THE MIDDLE AND EVERYWHERE ELSE

BLACK-AND-WHITE THINKING HAS LEFT THE WORLD IN A STATE OF GRIDLOCK—POLITICALLY, SOCIALLY, CREATIVELY. WHY ARE WE AFRAID OF MEETING IN THE GRAY?

By Osman Ahmed

We are living in an age defined by dichotomies: right versus wrong, evil versus good, in-group versus out-group. Growing economic disparity amplifies division. Algorithmic echo chambers lead us down rabbit holes, easing us into extremes. Political leaders use increasingly divisive rhetoric to mobilize their bases, often framing issues in us-versus-them terms, while gerrymandering has led to more polarizing candidates being elected. Trying to make sense of it all is near impossible in an increasingly confusing news cycle, in which the artificial is more realistic than ever, misinformation is recontextualized, and media illiteracy is widespread.

There is an undeniable correlation to be found between the amplification of marginalized voices and those who feel challenged by it. This isn’t new: The Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 were met with a surge in Ku Klux Klan violence; the AIDS crisis was met with Family Values; the rapid ascent of globalization is often paired with rising nationalism. Today, the Culture Wars have pitted politically-correct woke warriors against climate crisis deniers and pro-lifers. But discomfort often accompanies transformative change. As Hannah Arendt observed in The Life of the Mind, “The sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be good or evil.” Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

The “gray areas” of cultural discourse emerge as both refuge and battleground. Nuance has become a rare commodity, sacrificed at the altar of soundbites and social media outrage. Politics aren’t necessarily demonstrative of people’s character—just as religion or race isn’t—and yet, they’ve become a weaponized sense of identity and a refusal to engage with difference. A 2021 study revealed that 55 percent of Democrats and 47 percent of Republicans view the other party as a “threat to the nation.” In 2022, a V-Dem Institute report found that democracy is objectively in decline worldwide, with more countries experiencing authoritarianism and populism, indicating a global shift toward more extreme political ideologies. The divisions belie a warped reflection: Hyper-liberalism and uber-conservatism are more similar than their definitions suggest; Donald Trump’s populism isn’t so different from Bernie Sanders’s.

The middle, we’re often led to believe, is the worst place to be. It has become deeply unfashionable. Middle children and their syndromes; the dreary Midwest; the boring, bourgeois middle class. Even the abbreviation “mid” is used by teenagers on TikTok to describe something or someone average, mediocre, or low-quality. Middle often translates as neither here nor there, a premium economy seat on the turbulent flight of life. The middle is for those who don’t know enough to make up their mind, perennially on the fence. The middle is comfortable, safe, perhaps even cowardly. The middle is the noncommittal, maybe even confused. In an age of extremes, the middle seems to suggest a sense of stasis—not going backwards but certainly not progressing forward. The middle is where you are if you don’t post an infographic on Instagram. Today, the middle embodies what the historian and playwright Howard Zinn condemned in 2002 when he wrote his memoir, You Can’t Be Neutral on a Moving Train.

But the middle is also vast, encompassing anything other than black-and-white extremities on either end of a binary. Just as there can be myriad shades of gray, the middle in politics isn’t strictly a halfway point between conservative and liberal. Similarly, identifying as nonbinary isn’t a neat recipe comprising masculinity and femininity in equal measures—the gray is agile, complex, and ever-changing.

It’s okay not to know everything. Knowledge is not innate; it’s learned. And in an age where 70 percent of the world’s population has access to the internet—and therefore access to information anywhere, anytime—perhaps there is some kind of intrinsic guilt in not being able to keep up. We are now bombarded with so much information that it’s impossible to discern what’s real and what’s not. Logging onto the gladiatorial arena of social media can sometimes feel like straddling the Korean border, where giant speakers on the north side emit authoritarian propaganda, and on the south, blare K-pop as some kind of symbol of freedom. You can’t hear your own thoughts. In the digital realm, flawed arguments are projected with conviction—the loudest voices always winning.

In a world of black and white, the most interesting conversations are to be had in the gray areas. The middle is where people meet and negotiations are made. Our current climate necessitates an exploration of intersectionality, a concept first championed by scholars such as Kimberlé Crenshaw and Judith Butler. This framework encourages us to consider the multiple identities we inhabit—race, gender, class, sexuality—and how they together inform our experiences and perspectives. In recognizing that identity exists within a matrix of power dynamics, we can begin to dismantle the binaries that restrict our understandings of one another.

The rise of identity politics, which seeks to empower marginalized communities through the assertion of distinct identities, has undeniably catalyzed important movements for social justice. It has also contributed to fissures in feminist communities and provided a distraction from issues that affect us all by focusing on those that affect the few. I know too well what it is to fight to be seen, or heard, in certain spaces. However, when identity becomes the only lens through which we view ourselves and others, it can lead to a tokenistic kind of ghettoization where people are pigeonholed by labels.

I write this from experience. I am Brown, I am the child of refugees, I am Muslim, I am nonbinary, I am queer, I grew up in a low-income, working-class family. And yet, I am also blonde, slim, educated, and relatively successful in my field! I am not exclusively one of these things, and yet, I am all of them. Each strand defines me, not because of who I am, but because of how I am perceived.

It’s probably why I’ve always been drawn to ambiguity. As we strive for recognition and representation, we must tread carefully to avoid the pitfalls of essentialism, where complex identities are reduced to simplistic categories that can stifle the liberation that comes with knowing oneself. It is in the spaces that defy easy categorization where great art is made, characters are written, subcultures are formed, and compelling stories emerge. It is the questioning, the conversing, the uncomfortable truths, and the commonalities that provide fertile ground for new perspectives. Sometimes the outcome is not what you expect, the doubt and confusion a far more compelling wellspring of creativity than the neat categorization of clear binaries. The term diversity is often not applied to opinion or ideology. Dialogue is cast aside in favor of division.

The idea of globalization, perhaps responsible for a collective flatness in aesthetics and taste, is a fallacy that contributes to our sense of shared dissonance. “Partly because of empire, all cultures are involved in one another; none is single and pure, all are hybrid, heterogeneous, extraordinarily differentiated, and unmonolithic,” wrote Edward W. Said, who is at times a polarizing figure, whose critics are so eager to discredit him they pay no attention to the ambiguities of his thought—and whose defenders can be so protective of his reputation they lose patience with dissent. “We are all hybrids,” he continued. “We are not just this or that.”

The role of artists in navigating these gray areas has never been more vital. Their ability to evoke emotion and provoke dialogue challenges entrenched beliefs. Artists like Kara Walker and Theaster Gates employ their work to address issues of race, identity, and history—weaving narratives that explore the complexities of the American experience. Walker’s silhouettes confront the grotesque legacy of slavery, while Gates transforms vacant lots into vibrant community spaces, illustrating the potential for regeneration through creative practice. The works of artists like Yinka Shonibare challenge colonial narratives, intertwining personal and collective histories to reveal the nuances of identity in a globalized world. His use of Dutch wax fabric—a symbol of cultural hybridity—echoes Said’s assertion that we are the sum of intertwined parts.

Literature, too, has long served as a lens through which we can examine the nuances of human experience—novels can communicate the perspectives of those with different lives and cultures, fostering understanding and empathy. There is no single story that speaks to the entire human experience. Instead, it is the multiplicity of narratives that reflects the complexity of our lives. I often think of Zadie Smith’s White Teeth, which navigates the multicultural landscape of contemporary Britain, offering a tapestry of voices that reflects a rich and often chaotic interplay of influences. Smith’s characters, caught between their heritage and the modern world, reveal that our stories are seldom linear. They are intricate and multifaceted.

As Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, whose novels also pull the reader into the introspective worlds of their protagonists, eloquently put it: “The single story creates stereotypes and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete.” Embracing the gray means acknowledging the richness of our individual and collective stories, leading us toward a more rounded understanding of humanity.

History, as we’re often told, is written by the victors. Decades and centuries are neatly summarized in pithy anecdotes that belie a sense of context. Art and literature complicate these flat accounts, giving way to experiences and feelings a lot murkier, and perhaps truer, when laid over one another.

By embracing ambiguity, we can forge pathways toward unity. From here, we can construct a narrative of progress, honoring diversity of opinion while nurturing the humanity that binds us. After all, we have more in common than we think, regardless of how individual our realities—or indeed, our algorithms—appear to be.