And if you’re upset because I put gay characters and a gay protagonist in the book, I got nothing for you. Sorry, you squawking saurian — meteor’s coming. And it’s a fabulously gay Nyan Cat meteor with a rainbow trailing behind it and your mode of thought will be extinct. You’re not the Rebel Alliance. You’re not the good guys. You’re the fucking Empire, man. You’re the shitty, oppressive, totalitarian Empire. If you can imagine a world where Luke Skywalker would be irritated that there were gay people around him, you completely missed the point of Star Wars. It’s like trying to picture Jesus kicking lepers in the throat instead of curing them. Stop being the Empire. Join the Rebel Alliance. We have love and inclusion and great music and cute droids.
Chuck Windig, author of the newest Star Wars tie-in novel, to people who’re pissed about the book having a gay protagonist. (via trilies)
You’re fourteen and you’re reading Larry Niven’s “The Protector” because it’s your father’s favorite book and you like your father and you think he has good taste and the creature on the cover of the book looks interesting and you want to know what it’s about. And in it the female character does something better than the male character – because she’s been doing it her whole life and he’s only just learned – and he gets mad that she’s better at it than him. And you don’t understand why he would be mad about that, because, logically, she’d be better at it than him. She’s done it more. And he’s got a picture of a woman painted on the inside of his spacesuit, like a pinup girl, and it bothers you.
But you’re fourteen and you don’t know how to put this into words.
And then you’re fifteen and you’re reading “Orphans of the Sky” because it’s by a famous sci-fi author and it’s about a lost generation ship and how cool is that?!? but the women on the ship aren’t given a name until they’re married and you spend more time wondering what people call those women up until their marriage than you do focusing on the rest of the story. Even though this tidbit of information has nothing to do with the plot line of the story and is only brought up once in passing.
But it’s a random thing to get worked up about in an otherwise all right book.
Then you’re sixteen and you read “Dune” because your brother gave it to you for Christmas and it’s one of those books you have to read to earn your geek card. You spend an entire afternoon arguing over who is the main character – Paul or Jessica. And the more you contend Jessica, the more he says Paul, and you can’t make him see how the real hero is her. And you love Chani cause she’s tough and good with a knife, but at the end of the day, her killing Paul’s challengers is just a way to degrade them because those weenies lost to a girl.
Then you’re seventeen and you don’t want to read “Stranger in a Strange Land” after the first seventy pages because something about it just leaves a bad taste in your mouth. All of this talk of water-brothers. You can’t even pin it down.
And then you’re eighteen and you’ve given up on classic sci-fi, but that doesn’t stop your brother or your father from trying to get you to read more.
Even when you bring them the books and bring them the passages and show them how the authors didn’t treat women like people.
Your brother says, “Well, that was because of the time it was written in.”
You get all worked up because these men couldn’t imagine a world in which women were equal, in which women were empowered and intelligent and literate and capable.
You tell him – this, this is science fiction. This is all about imagining the world that could be and they couldn’t stand back long enough and dare to imagine how, not only technology would grow in time, but society would grow.
But he blows you off because he can’t understand how it feels to be fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen and desperately wanting to like the books your father likes, because your father has good taste, and being unable to, because most of those books tell you that you’re not a full person in ways that are too subtle to put into words. It’s all cognitive dissonance: a little like a song played a bit out of tempo – enough that you recognize it’s off, but not enough to pin down what exactly is wrong.
And then one day you’re twenty-two and studying sociology and some kind teacher finally gives you the words to explain all those little feelings that built and penned around inside of you for years.
It’s like the world clicking into place.
And that’s something your brother never had to struggle with.
This is an excellent post to keep in mind when you see another recent post criticizing the current trend of dystopian sci-fi and going on about how sci-fi used to be about hope and wonder.
In the wake of Mark Oshiro’s report on his experience at ConQuest, I am really fed up with the behavior of some fans and pros (NOT ALL FANS, NOT ALL PROS, sigh, let’s get that out of the way before the avalanche of indignant denials). His report didn’t shock me. I’ve seen the same behavior for years–I’ve even sometimes found it funny, but not in that context. Been on similar panels where the tone-deafness of the panelists burns.
But you know what? It’s not necessarily the fault of the volunteers throwing conventions. Audiences and panelists must hold each other accountable if fandom is going to continue as it began. ConComs are not gods. They can’t vet moderators, they can’t interview panelists about every panel topic to see if they’re qualified. They are organizers of a show for which they don’t get paid, and while they do shoulder the burden for responding to bad behavior, WE are responsible for responding immediately to the bad behavior in the first place. (I have been guilty of letting things slide, of trying to play “can’t we all get along,” of not pushing myself hard enough to be articulate and responsible. And I’m sorry. If you see me falling short or saying dumbass things, stand up and say so. I will learn and grow as a person from that discussion.)
As of 2016, SF/F conventions are 80 years old. If we want them to continue much longer, we need to take action.
So here’s my personal manifesto for 2016 and beyond.
1) I will, before the convention, ask for and review my panel schedule. If I am a moderator, I will prepare questions in advance and circulate them to the panelists if at all possible. If not possible, I will advise them before the panel if I can, and provide them with printed copies. If I’m a panelist, I will take time to find out about others on the panel.
2) If I am assigned to a panel that I’m not qualified to be on, I will ask to be switched out with someone more appropriate. I won’t just hold down a seat. There are people who can and should speak with authority. If at any point I spot someone in the audience who is better qualified, I will ask them to switch out with me because the audience is there to get the best panel.
3) I will not participate on any more “Strong Woman Character” or “Women Writer” panels. All characters should be strong, women are not aliens from Planet Female, and END OF DAMN DISCUSSION WHY DO WE EVEN HAVE IT COME ON.
4) I will not participate on any more “Why Read YA” panels, because in the wake of 15+ years of amazing, groundbreaking, bestselling work being done in YA, it’s a dumb question, and we’re dumb for asking. I will, however, happily participate in “How writing and reading YA enriches SF/F” or similar topics, because it’s kicking ass and we’re delighted to talk about the exciting work there. (I will also ask for panel title adjustments/description adjustments when appropriate.)
5) I *will* call bullshit. If you are on a panel and say inappropriate things–by which I mean, things that are hurtful, ignorant, demeaning or abusive–I will confront, in public, what you say or do. If you continue, shit will get real. Tables will flip. I am no longer going to be Texas Nice about it, because apparently that doesn’t get us anywhere.
And before someone slaps down the PC card: Funny is one thing. Humor is admittedly subjective. But making people deliberately uncomfortable and then getting angry when they don’t find you funny is quite another. I’ve observed it over and over–do something in poor taste, then angrily turn it back on the person who “can’t take a joke” and call them humorless, PC, feminist, etc. Guess what? Being an asshole has nothing to do with rebelling against PC culture. It’s just giving yourself license to be an asshole. And what’s the first rule of being a good person? DON’T BE AN ASSHOLE. It’s a low bar. If you overstep (and we all do), apologize sincerely and move on.
And btw: uncomfortable laughter from other panelists/audience is not approval. It’s self-defense.
If you want to do an R-rated panel or show, cool, conventions have always been safe space for that. People can choose whether or not to attend and know what they’re in for. But don’t drag us into it when we’re supposed to be talking about something else altogether in a general audience. And don’t drag fellow panelists who aren’t down with it into it.
6) If I see a bad situation developing at other times–in hallways, at parties, etc.–I will intervene, confront, and do what I can to prevent it from happening again. As a panelist and guest, that is my responsibility.That includes asking the person made uncomfortable if they want to report it.
So, fair warning: regional conventions, if you want me back, you’re getting Rachel Caine 2.0.
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