There are racists with good aim: White folks who know how to throw a brick; How to spit, How to hit their mark On my bloody back. They’re easy to spot, I can try to avoid But their strong arms Make my bones and my spirt crack.
And then there are well-meaning racists, With soft words And good intent. And silence as your life goes down the golden road To hell. They make you hurt. They leave no mark. And they smile at you all the while. How can I avoid What I can hardly see? So many of them in alternative communities. And when I bleed The pain is on the inside My lungs fill with blood From their two-faced lies.
Must I choose Between a kick, a bruise And those who dismiss, withhold and use? I can dress physical scars With bandages and gauze. How can I soothe? How can I heal? The disdain they hold me in their eyes? Never being seen as human By an enemy who smiles. It makes me doubt my own mind. But racism is a tool to keep folk like me down Whether a punch to my face Or destruction with a smile.
The little girl inside me laughs and claps I skip over cracks See my stride, watch my flow See me strutting through this town See me walking. See my fat
A white boy catches the little girl’s eye He’s nothing but a teen, but still he knows how To spit, to scowl, point and laugh See me falter See my fat
I ain’t your mammy, shut your mouth I ain’t your dancer, your exotic queen I’m just a shadow when the lights burn bright
See her shrinking
See my fat
If my little girl disappears who will take her space
The space she takes just walking down the street?
How can any fat person ever make it out in one piece
Why I Stopped Watching Doctor Who - Sci-fi and Fantasy Network: Fans of Colour deserve better roles, better writing and better visibility in Science fiction and fantasy!
Three great African science fiction and fantasy writers at EasterCon 2016
MancuniCon - EasterCon 2016
EasterCon 2016 took place at the Hilton hotel Deansgate, Manchester. It was my second time attending this event. I was able to get a free membership through Con or Bust, but I didn’t receive any other financial assistance. I was lucky though - Virgin had a train ticket sale, so I got really cheap travel to the event. I was asked to be on a few panels - Poetry, Diversity in UK Science fiction and fantasy, and an interestingly named panel: Are we heading for a superhero crash?
I knew that I would be in the minority, as a black bisexual, nonbinary person at EasterCon, but I was determined to have a good time regardless. This intent didn’t last long however, as I was subject to a lot of micro and macro aggressions throughout the four-day event. There were some good parts: free books, interesting writing sessions, and meeting up with friends. I was really pleased when I raised concerns over the timing of the Diversity session which had been placed last thing on a Sunday - the organisers moved it to Friday afternoon instead. The session on maths explained by juggling was a blast, and the session on putting twists into your stories was enlightening. Meeting three African Science Fiction writers was like a dream come true. But unfortunately the bad parts of EasterCon made me wish I’d never gone, and that’s really sad.
The first negative thing happened in the Poetry session. I read a poem I’d written about Game of Thrones, and the racism, misogyny and bigotry that made it difficult for me to watch. Another poet, who said she only had a single poem to read, was very upset by my work. She stated that she knew someone involved in Game of Thrones, who would be very angry if he had heard my poem. I started to get worried: what if that guy was at EasterCon? Would I be in physical danger because of what I’d written? Sadly, the moderator seemed to take it as a joke - she even said the session was turning into a rap battle.
The angry poet went to the toilet later in the session. When she returned, she announced that she’d written a poem whilst away. She proceeded to read her rebuttal to my poem, which likened my rejection of Game of Thrones, to being sexually assaulted. I was absolutely gobsmacked by this. The moderator looked ill at ease too but she didn’t intervene or do anything. I wondered if a white person had written my work, would they have been subject to this? Would they be afraid as I was? I felt very upset by the whole thing, and even though I had two friends in the audience, I felt alone with the feelings.
The second negative thing at EasterCon happened after the Superhero Crash session. I mentioned to the moderator that I had received a free membership from Con or Bust. The moderator looked me up and down, and stated, “Yes, of course you’d have to.” I was pretty taken aback by this. She continued in a condescending tone, “I think we need to put conditions on the free memberships to Con or Bust, to ensure that new coloured people can attend.” I was disgusted by her use of the term ‘coloured’ and appalled that she would wield her power in saying which people of colour could use Con or Bust’s service. This was the moment when I promised myself to never come back to EasterCon. It didn’t seem to matter how inclusive they tried to be, if there was no back-up to their intentions. When I looked at the Code of Conduct, there was no acknowledgment of the bigotry and bad behaviour that could be inflicted: instead they used an example of someone being upset about meals at the hotel. I didn’t want to talk to anyone in charge about what I’d experienced, because I thought they wouldn’t really listen - this wasn’t a random attendee saying horrible things to me, it was moderators and other panellists.
Speaking of Moderators, many of the ones I saw at EasterCon seemed unprepared, ineffective, and on two occasions quite drunk. Moderators hold a lot of power; but if they’re not briefed adequately, then it means nothing.
It has taken me a long time to write up this report; partly because I didn’t want to portray the event as negative. But it was very negative for me. I don’t want any other people of colour to be treated this poorly when they take part in SFF events, but time and again I see things like this happening, with very little change. Science fiction and fantasy is an escape for me, but EasterCon wasn’t an escape from the bigotry I experience almost daily. Even though this event is run by volunteers, that doesn’t excuse this behaviour. We all deserve better than this.
I wrote the poem below for MancuniCon, the U.K. Easter sci fi convention. I sadly experienced a few racist incidents whilst at this event, as I do most places I go. However, when I wrote this poem, I thought about how white science fiction and fantasy is in general, and how the possibility of people of colour inhabiting a fictional space makes so many defensive unless we are subservient to white folks. The poem is inspired by my all time fave episode of any Star Trek series, Far Beyond the Stars, on Deep Space Nine.
Jake Sisko
I don’t want to be the only black soul in space
I don’t want to break through the atmosphere I don’t wanna blast off to an unknown place I want to stay right here
Cos if black folks board those rocket ships Ain’t nothing new it gonna prove Cos all they really want us for Is to shine those white folks shoes
You may say a brave new world’s waiting Where a man can truly be free But this black soul be contemplating This here world and the racist cruelty I’ve seen
Freedom don’t come beyond the stars I won’t find it way up there Freedom means stories of my own Where black folks sit in the captain’s chair
And ain’t it sweet you imagine aliens Being red and blue and green But black folks in sci-fi are impossible Too unbelievable to be seen
That’s why I choose to write what I do Black fantasy is why I’m here Far beyond the stars may look good to you But son, I ain’t got the fare
This is how the journey goes for me: loneliness, isolation and desperation. It happens in that order, although it should never have to happen at all. As a bisexual person of colour, my chances for socialising are not that high. Racism, biphobia and misogynoir is an awfully powerful mixture to deal with. I cannot separate myself into palatable pieces others find easier to digest. I cannot and should not even be thinking of myself like that. This is the first part of the journey. I start to make compromises; hell we al do in some ways. But for bisexual people, we compromise when we hide parts of ourselves - our sexual orientation from others just to feel closer,to feel accepted and less of a freak. That trick may work for a while, but to have any kind of self respect means that sooner or later, it will become a stone in our mouth. The truth will out, and even if it only comes out to ourselves, it will still feel like a betrayal.
I am a social person; as much as I need time alone, I still want to be with others. Spending half my life with an immediate family whose numbers were more than twenty people, doesn’t make it easy for me to cook for one, to talk to no one, to always be alone. Rejection is a thing I’ve known; from my abusive family, from lesbians and gays, and white bisexuals too. Loneliness is a thing I’ve had to deal with for so long. Loneliness isn’t just the absence of others, but for me, it’s the thing that leads to isolation and desperation. Loneliness is me sitting in a gay bar and feeling like I have the word ‘Bisexual’ stamped on my forehead, as folks ignore me. Loneliness is me having no reflection of my life when I look in the Voice newspaper, or Ebony and Essence magazine.
Isolation is a structural result of biphobia, racism and misogynoir in LGBT and straight communities. It is a process that makes me actively alone. Isolation silences and squashes my attempts to be a member of communities where I could belong. Now don’t get me wrong - I give a lot of talks on bisexuality, mental health and racism. I write a lot of blog posts, articles and pieces too. But as soon as I switch off my computer, I disappear. When I end my talk, I become an unwanted guest in someone else’s space. Isolation gives more power to biphobia, racism and misogynoir that is directed at me constantly. Isolation is LGBT events that are too expensive for me to ever afford to attend. Isolation is having community events in pubs, when I sometimes cannot bear to be around alcohol or drunk people. The feeling that I will be alone forever is what makes isolation so cruel; it takes away any vision of a future I may have dreamed of, and leaves nothing but silence in its wake.
Desperation is the cold side of the bed when my abusive ex-boyfriend finally left. Desperation is the fact that I stayed with him so long, despite the fact that he said I was no better than a whore. The loss of self respect; the journey I’d been on since loneliness became my partner, led me to that place. There are worse things than being alone - I know that, but I am ashamed at what loneliness and isolation has made me do. I’m not making excuses either. I know that isolation is a tactic many abusive people use to separate their victims from possible sources of help and support. But when I face so any types of oppression on a daily basis, I am often afraid to face the alternatives of an empty room, an empty bed and an empty life.
Another tactic abusive people use is to make you feel grateful for any crumbs of affection and attention they toss your way. It is not easy for me to write this, but I have been there, scrabbling around on the floor, searching for anything to feed my starving heart, even when I knew there was a high probability it would only men a boot on my back. Loneliness, isolation and desperation are weapons in the wrong hands. There is no need for these states to be mis-used, but so often I find that they are. When I exist as an already marginalised person, unwilling to be accepted by the communities I could be part of, I am at risk of being treated poorly. The stone in my mouth; the silence in my home; the distance I have travelled on this journey, are all symptoms of how broken this society is. This is the world where women are devalued, racism is excused, nonbinary folks are ignored and bisexuals are never believed to even exist. This is my world and I am a part of it, clinging to the edge of the flattened globe, trying not to tumble into the dark unknown as I make my way to something more. Something better.
When a very brief exchange reminds you why you don’t miss the white middle class bicon world that much any more. (by extension all the other white and middlecass ‘alt’ worlds: lgbtq, kink, geek etc etc)so so much emotional labour of e...
I sat next to a white teenager on a train today; it was my reserved seat, so I didn’t feel anything about it. But then a few minutes before the train was due to depart, the teenager’s dad boarded the train. “You can always move once the train leaves the station,” he said to the boy, a worried look evident on his face. I felt irked, but said nothing as the boy’s dad kept looking nervously at us. The boy stated he was fine where he was. After a short while he left. I tried to let the uncomfortable feeling go: why was sitting beside me such a bad thing? Just as these thoughts entered my mind, the dad returned once more.
“There are some seats at the other end of the carriage. You can move there.”
“I’m okay, dad,” the boy replied.
I wished I’d said something. I wished I had stood, told the dad: “Look if you don’t want your kid sitting next to a fat, black person, just say so!” But I grit my teeth, waited until the dad left again, and moved to another unreserved seat. I could hear the voices telling me I’m too sensitive; that I need to grow a thicker skin. But the look on the dad’s face, his tone of voice and the character he revealed through the words he used, stayed with me for longer than I would have liked. Fatness isn’t contagious, just as blackness isn’t either. But the white gaze despises both of those things. The white gaze says the worst possible thing that could happen is to be black and/or fat. Unfortunately that gaze has been internalised by people of colour too, and on ocassion I feel included in that thought process. But other times I don’t. Other times I feel positive about being a black, fat and nonbinary person. I even wrote a zine about it in happier times. You can buy it here: https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/222492767/body-imagefatness-and-blackness?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=body%20image,%20fatness%20and%20blackness&ref=sr_gallery_1
I’ve had depression for most of my life. I have a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder and Post Traumatic Distress Syndrome. But chronic anxiety was something new to me; until 2014, I’d never experienced it. Anxiety for me wasn’t simply feeling nervous or on edge. Anxiety felt like a blazing fire behind me, and barrels of oil around me, just waiting to explode. Anxiety makes me want to run as fast as I can. It makes me grind my teeth and clench my fists.
I’m invited to give a talk for a panel on LGBT hate crime at a small London police station. I’m surrounded by white police officers, most of whom are wearing body armour. Multiple radios crackle on the table as I clear my throat. I speak about racism of the police, of how biphobia is different to homophobia. There is a strange silence around me. I feel very nervous, but once I start talking I don’t stop until all I’ve wanted to say is done. The police officers are positive – they ask a lot of questions that show how little they now about biphobia. I’m happy to answer them with a smile.
I was raped in 2014. It was not a first for me. I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, which carried on into adulthood and only ended when I ran away aged 22. Shortly after the assault, I got sick. I had severe abdominal pains that landed me in hospital twice. The first of these admissions into Casualty happened on the first day of my new job. I lost my job whilst in hospital. I also had a breakdown. Everything seemed to be happening at once. Chronic anxiety shoved its way into my life, and it hasn’t left.
I lead a workshop for the British Psychological Society on mental health and LGBT people. I print out webpages from a few organisations who claim they can help. Most of these pages only ever use the word Gay. Any illustrations are of white people. Bisexuals are never mentioned. People of colour are never mentioned. Intersections of oppression are ignored. I ask the group to look at the sheets and tell the others what they want to see changed; how these organisations could do better. The participants have lots of ideas. I’m happy to see their enthusiasm. As soon as the workshop ends, my stomach bunches into painful knots. I want to hide in a corner. I do exactly that until someone I know spots me.
I blame myself some days for being raped. I feel like I should have known what to do. I should have been able to stop it. I should have pushed them away. I shouldn’t have been frozen in place. I shouldn’t have waited until they left and I knew I was safe before I started crying. Anxiety makes it difficult to breathe when I think that way. Anxiety makes me want to step in front of a bus. Somehow I keep on living.
Twitter and Tumblr have been lifelines for me; when I was in hospital, it kept me in touch with people I know who live thousands of miles away. Tumblr in particular lets me see images of people similar to me, all of whom seem to live in the U.S. Twitter is great, but it is also chock full of mean people who slip into my mentions with racist, biphobic and sexist trash. My block hand is strong. But my anxiety is stronger. I dread clicking on the little bird symbol most days. Sometimes I want to smash my computer into pieces. The only thing stopping me is knowing I wouldn’t be able to watch Steven Universe otherwise.
I was a survivor before I started writing this. I’m a survivor when I speak in front of hundreds of people. Reading my smutty stories out loud in the past has prepared me well for public speaking. But when I’m alone, the anxiety barges in to the front of my mind. When I’m in crowds, I want to disappear into the shadows. Bisexual activism makes me feel like a confident, competent human. It also fills me with despair when I see how aggressive it makes (mostly lesbian and gay) people. I stand on the edge of a knife, trying to balance the positive things my activism can do, with the hatred it exposes me to. I feel anxiety pushing me on to the blade.
I’m invited to speak at Totnes Pride in Devon. I accept without hesitation.
