likely a privately educated Oxford or Cambridge graduate. The representation of our population is dire, and the opportunities for progression are too – 51% of the UK’s top 100 journalists and two-thirds of the cabinet were privately educated, while 54% of the country’s leading journalists went to Oxbridge. If this is the starting line for budding politicians or speakers, many won’t have a chance. How many have been excluded or alienated by these institutions because of their class, race, gender, or sexuality?
The UK’s lack of representation and diversity in these circles is old news, but the solution presented is often very literal and narrow: we need to get more marginalised people in that space. However, there is an additional dimension to consider. The more certain groups are represented, the more others are encouraged to share their opinions and stories – right? Well, it may not be so simple. Political speakers and writers are expected to express themselves a certain way – the way their peers and predecessors have been expressing themselves for years. To explore how UK journalists and politicians communicate, we need to acknowledge the different ways in which they do. Language – what kind of vocabulary do they use? Do we hear jargon, obfuscation, perhaps 29-letter words the general public wouldn’t understand? (Looking at you, Jacob Rees-Mogg). Informal language, slang, and patois decorate and enrich many conversations, but you won’t hear those often in political discussion. Do we hear a range of accents, or is the dialogue dominated by Received Pronunciation?
There is another norm in these discussions that goes unchecked – the place that emotion has in the conversation. White men engaging in angry, inflated self-assertion is something we often see in the House of Commons – but not everyone is afforded the privilege of speaking passionately. Women (particularly WOC) don’t seem to have the privilege of expressing themselves emotionally the way these men do. In many cases, women don’t have to show much emotion at all to be rebuked. Consider Dr. Rosena Allin-Khan being reprimanded for her ‘tone’ when questioning Matt Hancock on the government’s failure to test frontline workers for Covid-19, and David Cameron saying ‘calm down, dear’ to Shadow Chief Secretary Angela Eagle after being corrected in Prime Minister’s Questions.
Politicians can often be extremely cavalier when discussing issues that mean literally life or death to ordinary people. For many, politics is all about emotion, because the decisions debated will affect themselves and their loved ones. Politicians from upper-class backgrounds might care about issues such as benefits, free school meals, or NHS surcharges based on their beliefs and values, but it has never – and will never – affect their daily lives, and therefore emotion has no place in that debate. Whereas people directly affected are emotional – but because they must adhere to the rule book that conveniently changes based on who is speaking, they run the risk of standing out or even being reprimanded. This means that showing emotion in debate isn’t respected or seen as appropriate in many cases, once again pushing away those who have passionate points to make and stories to tell. William Davies, a political economist at Goldsmiths, has written a book called ‘Nervous States’ that documents the struggle between ‘reason’ and ‘feelings’ in politics. He acknowledges that ‘an accusation of being emotional traditionally carries the implication that someone has lost objectivity and given way to irrational forces.’
Homogeneous political discussion is dangerously limiting. People who have ideas, opinions, and stories to tell don’t hear themselves represented authentically, making it less likely for them to come forward and speak. I acknowledged my fears surrounding contributing my opinions, but the limitations to diverse discussion go far beyond that. A favourite writer of mine has repeatedly scrutinised the question of who can and cannot join in on political discussion – Caitlin Moran.
A journalist, author, and broadcaster, Caitlin has spoken on this topic in several of her books, discussing why she shied away from ‘serious’ topics for many years of her career – and her reasons are multi-faceted. In a Youtube video where she chats with a class of 10-year-olds, one asks about how she began writing about political matters. Caitlin explains what simultaneously held her back and spurred her on: she was ill-represented in these discussions as a woman, and also as a working-class citizen. As she grew up relying on benefits in a very poor part of the country, it became abundantly clear as an adult how the ‘white and rather posh’ men who were invited to speak didn’t have any experience in that way of life. In ‘Moranifesto’ (Caitlin’s most political book by far), she outlines another reason why she felt it was inappropriate for her to be discussing current affairs: she was the wrong kind of writer. Caitlin writes about music, TV, sex, wind turbines, evil printers… everything under the sun (alongside serious and heartfelt pieces), but it seemed that in order to discuss politics, she’d have to leave all that behind. In her words, ‘that was for serious adult men, in suits, who knew people in Parliament, or who had been politicians themselves, or wanted to be politicians in future. Politics was for the political people, and I was not one of them.’
Leaving politics to the political people is unrealistic, or potentially dangerous. When people don’t feel listened to, represented, or welcomed, they will opt out of the discussion – and this can lead to further division and even encourage radicalisation. For example, working-class Brits felt ambushed by the ‘liberal metropolitan elite’ during Brexit, and many found what felt closer to authentic representation in Nigel Farage – a man who, like Trump, spoke in easy-to-understand and emotive soundbites. In fact, the relationship between right-wing politics and simpler, more emotional communication is a rich seam that has been commented on before. People on the far sides of the political spectrum will be more likely to hold fast to their views if they don’t feel represented, and don’t feel that they are allowed to speak because of their vocabulary, accent, emotion, or ‘otherness.’
With political division at an all-time high, we need efficient and varied discussion more than ever. We discuss to share information and understand each other, but when the conversation is dominated by a certain demographic, there is little space to make change. Everyone has a story to tell – one that has the potential to change minds, raise awareness, or inspire others. But so many continue to be silenced because of how the story is told. Caitlin puts it beautifully: ‘maybe anyone thoughtful, and making an effort, can contribute to the debate. Maybe there are thousands of us who are not thinking, and not writing, and not talking – because we think we are the wrong kind of person.’
Offline sources:
Caitlin Moran, Moranifesto, (Ebury Publishing 2017)
William Davies, Nervous States, (Vintage Publishing 2019)
