Tag Archives: society

Dream dilemma

I had a somewhat disturbing dream, in which I was out shopping with my mom, and she occasionally made references to a book I had given her as one of her presents the previous Christmas. Except she wouldn’t mention the title, she kept referring to it simply as, “that book you got me.”

And the conversation got a bit weird and emotional. Finally, she pulls out the book, and it’s a book of quotations. But specifically a book of gay and lesbian quotations. For a second, in the dream, I was very confused, and then I realized that I had accidentally swapped the tags on two books I had been wrapping up for different people. I had intended to give Mom a book about the writing process or something, and this was supposed to go to someone else. Continue reading Dream dilemma

Trolls, baiters, hecklers, and drama queens

We’re all drama queens sometimes: little things that go wrong feel like complete disasters, someone reacts differently than we expect to something and we start to wonder if it indicates a bigger problem, or we can’t stop talking about this bad thing we’re either in the middle of or just got out of.

I’ve had a few friends who were like that all the time. When I first met them, I thought, well, they’re having a bit of bad luck right now, and maybe they’re more emotional about it than I would be, but I’m not the one having the problem. Plus, I don’t know everyone else involved, so maybe it really is this bad. But as time went on and I got to know more of the other people involved, it became clear that they were always blowing any and every problem way out of proportion to the actual difficulty involved.

One wonders why one would remain friends with someone like that. In the case of the ones that I still consider friends many years later, part of it was because they were very witty, and always made jokes about the trouble they were going through. You might even say a better term for them would be comedy queens. It also helped that one lived a thousand miles away.

One time, on a fannish online forum, I wound up saying to a friend who was also on the forum something to the effect of, “Stop being a drama queen!”

And I was jumped on by some people for being a homophobe, since the friend I had called a drama queen was a gay man.

I foolishly responded by pointing out three facts: 1) I am also a gay man, 2) the guy in question was a friend in real life who often referred to himself as a drama queen, and 3) it was a joke.

Which unleashed a storm of righteous fury. Just because I was gay didn’t mean I couldn’t be homophobic. It doesn’t matter how he took it, what matters is that strangers who read the post out of context would be offended. Everyone ought to be offended anyway, because the phrase itself is deeply offensive.

The last point spawned the most interesting discussion. I remember picking up the term “drama queen” from mostly gay and lesbian friends in the mid-80s, where it was usually being applied to some gay men by other gay men sometimes derisively, sometimes teasingly. It fit right in with several other slang terms we slung about: opera queen, snow queen, clean queen, gym queen, and of course, size queen. The application of a female gendered term, “queen” to a man puts us solidly into societal sexist issues. Many a thesis (and some entire academic careers) have been spent exploring the prejudice, the perpetuation of class and power structures, and so on, inherent to using such words as insults in that way. And specifically applying feminine terms as insults to gay men—or masculine terms to lesbians—tangles us up even further in those sexual politics.

However, there is something to be said for taking words back. It was Queer Nation’s entire raison d’être! Take an insult that people have been flinging at you your entire life, wear it as a badge of honor, and rub the bullies’ faces in it. Such as one of the few times I was ever as clever as some movies and series portray all gay men as, when a guy angrily called me a bastard, and I replied, “My parents were married, and to each other, thank you very much. The word you’re looking for is ‘b*tch.’ And don’t forget it!”

Explaining all of that didn’t help, of course. There was one person who kept insisting, again and again, that I had said that all gay men are effeminate, and that all gay men are always melodramatically making mountains out of molehills. No matter how many times I, or the guy I had originally told to stop being a drama queen, explained that I had clearly applied the term to him, and only him, and only to the specific conversation, this guy kept insisting that his interpretation was the most logical inference of the term “drama queen.”

“We must put an end to the rhetoric that there’s something wrong with being an effeminate man!”

Once he used that phrase, I realized what the problem was. Any argument that begins with “put an end to the rhetoric of…” is a lost cause. Only a very specific sort of troll uses that argument. I call it the paranoid troll, as is, “Oh, my god! You’re talking about me, aren’t you? I know you are! You’re always talking about me!” The paranoid troll is not interested in discussing the topic at hand. They are not interested in what you meant by what you said, because they leapt to the conclusion of what you meant long ago, and no amount of evidence is ever going to change their mind. In fact, every piece of evidence you bring forward will be distorted into confirmation of their original thesis.

There’s nothing to be gained attempting to communicate with them. The only solution, as with all trolls, is to ignore them. Don’t let yourself get sucked into their drama.

Mr Open-minded Seldom Is

As a gay man hoping to one day enjoy full equal rights under the law, I spend probably far too much time reading about people who are trying to prevent those rights from being granted. A surprising number of them describe themselves as open-minded, just before they start spewing their most bigoted talking points.

Which reminded me of a discussion I had with some friends a while back. We had all met people who had described themselves as open-minded, yet once we got to know them, they were quite the opposite. There are several reasons for this phenomenon:

The first is defensive: some of them have been accused often enough of being narrow-minded or intolerant that they are now trying to preempt more accusations. Like the professional spokespeople for various hate groups, they operate under a delusion that simply saying they are open-minded will somehow cause you not to notice their narrow-minded behavior or statements.

If they aren’t delusional, they’re simply trying really hard not to appear to be intolerant, because they’ve realized that if people think you’re intolerant, only intolerant people will hang out with you, and they aren’t usually good company. You would hope that realizing this would make them try to figure out how to actually be more open-minded. Maybe someday it will.

Some people are genuinely trying to be open-minded. In some cases, they recognized that their past narrow-minded behavior ruined a friendship, broke up a relationship, or simply hurt someone they cared about. Now they feel guilty and are trying to be open-minded. And there’s nothing wrong with trying, per se, but it is a little disingenuous to say they “are” open-minded when they’re only in the hoping-to-be stage.

There are others who aren’t at the trying stage, they simply misunderstand what open-minded means. For instance, for some open-minded means smiling condescendingly at people, ideas, or behaviors they disapprove of—sometimes even encouraging the behavior—only to ridicule and condemn it later when the person isn’t around. It’s a form of social entrapment: I’ll pretend I accept you as you are in order to get you to reveal more of yourself, then use what I learn against you.

Similarly, some think being open-minded means letting the other person have their say before telling them just how very wrong they are. Now, sometimes that’s how a debate can look to an outsider, but every interaction shouldn’t be a debate. And there’s a difference between gritting one’s teeth while waiting for the other person to finish spouting off their nonsense so you can tell them what they ought to think, and sincerely trying to understand why the other person feels that way. And consider whether maybe there might be room in your worldview for more than one opinion on the matter.

Along the same lines, some folks think that they have a nuanced position on some issues, because they are willing to be friends with the unfortunate people who are so wrong-thinking. “I’m not bigoted! I know that it’s not really your people’s fault that all of you are mentally ill and morally bankrupt. It’s like a sickness. And look at how big hearted I am, willing to be next to you and not at all afraid it might be catching!”

Most of these are just a subset of a bigger truth about human behavior: the more eager someone seems to be to describe themselves with a particularly positive treat, the more emphatically they insist that they do not feel a particular negative way, the more likely that the opposite of what they are saying is the truth.

As Hamlet’s mother famously observed, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

Wrong in all the right ways

Every convention I have ever attended has included conversations with people who do not seem to be on the same time-space continuum as I am. This has been just as true at the journalism conferences I attended back in the day, or the evangelical mission conference I once attended, or any tech conferences, not just the sci fi, comics, gaming, or anthropomorphics conventions.

I realize that it is mostly a matter of statistics: a certain percentage of the population could be categorized as odd or downright crazy, so any situation that puts you in contact with a bunch of people in a constrained time will include some of them. There’s also likely a correlation between certain personality types and enthusiasm. In other words, the sort of person most likely to choose or agree to attend a convention dedicated to any topic may be more likely to be a few standards deviations out from the norm in some way or other.

Often after conventions I summarize some of the conversations I had with random people while sitting behind my table in the dealer’s den. I do this for entertainment value, and so have usually picked the silliest, weirdest, or just most dumb-founding. Which creates the impression that that’s all the happens.

It’s not.

Also, for some reason, there were a lot fewer of the really odd ones this time.

So, I think this time I want to focus on the more positive fun encounters:

Fan #38: Points to my t-shirt. “Hey, is that a pony? Which one?”

I lift my badge up out of the way. “It’s Derpy!”

Fan #38: “Derpy! I need a Derpy shirt! Wait, why does she have a muffin?”

Me: “Why shouldn’t she have a muffin?”

Fan #38: “No, no, no! Derpy should have a chocolate chip cookie!”

Me: “Derpy can handle either.”

Fan #38: “True. More Derpy!”

———————

Fan #9: Stops and grabs friend’s arm. “Oh! This is one of the books I was telling you about!”

Fan #10: “What? Another comic?”

Fan #9: “No, it’s stories! Science fiction and stuff.” Makes eye contact with me. “I really like your stuff. Oh! Look, that’s a new issue!”

Me: “Just published last week, actually.” I look at the other guy, who has picked up one of our zines. “Do you want me to explain how the project works?”

fan #10: “Sure…”

I gave him the usual spiel about being a collaborative project, and that we’re a non-profit with a mission of fostering creative skills, and a bit about the universe.

Fan #9, meanwhile, has pulled copies of the most recent two issues from the racks. “I’ll take these.”

Fan #10 puts the issue he’d been looking at back down, and asks his friend, “I can read these, right?”

Fan #9: “Yeah, but if you like ’em, you should pick up the whole set.”

I rang up the sale, handled the change, then pulled out one of the blind bag boxes.

Fan #10: “You’re giving away ponies?”

Me: “One blind bag with each purchase, subscription, or renewal.”

Fan #10: “So I can come back tomorrow when I have money. Cool!”

(I don’t know if he came back, since I wasn’t always watching the table)

———-

Fan #87: “There you are! I was afraid you weren’t around any more when I didn’t see you last year.”

Me: “We were here last year.”

Fan #87 is picking up the last several issues from the racks. “Really? I looked and looked.”

I pointed out where we had been, and mentioned the posters.

Fan #87: “I don’t know how I missed you. Tell me about this Omnibus…”

———-

Fan #43: “Yeah, I picked up some of your books last year, but only really liked a couple of the stories.”

Me: “I’m sorry.”

Fan #43: “It happens. I really, really like those two stories, but some of the others just weren’t my thing.”

Me: “Do you remember which ones you liked?”

Fan #43 describes two tales. I ask some questions, he answers. We determine the stories were “New Queensland Station,” originally published in issue #2, reprinted in the Omnibus, and “A Shadow’s Kiss” from Eclipse. We talk some more about what he liked about them. Eventually I suggest he might possibly enjoy “Beside Himself” from Skulduggery, and point out a sequel, “The Shadow of Azrael” was printed in a more recent issue. He decides to pick them up.

The next day, Fan #43 stops by the table. “I haven’t had time to read them all, yet, but I really loved the story in the Special Edition. Thanks for recommending it!”

Rough, manly sport, part 2

So there I was, hanging upside down, flailing ineffectively as the bigger kid shook me, called me names, and most of the other kids laughed.

Continue reading Rough, manly sport, part 2

Don’t go near the water!

When I was about 9 years old, my parents paid for swimming lessons. My dad did so under protest, because he had never had swimming lessons. Apparently when I was much younger he had tried, once, to teach me to swim the way he had learned: during a fishing trip he threw me into the creek.

I have no real recollection of this. I have had nightmares about drowning, and for the longest time I would have a bit of a panic if my face went underwater, but I don’t remember his attempt. I’m told That I just screamed and went under, sinking like a rock. And when he decided to pull me out, I struggled free and ran until I found someone to tell that my dad had tried to kill me.

So, some years later I had lessons. I learned how not to drown, but I didn’t like being in the water, so I never got good at it.

During the summer that I was taking those lessons, it seemed every conversation between adults near me was about whether swimming lessons were a good idea. There were people who agreed with my dad: if I couldn’t learn by being thrown in, I deserved to drown someday. Others thought maybe just a friend of the family or another relative should be able to do it without the expense. A few thought if you didn’t learn before a particular age, you never could. One particluar woman from our church, I recall, said it was okay for boys to take swimming lessons, but not girls, because “while they’re learning, some guy is going to take them out there and turn into an octopus.”

(I thought the image was hilarious, even after someone explained they were talking about sexual assault; come on, an inexperienced swimmer can pull a good swimmer trying to rescue them to a mutual death, you think someone fighting off a groper can do less?)

When another woman pointed out they could get lessons from a female teacher, and it would be better to know how to swim, in case they ever fell into the water somewhere, than not.

“I just stay away from the water, and so will my daughters!”

Which is very shortsighted, but then we approach many things about young people’s education that way, like abstinence-only sexual education. The latter is far more dangerous than not teaching kids how to swim. Statistics show that kids with abstinence-only sex ed are absolutely no less likely to have sex sooner than their parents think they ought, and far, far, far more likely to have unprotected sex when they do.

And don’t get me started on all the myths and misunderstandings about sex that plague people for decades into unhappy marriages!

Not teaching kids truthfully about sex is like not teaching them about healthy food. Yes, you need to pick age-appropriate levels of disclosure, but it is a natural part of life, and just as important to one’s health, mental and otherwise.

But, hey, If you want to stick with, “Just stay away!” I have a bridge I’d like to sell you.

Surplus Population

In A Christmas Carol, when Scrooge is trying to get rid of the men soliciting charity donations, he declares, “If they would rather die, they had better do it and decrease the surplus population!” Later, the Ghost of Christmas Present hurls that line back at Scrooge, when Scrooge is worrying about Tiny Tim’s health. The notion of people’s lives being a surplus to be disposed of sounds harsh to us, but it was an accepted notion to many people at the time.

Long before Dickens wrote that line, in fact, before Dickens himself was born, the British Parliament passed the Chimney Sweepers Act 1788, which, among other things, forbid Chimney Sweeps from “hiring” apprentices less than eight years of age. Climbing boy (sometimes girls) where small children essentially sold by families too poor to feed all their kids to Chimney Sweeps. They climbed up through the elaborate and dirty ducts of industrial chimneys to clear and clean them. It was a hard and dangerous life. Most died before puberty. Virtually all that live past puberty died in their late teens from “a most noisome, painful and fatal disease” called Soot Wart, which was eventually identified as Chimney Sweep’s Cancer, the first identified industrial-caused cancer.

But a lot of them didn’t live long enough to succumb to the cancer, since the soot they literally lived in (one master chimney sweep once famously disparaged another because he actually allowed his climbing boys more than two baths a year) contains all sorts of nasty substances, including arsenic. Others got trapped in chimneys where if they were lucky they would die of asphyxiation before they were literally cooked to death.

Then there was the habit some bosses had of setting a fire once the boy was up to make sure he moved fast (if he didn’t work fast enough, he died from smoke inhalation).

Being a climbing boy wasn’t truly an apprenticeship. The only skill one learned was climbing chimneys, and that didn’t lead to better employment. They were never paid wages. And their room and board included a nightly routine of standing close to a fire and while having elbows and knees scrubbed with brine on a stiff brush (which toughened the skin into something that resembled an insect’s carapace). In Scotland Chimney Sweeps didn’t use climbing boys at all, but rather pulled sets of rags and specially designed brushes up through the chimneys one ropes. In 1803 a man named George Smarts invented a mechanical sweeping machine, but virtually no one in the U.S. or U.K. used it.

But the climbing boys system was cheaper. The 1788 act was never really enforced, neither were subsequent acts (1834, 1840) that set the age higher and called for various health and safety measures. One reason they weren’t enforced is because the enforcement mechanisms proposed in each bill were always amended out in order to get enough votes to pass. A very few Master Chimney Sweeps switched to the mechanical brush system. From time a politician or other somewhat prominent person would take up the cause, but sending boys up the chimneys was cheaper and mostly worked. The price of the suffering and death wasn’t factored in because, well, there were always more boys.

It wasn’t until 1875 when a Coroner’s Inquest first ruled the death of a boy in a chimney as manslaughter (rather than “death by misadventure”) that anything really changed.

Then there were the baby farming scandals of the 1870s, in which people who were supposed to be fostering children (many orphaned, but most were the children of unwed or widowed mothers who had to work in grueling factory conditions, and couldn’t care for their own children) were systematically murdering them.

Or people like H.H. Holmes, who’s “murder hotel” was shut down in 1894, but not before he murdered (then either dismembered and sold to medical schools, or incinerated) between 100 and 200 people (modern serial killers are amateurs by comparison).

We live in this delusion that our modern world is more brutal and uncaring than “the good old days.” An event like a theatre shooting happens, and we tut-tut about how much more dangerous our modern world is.

Never mind that murder rates have been going down for centuries. The murder rate, as a percentage of the population, is far, far lower in 2012 than it was in 1812. Never mind that in the 18th and 19th century the overwhelming majority of deaths were due to violence, accident, or illness that is now preventable. It is only in relatively recent times that most people can look forward to the probability of dying of old age, rather than any of those other things.

The times are not getting more brutal. People are not more uncaring than we used to be.

And the solution is definitely not to turn back the clock. We’ve been steadily decreasing the number of deaths suffered through violence, industrial accident, and so forth for a couple of hundred years by incrementally improving how we do things—and sometimes that means imposing regulations with real penalties.

Can’t prove a negative…

An oft repeated truism is,”You can’t prove a negative” by which people usually mean that it’s impossible to prove that something does not exist. This is a retooling of another old saying: absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. Many people believe it is a law of logic.

It’s not. And it isn’t true outside of logic, either.

In most legal systems a form of this principle exists, though it’s usually expressed as a burden of proof argument: the defense doesn’t have to prove that their client didn’t do it, they just have to show that the prosecution hasn’t conclusively proven that the client did do it. However, that doesn’t mean that the defense isn’t allowed to go the extra mile. If the defense can prove that another person actually committed the crime, for instance, or if they prove that it was physically impossible for their client to have done it, they have proven a negative.

In mathematics we have proof by impossibility, which is another form of proving the negative. And in logic you can use a rule of inference called “denying the consequent” to prove other kinds of negatives.

So the next time someone accuses someone of something horrid with little evidence, and replies to any arguments by saying, “you can’t prove it didn’t happen!” Point out that they have the burden of proof wrong: the accuser is the one who has something to prove. The rest of us just have to raise reasonable doubts…

Parading

Several years ago I wrote descriptions of three parades I’d attended in Seattle. The Seafair Torchlight Family Parade had been full of drunkenness, near-nudity (and more than a few flashed nipples and butts), and many floats built around a sexual innuendo or erotic pun. The Fremont Arts Council Solstice Parade had featured (as it does every year) the nude bicyclists, among other things. While the Pride Parade that year had had a lot of families, several church groups, fully-clothed people dancing, one large group with their adorable Corgi dogs… and in general a lot less nudity and sexual innuendo than I had seen the year before at the Seafair Family parade.

Which isn’t to say there wasn’t nudity and innuendo, along with brightly-colored feathers, beads, and way more body glitter than you can imagine. But the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer Pride Parade and Freedom Day March (if I am correctly recalling what the official title was that year) contained a lot less flaunting of sexuality than either of the other two.

Another big difference between the Pride Parade and those others is a tradition that’s been around since the very first: as the parade goes by, members of the community that have been watching step off the curb and join, performing the simple (yet significant) act of walking up the street proclaiming that you refuse to keep hiding in the closet. That’s how a dozen fully clothed people with Gay Pride signs who started marching up New York City’s Fifth Avenue that June morning in 1970 became a crowd of thousands of Gay men and Lesbians by the time it reached Central Park.

It’s not the same closet that each of us is refusing to return to. The first time I joined the march, I was only at the, “I’m not sure where I fit, exactly, but I know I’m not heterosexual and I’m ready to stop hiding” stage. A couple years later I was at the “Yeah, I’m Gay or Queer or whatever you call it; You have a problem with that?” Then I mellowed to the “Yep! I’m Gay!” which quickly became “What do you mean, you didn’t know we’re Gay?”

Others march to say, “I’m way too fabulous for any label!” While others march to say, “People I knew and loved have died, but I’ve survived, and I will not let you forget them!” or “No matter how many times you beat me down, I’m standing back up!” Others join the march to say, “I’m not gay or bisexual or any of those things, but people I love are, and if you have a problem with them, then you’ve got a problem with me!”

And because there are people who do have problems with us, because kids are bullied (sometimes to death) just because other people think they might be one of us, because we’ve come so far, because we’ve still got battles before us, because each and every person is a miracle, because no one should be ashamed to love, we need to keep having these parades.

So, let’s celebrate!

Failing to learn from history…

Growing up in Southern Baptist Churches (though not, technically, in the South), I was taught that the denomination was formed during the Civil War. Because there was an actual war going on, annual conventions couldn’t meet. Also, I was told, a lot of the northern churches were mixed up in politics and had been looking for an excuse to ditch the southern churches who were more concerned with missionary work.

Later, I learned that almost every last one of those details was utterly false.

The Southern Baptist Churches split off from the nationwide Triennial Baptist Convention 15 years prior to the Civil War. The primary reason they split was that the Southern Churches were pro-slavery. They were extremely pro-slavery, arguing that God picked which people were born one race or another because he knew which ones needed to be subservient, and which needed to be in charge. Most of the people who attended Baptist churches in the North were anti-slavery, and thought that all humans, being God’s children, should be equal before the law.

Continue reading Failing to learn from history…