Lydy's Anarchist Revival Meeting

At Fourth Street Fantasy Convention, this year, Steven Brust, from the dias, delivered a speech about safety and free speech that made me so angry I had to leave the room. Since then, various people have talked about the issues of safety, harassment, and free speech, often as a response to that situation, but sometimes as a continuation of other conversations. I have some very specific issues with the things Steven said, but I don't want to write about them at this moment. Instead, I want to address something that comes up over and over in these conversations, and always from men. "What are the rules?" "How can I know how to behave if you won't clarify what you want?"

Dear men, please do not ask me to provide to you something that I have never had. I cannot provide you the rules. I do not know what they are, and I never have.

I have spent my entire life, my personal, professional, educational, social, and romantic life, navigating the complexities of human interaction without rules. There has never been a point at which my exact decibel level was approved, the exact number of square inches of skin I can expose has been acceptable, a precise hairstyle I could wear that would clearly communicate who and what I was. I have spent my entire life being judged by a set of shifting rules. I have spent my entire life being lied to about what those rules were. If I talk too softly, no one listens, but if I speak more loudly, I am bitchy and dismissed. If I am clear and logical, I am mocked for inadequately mimicking maleness, but if I am emotional, I am mocked for being too feminine and not worth paying attention to. There is no level of dress that does not open me up to either being a prude or a slut.

The penalties for transgressing these ever-shifting "rules" vary. Sometimes, it's just being unpersoned. Sometimes it is getting a bad job-performance review. Sometimes, it's unwanted and uncomfortable conversations. Always, at the back of my mind, has been the knowledge that if I girl wrong at the wrong guy, I might be physically assaulted. And if that were to happen, my entire girl-ness would then be on trial. What was I wearing? What did I say? How did I say it? Was it my fault? Oh, yes, some percentage of the population will assert, it was totally my fault. Because I didn't follow a rule that, you know, doesn't actually apply all the time, isn't written down, is entirely contextual, and nobody every told me in the first place.

Rules are a luxury that I have never had. The only way rules have ever applied to me is as a stick to beat me with. They are a shifting landscape of horror. I don't know if all-male spaces have clear, comfortable rules that everybody knows and the penalties are clear. I rather doubt it, but I don't know. What I do know is that to be a woman in this culture is to be constantly moving through a space where expectations are variable, and are rigidly enforced on a whim, and can dramatically affect my life.

When we talk about harassment, safety, and safe spaces, stop asking me for rules. You never gave me any, and so I have none to give you. All I can offer you is this shifting, difficult, dangerous, ambiguous space that I live in. If you want to be an ally, if, indeed, you want to be my friend, you must learn to inhabit this uncomfortable space with me. You must accept that there aren't clear rules where you can know that you are right.

You get upset that I am enraged over how you say something rather than engaging with what you "actually" said. You are ignoring the fact that I have spent my entire fucking life trying to divine what is really meant by so-called innocent words. I have never been able to take at face value a compliment, an invite to drinks after work, a comment about my clothing, an inquiry into my health. I have spent my entire life carefully navigating the unspoken, because the penalty for getting it wrong was my reputation, or worse. Again, always, I worry about violence. Because that is life, for me, as a woman. And you? You reveal much more than you know with your word choice, and your demand to be taken literally is a cowardly retreat from what we both know you said.

If you truly want challenging conversations where people tell you things that you have never heard, before, the very first thing you must do is shut the fuck up. You cannot hear me when you are talking. And if you truly want to have your mind blown by concepts and ideas that are new to you, you must at least make sure that the conversational space is comfortable enough for other people to tell you the truth. If the only reason you are talking is so that you can argue, you aren't listening. If you aren't listening, why should I talk? There is an issue of volume. If you and people like you are shouting the same thing over and over, then people like me, with a smaller platform and a softer voice, are drowned out. If you care about free speech, then you should care about the voices you are overwhelming. If all you care about is talking, you can do that without me.

I invite you to be with me in my discomfort, my uncertainty, my highly contingent and contextual life. I invite you to talk with me, and help me navigate these shifting sands of changing expectations. But I also suggest that you pay attention, because I have lived here my entire life, and near as I can tell, this is a landscape entirely new to you.

Tat, in this context, to mean cheap souvenirs. The portions of London that we spent the most time in were, unsurprisingly, full of tat shops. And I discovered a weird passion for tat shops. I do not wish to own most of the tat being sold. It is generally cheaply made, and of limited utility. But I truly love tat shops.

Here's the thing about tat shops. They are unapologetic, exuberant, and emotionally accessible. They are also cheap, cynical, and emotionally manipulative, but in such a brazen, cheerful way that I didn't mind the manipulation. I almost bought a Bobby Bear, because seriously, a teddy bear in a uniform? So fucking cute. I wish I had thought to take a picture of one tat shop window near the Houses of Parliament. The entire window was full of shiny gold and silver replicas of Big Ben, in descending sizes, from about a foot high, down to about two inches high. Each had a working clock face. And the sheer glory of a Big Ben of any size to meet your space and budget was dizzying. And funny. And just fucking weird.

The least successful tat shop, for me, was the one in the British Museum. Something about just having seen the Elgin Marbles and the actual fucking Rosetta Stone made me less charitable towards cheap knock-offs. I think it was just me, they were doing a really brisk business. I regret, a little, the lovely cards with William Morris prints on them, but I don't send cards, so well, then.

While we were in York (we did a day trip to York) we were wandering around the Shambles. There was a store there called The Cat Gallery. "Look," I cried with glee, "it is a cat tat shop!" And so it was. Cat mugs, cat tea cozies, cat posters, cat cards, cat stickers, cat rugs. In the end, I came away with a very fine cat apron, and a reusable shopping bag with cats. While nothing about my cat tat says "York" I will always remember where I got it, and will always be pleased with it. So, Cat Tat for the win.

The Tower of London also, of course, has a tat shop. Much of it is the standard stuff you can get anywhere. Snow globes with the Houses of Parliament, or the Tower, other random items. The very weird plastic dome, about one and a half inches high, with a crown inside it. I mean, what? Why? It's a really generic crown, too, bearing no particular resemblance to the crown jewels, or anything else. It is not large enough nor heavy enough to use as a paper weight, it does not fit on a key chain, has no function that I could discern, and cost a couple of pounds. Ok. There were lots of toy swords, and pencils with odd things on the end, like Big Ben, toy crowns, and so on. But this was also my weirdest experience in a tat shop.

When we did the Tower, we walked along the wall, mostly, which took us into various towers. The towers had their interesting displays, and so on. And, of course, a lot of centuries old graffiti from people who were probably going to die, soon. At one point, Patrick walked out of one of the rooms muttering, "I'm just enough of a partisan to be uncomfortable with the amount of Catholic blood in that room." I walked into Beauchamp Tower, and turned right around and walked out again to regain my composure. It was the tower where Elizabeth the First was held, and for atmospherics they had echoing footsteps on the sound system, and some other things. I didn't consciously process this, I just suddenly felt completely overwhelmed. We'd just walked by the green upon which many people had been beheaded, and the close grim tower was too much. I did go back in, and was glad to have done so. The next place on the path was the Bloody Tower. Patrick walked in, saw an instrument of torture, and turned right around and walked out. I didn't even venture in. It had been, by then, a long day. We were both tired and very overwhelmed emotionally by the vast history literally surrounding us. Neither of us felt like torture-porn was going to be a good experience.

So, the tat shop. I think it was called the Raven Shop. As I said, most of it was pretty normal, standard tat. There were some very pretty chess sets (extremely expensive) and some interesting books, but mostly, it was very standard. There was, however, in a glass box, some paper figures, one kneeling, and one with an ax held high. I barely glanced at it, not quite long enough to register exactly what it was, just long enough to know I didn't wish to look further. When you remember that one of my passions is pop-up books, my sudden aversion without processing strikes me as interesting. A shop girl said, "Oh, you have to see this. It's so neat!" I turned around. She pushed a button on the box containing the paper figures, and the paper figure with the ax lowered his arms, the ax landed on the paper figure kneeling, and the head fell off. I said, very loudly, "EEEK!" and started to walk quickly away. "That's horrible," I added, feeling badly about being mean to the shop girl, but at the same time really weirded out. She called after me, "It's not horrible, it's cute!"

I dunno. If this was my history, if I got taught it repeatedly in school, if it was part of my heritage, maybe my emotional responses to it would be a lot more like the shop girl than the ones I had. But honestly, how is a beheading cute? Ok, then. Tat shop 1, Lydy 0.

The last full day in London, I went into several tat shops, looking for a thing to take home that wasn't embarrassingly daft. I finally settled on a black t-shirt with the Tube map on it. It was only twelve pounds, and I am inordinately pleased with it. I vaguely regret the Bobby Bear, but well. I would have been embarrassed later.

So, I've stopped checking LJ, and have started just reading at Dreamwidth. I believe this still cross-posts. So, if you are on LJ, but not on DW, I am not seeing you. If you are on DW, and I have somehow failed to encircle you at DW, please mention it so that I can do so. (LJ still sends me email notifications if you comment at my LJ, so if you comment on LJ, I will see it.) If you are only on LJ, again, tell me, and I'll try to check in on a regular basis.

Dear LJ, thanks for all the fish.

Am postin this on Dreamwidth to see what happens. I have no idea how to cross-post to LJ. Figure that out at some time in the future, I expect.

Nobody ever reads their EULA. It is known, Khaleesi. I have probably signed hundreds of them, and I have read exactly none of them. I am by no means unique. I am, also, living in the United States (it could happen to anyone!) and so subject to the laws of this benighted republic.

Why are so many of my friends, most of whom also don't read their EULAs, and none of whom live in Russia, all freaked out about LJ's latest idiocy? What am I missing? In what qualitative way is this crazy-assed EULA different from all other EULAs?

So, David and I have been living together for more than 20 years. While we lack the blessing of the state, I think it is reasonable to describe us as "old marrieds." One of the things we like to do is just, you know, hang out. It's not that we have nothing to say to each other, of course, we talk a lot. But sometimes, there's a nice animal comfort in being in the same room, doing different things. No need to interact, really, but the physical presence is companionable.

I've gotten obsessed with The Rachel Maddow Show. David... really not. So, he wants to hang out in the media room with me, and read a book or work on his laptop, and I want to watch TRMS, or other news shows. This doesn't really work, for him, and so either I don't get to do the thing I want, or he doesn't get to do the thing he wants, or we have to be in separate rooms. We kind of assumed that there was a headphone jack on the television, and we could just set me up with a long cable and headphones. Yeah, no. The television is too modern, or something, and doesn't have a headphone jack.

David did a little research, and there's this combination of things that you can use. David can explain it, I can't. Any gate, there's a thing that you plug into the television that gets the audio from...something optical? Not sure. Then there's a bluetooth repeater. David spent some time looking for something that has a very low latency. Latency? Any gate, so the sound and the picture would be in synch. (I can't watch dubbed movies, because the sound and the lips being out of synch makes me crazy.) Then there's a little bluetooth receiver with a headphone jack.

Due to various things, like the fact I spent Christmas out of town, David hadn't bought me a Christmas present. So he asked me if I would like this set up, where I could watch my news shows without driving him out of the room. And if I preferred earbuds versus headphones. And if this would qualify as a good present. I was delighted, said yes, he got the things, and they work exactly as we had hoped, and I'm delighted.

And it's such an old married sort of situation. First, no stress on just asking me if I wanted such a thing. And also, if it would constitute a present. It was a sensible question. There are ways to look at it that would suggest that rather than a present for me, it was a present for him. And, you know, I think that if we weren't old married, a "Hey, how about I buy you a thing that lets us ignore each other while being in the same room, wouldn't that be cool?" might come across as...not so romantic.

There are many charms to the early bits of a relationship. The falling in love, the newness, the excitement of it all. But I also love the calm, slow bits, the comfort and the ease of having someone where most of the communication bugs have been worked out, and where most of the fraught bits have been dealt with. Not all, of course. We still have our moments. But this really was just such a good Christmas present.

So, let's talk about adults, for a moment. You know the ones, the ones whose lives are perpetually in a tangle, and in the end, you shake your head and say, "Well, he's an adult."

That guy, that guy who cannot manage his financial situation. He's basically a good person, someone whose company you enjoy and who you would like to see happy. You've done what you can to help. Maybe you lent him money, maybe you sat down with him and developed a realistic budget. Maybe you listened to him describe exactly why it is that he can't seem to keep the whole financial thing together. Maybe you understand why he's making the choices he's making, and maybe you don't. Either way, at some point, you shake your head and say, "Well, he's an adult." You keep an eye out, though. When it's clear he's having trouble getting food on the table, you invite him over for dinner a couple times. Maybe you pay his heating bill, or fix his car. You do little things to make sure that he doesn't end up dead or in jail. But you also protect yourself. You don't lend him money, you don't get involved in any financial schemes he has, and you quietly warn mutual friends. If he's homeless, you put him up for a while, but you set limits and boundaries.

This is not a bad person, per se, but he's definitely making some pretty terrible choices when he could have made better ones. So you stop trying to protect him from all the consequences, just make sure there's enough of a safety net that the possibility exists that things can get better for him. You don't pay attention to his self-serving explanations, and you are really clear that you don't support those choices. Understanding why he's doing this to himself doesn't really change things. You protect yourself, and do what you can for him, but you don't enable his world-view. You probably can't stop him from believing what he believes, but you don't have to buy into it, either. And if you have any hope of him changing, it is in part by refusing to endorse his bizarre justifications for his actions.

Now, let's talk about Trump voters. I am enormously tired of the call to "understand" the Trump voter. They're adults. They made some pretty bad choices. I am going to continue to fight for various safety-nets which will benefit them, because even though they did something incredibly stupid, they shouldn't die of unaddressed medical needs, nor should they starve. But I really don't need to understand why they did what they did. Nor would it help in the least. I am not their therapist. I am just their co-citizen, living in the same world. And I don't think that "understanding" them will make a wet slap of difference. Assuming I did understand the exact emotional structures that led them to want to burn it all down. Then what? I should...let them burn it down? No, that's stupid. So, I continue to fight for a more peaceful and prosperous world, and I stop accepting their juvenile excuses for why they did what they did. They're adults. I think we should treat them like it.

As for winning their votes next cycle... If it is possible, and it may not be, it's going to be by being really clear what the consequences of their last set of votes was. I say, ignore all the think pieces about the resentment and feelings of abandonment that the Trump voters have. Don't care, am not their therapist or their mommy. If they're going to vote for racist policies against their own self-interests, there is literally nothing I am willing to do to fix that.

Today's issue was the transgender bathroom executive order. I said, each time, that transgender students were not dangerous, they were in danger. I was unable to reach the Department of Justice. The nice lady at the Department of Education said that they were getting a lot of calls, and she was very nice. I said that I bet her job wasn't much fun just now, and she laughed just a little and allowed as how it was very busy.

I'd do more calling, but it just feels weird to call my senators more than once a day, you know? I mean, I might never stop calling. And they do suggest that you stick to one issue per phone call.

So now I get to mark this off on my Habitica checklist, and get points. Yay, points! Someday, you will be another virtual, magical pet!

Look, I hate political action with a white hot passion. I also think maybe I should do some. There are a bunch of Indivisible groups listed, locally, but I have no experience and no talent in this area, and I was wondering if anyone knew enough to recommend a group to get involved with. I would prefer some smart, politically savvy, practical people who have clear ideas of useful, bite-sized actions that I could get involved in. I am especially interested in groups that work to make sure that it's not just us white, middle-class people who are doing all the talking. I am not interested in long meetings that wrangle or rage, although I realize that I may not be able to avoid them.

Any suggestions?

I just finished The Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexandre Dumas, for the umpteenth time, for versions of finished that include listening to an unabridged, LibreVox recording by someone who does truly terrible French and Italian accents and pronounces "azure" as "Asia." I have loved this book with an unironic passion for forty years, and I feel the need to rant. More than once.

tl;dr: This book, my god this fucking book!

These rants will contain spoilers.


Rant the First: Personal History

( Read more... )

Rant the Second: Enter the Suck Fairy


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Rant the Third: Women, aka the Return of the Very Problematic Fairy

( Read more... )

I have more rants about plot and structure and stuff, but Imma gonna post this, now.

There are things I love about this book, and I'll write about them later.