I feel good about giving money to the ACLU.
Today we published a full-page open letter in the New York Times to President-elect Trump pic.twitter.com/FOpRqn9oNY
— ACLU National (@ACLU) November 11, 2016
This week, America sent a resounding message to many of its citizens: you don’t matter.
We sent this message, cishet white America. You and me.
We trumpeted this message via 305 electoral votes to women, immigrants, the disabled, people of color, queer people, Muslims, Jewish people, sexual assault victims, and every other marginalized group in this country.
These Americans were told that their personal safety, their families, their futures, and their lives do not have value for the majority of their countryfolk.
We did this. Over 50% of white female voters did this. Over 60% of white male voters did this. We sent this message, we told our fellow Americans to be afraid. We have normalized racism, misogyny, transphobia, homophobia, xenophobia, and hate.
“But I didn’t vote for—”
Doesn’t matter. We are all culpable by our complacency. We all need to look in the mirror and ask what we did—or did not do—to enable this to happen.
We have told our fellow Americans that they don’t matter, and the next 4 (probably 4+) years are going to be terrible for them. They are going to live in fear. They are going to be injured, killed, and assaulted, they will lose their health care, they will have their basic human rights taken away. They are going to live with the fear and expectation that these things could occur at any moment. (More so than before, I mean. Following the Black Lives Matter movement has been eye-opening for me and my liberal whiteness.)
As a woman, I am absolutely on the list of people who don’t matter. But I am a middle-class cishet white woman living in the liberal utopia of Boston, Massachusetts. Frankly, I’ll probably be OK. I’m lucky.
Not everyone is going to be lucky.
We fucked this up, white America, and now we need to fix it. We need to be there. We need to be angry and sad, and compassionate. We need to listen and protect, and most importantly we need to act. It’s on us.
I am closing comments on this post because I don’t really feel like having a dialogue about this. My site, my prerogative.
It’s that time again! When nerds across Massachusetts travel many miles in blistering August heat in heavy, uncomfortable cosplay to attend that Mecca of geek shopping and celebrity photo ops: Boston Comic Con.
My schedule only permitted me to attend BCC on Saturday and Sunday this year; I usually go Fridays and Sundays because Saturdays are insaaaaaane. This year was no exception. The crowds were out of control ginormous (and, truthfully, slightly rude and unpleasant) and the AC was not working quite as well as one might hope for an August day. Sunday was a bit better for the crowds, though the AC was still tentative at best.
I managed to persevere through adversity, though, and do what I do best—spend money. Celebrity photo ops aren’t really my style and I don’t generally go to panels, so for me BCC is really just a giant pop-up geek mall.
This year’s treasures:
I’m going to start in the upper left and kind of zig-zag down.
Whew! I think I did pretty well.
That said, I’m not sure I’m going to BCC next year. It sounds like it’s been sold and the new owners are already jacking up the prices for the tables in Artists Alley, which a) may affect whether or not artists want to—or are able to—attend and b) can only be an early indicator of what they’ll try to milk out of the attendees. I’ll have to see what happens, and what artists and vendors the new management is able to get, and whether or not the con is now being run by assholes. Word on the street is that they were trying to force artists to sign up for next year, at the higher rate, by the end of Sunday with no notice or time to think about it, so that’s not like a great start to a relationship.
But this year was fun! Now I need to go frame shopping, I guess.
Well, my March writing challenge is obviously over, as it is no longer March. I’ll be honest though, power writing month kind of fizzled out partway through and frankly ended well before the end of the month. Overall, I wrote 17/31 days, the final one being March 20th.
I think I learned—because why do this if not to learn—that I can’t sustain writing fiction every day. At least not right now, with a full-time job. I burn out, and I rebound by not writing at all. That’s not helpful.
(This is not really news to me; this is just a further demonstration of this method not working.)
So I’ll keep plugging along, testing and trying and figuring out what works for me. I’ve been writing for 20+ years; you’d think I’d know what works by now. Ha!
So, a few days into my March writing challenge, how am I doing?
Well, I almost couldn’t get my act together last night. I came home from work, cooked a somewhat complicated dinner, watched this week’s Face Off, and then it was like 11pm and the idea of producing words with my brain was extremely overwhelming. Then I was like, Grace you can’t break the chain on the third day. That’s embarrassing. So I wrote five lines of dialogue and went to bed. Huzzah! Every word counts.
This writing every day thing is extremely good for me. I can tell already. I’ve already had two nights where I sat down to write “just like one paragraph” and the words just kept coming. I’m making progress in the novel, and I feel good about my writing (and Being a Writer) for the first time in a while.
So, on Day #4 of the experiment, I feel like things are going pretty well. Onward!