“These days, when people sling words of criticism like ‘performative’ or ‘saviorism,’ I hear scornful dismissal, not sophistication. Allies can be ‘proven,’ ‘potential,’ or ‘problematic,’” Loretta J. Ross writes, but importantly “they are allies.” In Calling In, her sixth book, Rossmixes memoir with advice for dealing with conflict. The advice centers on why and how to invite people who’ve upset you into honest conversation, rather than immediately writing them off as politically retrograde or ejecting them from your organization.
Ross’s approach is clear and refreshingly friendly, even loving. She advocates assuming others’ good intentions, approaching conversations with curiosity, and granting yourself and others the grace to be imperfect. Learning how to communicate when adrenalized and hurt has knock-on benefits for all sorts of potentially scary conversations, like coming out to grandparents or telling a loved one that you had an abortion.
Trauma, Ross says, can inform your sense of compassion for others (she calls this “trauma-informed”), but she rejects the Oppression Olympics full-stop.
“Your trauma is not a prep school,” she often says during “Calling In” workshops, noting that the most damaging words to conversation include these: “I’m hurt,” “I’m afraid,” “that person is toxic,” and “I don’t feel safe.” In short, “People use these words to shut down their opportunities for growth.”
With growth in mind, it seemed appropriate to review Calling In by using the book, so we gathered a handful of attempts to actualize Calling In’s theory. But first, here’s a window on Loretta J. Ross from a current student.
Dylan Jordan, Smith College student, age 20
Walking into Loretta Ross’s Reproductive Justice course in January 2024, my first year at Smith, I encountered seventy students, all chatting, a buzz of excitement in the air. Silence came over the room when Professor Ross rolled through the door on her mobility scooter, flanked by her teaching assistants. She dove right in with a potted version of her life story, recounted with a smile and palpable charisma. “I’m a Georgia peach,” she told us—when she’s not at Smith, Ross lives in Atlanta—“if snow is on the ground, I will not be on campus.” She requested that we call her by her first name; Professor Ross was too formal. Her stories of her upbringing in Southern Texas and her experiences in the feminist movement were peppered with jokes, and soon the class was laughing and nodding. After several minutes of this, she asked us to introduce ourselves.
I remember how nervous I felt. In addition to being a MacArthur “Genius” Fellow, she’s a central figure on Smith’s campus. The Five Colleges (Smith, Mount Holyoke, Amherst, Hampshire, and UMass Amherst) have the first certificate program in Reproductive Justice, a framework she cocreated and popularized. Her class White Supremacy in the Age of Trump is legendary. Even first-year orientation was centered on strategies to communicate in the face of conflict. When I stood up, I told her my name and that I was from Texas. She smiled—finding a Southerner at a New England private school is a rare treat—and we bonded over our shared regionality and discovered that she and my mom were both born in Temple, a small city in central Texas that few people leave. Our brief exchange was somewhat transformative for me. After suddenly finding myself surrounded by an environment of wealthy Yankees, this new connection reassured me that a life in academia was possible for me. Loretta’s style is very welcoming, another way in which she “calls in”—so much so that I am now her TA for the current Reproductive Justice class.
Rebecca Saltzman, writer, editor at LIBER, and mother of three, age 41:
Recently a long-time friend began liking and sharing content on social media that I can only call deeply anti-
Semitic—evoking age-old tropes like “Jews killed Jesus” and control of world government. I was shocked, but I wanted to give her the grace that our years of friendship deserved, so I called her in with a private message. I explained that while I was sure she did not intend it, her posts were hurtful and offensive, and I offered to elaborate further. She did not take me up on that offer. She promised to be more critical of what she shared. However she continued to amplify that kind of content on her social media, and our friendship fell away. Calling in didn’t change her behavior. Not every conflict can be solved. Speaking up was worth it to me, despite not having the hoped-for impact on my friend’s public postings. It’s more ethical to attempt a resolution than to simply seethe and complain behind her back.
Hílda Davis, writer, age 34
I was driving back to Bloomington, Indiana, from New York, something I often did when tensions with my family of origin flared up, when their struggles with mental illness seemed to require that I erase myself. While pumping gas, just a few exits before my destination, I got a call from someone I’d been in the same graduate program with. We were never quite friends, but I had admired her clarity, her beauty, and her intellect. She didn’t waste time after I said hello. “You know your poetry slam cohost? He’s a rapist. You should
know this.”
Hearing this rearranged my day. Something inside me felt like it was simultaneously burning with rage and frightened of accepting certain truths. At that moment, I understood that calling my cohost out would be easiest in some ways but almost certainly would not allow the space and privacy that can be helpful to healing for either the survivor or the person who caused harm. So, instead, I let him know what I had heard. He denied the characterization. I asked him to step down as cohost, and he agreed to.
Calling in requires us to jeopardize the things we don’t want to give up: comfort, connection, loyalty to our friends. I am reckoning with this calling in, even now. For years before this encounter, I’d looked to my cohost as a creative ally in this college town where so many of us were gasping under the weight of unspoken expectations and social hierarchies we pretended not to uphold. He and I both grew up as people of color in the (historically racist) Mormon Church and found in one another a level of understanding that others could not offer. I no longer speak to him or anyone directly involved with this situation, and I often wonder if I did the right thing. All I can do now is hope he hasn’t done it again. Calling in or calling out allows you to name something, but it does not allow for control. Calling in asks more of us than calling out. It’s a quieter, longer, more uncertain process. Even so, calling in allows more space for transformation, if those involved can face the truth and the opportunity to be changed by it.
