Why I Am Charlie (and you are, too)

So, everyone has been talking about Charlie Hebdo lately, and I said a bit about it on tumblr last week after the debates started getting heated, and now after doing some more reading and thinking, I want to say some more. 

I've never been personally attacked or threatened for my writing, but I know people who have been. It's not pretty. And while I acknowledge there's a very real difference between satirizing people or institutions with power and privilege at their command, and satirizing marginalized groups who are often the targets of random acts of hatred and violence themselves, the bottom line is that committing violence against people for speaking their minds is wrong.

John Scalzi's response to all this fervor hit the nail on the head. In talking about whether or not we agree with or support Charlie Hebdo's ideology, he says:

"my comfort level is about me, not about Charlie Hebdo or anyone else. Free speech, taken as a principle rather than a specific constitutional practice, means everyone has a right to share their ideas, in their own space, no matter how terrible or obnoxious or racist or stupid or inconsequential I or anyone else think they and their ideas are."

Take, for example, the movie The Interview. The queens of comedy Fey and Poehler roasted it a bit last night at the Golden Globes, saying that the controversy forced us all to pretend we wanted to see it-- quite accurately, because I didn't want to, and still don't. But I was deeply unnerved by Sony's capitulating response to North Korea's threats. (Chuck Wendig did the best job of explaining why that should make us all nervous, in case you weren't already.)

As artists, we have a responsibility to make the art we feel compelled to make. It might be snarky, offensive, racist, or just plain crap. But that doesn't mean we should be denied the right to make it, or that violence and murder is an acceptable response to art we don't like.

People have drawn parallels to Rush Limbaugh and asked if we would be defending him so hard if he'd been the one attacked for his hate speech. And as much as I hate to admit it, my answer is yes. I would rather be force-fed live slugs than do anything to support Limbaugh (I'm not even comfortable calling him an artist, but speaking your mind via film/music/graphics/writing and speaking your mind via rancid diatribes on the radio are not distinguishable in the eyes of the law, so the comparison stands). I loathe the man, and I wish he would come down with a case of permanent laryngitis or, you know, a lobotomy. But if someone were to murder him for speaking his tiny, bigoted mind, that would not be okay, and I would absolutely stand up in the street to protest that event.

Like Wendig says in his article about The Interview: protesting the things we find objectionable is part of social discourse. Threatening or enacting violence upon people for making or looking at art is fucked up and always, always wrong.

So yeah, #jesuischarlie. But whether you use the hashtag or not, you are Charlie too-- because you click links on Facebook, because you look at videos on YouTube, because you're reading this blog. 

Because if murder as a response to art is okay, then that means we're giving governments and terrorist groups the power to decide what art is okay to make and what isn't. And if we go there, pretty soon the line between those who make the art and those who consume it is going to blur, and that's the start of a slippery slide. 

It's simple: either free speech is protected or it isn't. If people are allowed to make films like Selma and Pride, to write Watchmen and put a gay wedding on the cover of an X-Men comic, then people are also allowed to draw racist cartoons and make terrible movies about assassinating Kim Jong Il and shout on the radio about the dangerous plague of gays in America. 

We don't have to agree with Charlie Hebdo. We don't have to support their art or validate their points of view. But we can't lose sight of the fact that last week two men took 12 innocent lives because they didn't like some cartoons. And if we don't make it clear that we will not be silenced by terror, the person who uses guns as their first line of social discourse will never have any reason to put down the gun and try picking up a pencil instead.

Disney made a mistake, but Emily Asher-Perrin didn't.

Earlier this week over on tor.com, Emily Asher-Perrin posted a thoughtful and, I thought, pretty spot on analysis of what Tangled, Brave, and Frozen all got wrong-- namely, that while they have female protagonists, they completely lack any female supporting cast, up to and including the animal sidekicks.

I know we're not supposed to read the comments, but I did. And after a lot of eyerolling, I came across one commenter who sparked a reply in me, which I'd like to expand on here.

The commenter wrote:

...why single out these three films when this happens EVERYWHERE. The critique really should be why does this happen (and everywhere, not just three Disney films, as in this essay here): one of the biggest selling genre series was written by a woman and it's a pretty white, male, heterosexual magical and muggle world that she's depicted.

And hey, that's not a bad question. Why target Disney, when this issue is disgustingly rampant and, let's face it, kids' movies are not even close to the majority of films that get produced in the US on a yearly basis?

It all comes down to how we critique, how we begin to frame the conversation. As I replied to that Tor commenter, an examination of the relegation of women to nameless windowdressing in all Disney films would be a dissertation, not a blog post. Lists help keep the discussion focused-- by critiquing these three films, Asher-Perrin isn't saying that they're the only films that need critiquing, she's using them as a jumping-off point to start a wider examination of the inherent sexism in Hollywood.

And boy, what a can of worms that is. The Huffington Post reported in 2012 that a study by the Geena Davis Institute on Gender and Media that looked at nearly 12,000 roles in prime time TV, children's TV, and family films, "...[researchers] found a lack of aspirational female role models in all three media categories, and cited five main observations: female characters are sidelined, women are stereotyped and sexualized, a clear employment imbalance exists, women on TV come up against a glass ceiling, and there are not enough female characters working in STEM fields."

Ouch.

Let's take this a bit further. In 2013, the MPAA reported that the share of tickets sold to 2-11 year olds was at its highest point since 2009 (page 2), accounting for 12% of frequent (once a month or more) moviegoers (page 12). 7 of the top 25 grossing movies of 2013 were rated PG or under (page 23) with 4 children's films appearing in the top 10.

In a world where women account for only 28% of speaking roles in family films, that's a pretty strong message we're giving, over and over, to really young kids.

Studies show that kids learn a lot about gender roles and job expectations from media. If the TV tells them that 72% of people with important things to say are men, they're going to grow up thinking that's reality. If the TV tells them a 14 to 1 ratio of men to women in STEM fields is normal, they're going to internalize that as truth without even realizing it.

I say again: ouch.

The lack of adequate, varied representation of women in media is a big problem, one that reaches way further than Disney. But if we're going to critique, why not start there? Of course we want to erode entrenched sexism now, see more representation on our screens now. But it's also important to do whatever we can do to stop the cycle now, and give the next generation a chance to grow up without being spoon-fed so much subtextual sexism.

The point of Asher-Perrin's post was that if a juggernaut like Disney, who rakes in money even on its weakest offerings, were to start the ball rolling on equal representation, it might give other filmmakers (and artists, and writers) the courage to follow suit. The Tor commenter was wrong: Asher-Perrin's critique shouldn't be different from what it is, it should stand alongside and be considered intersectionally with critiques of other films, other studios, other media.

Her post is a gateway to a larger consideration of the kinds of movies and media we offer our kids, and especially in light of the Frozen fever that doesn't seem to be releasing its grip on America's kids (and adults!) anytime soon, I applaud her for getting the discussion started.

A Guide to Recognizing Your Geeks

goodbye old school...

Remember "Revenge of the Nerds?" It's a terrible movie, not one I'd recommend watching if you haven't suffered through it already, but it stands as a testament to the Bad Old Days when cool was king and "nerd" was one of the worst insults to hurl. The film presented what was, then, a novelty idea: that geeks can be good for more than shoving into lockers.

That idea isn't so novel anymore. Over the past few years, geek has actually become chic. Or at the very least, it’s got a certain cachet. The days where dweebs were automatically equated with Steve Urkel are over, and for those of us who spent elementary school defending our prized Boba Fett lunchboxes, we’re now enjoying a bit of blowback from the je ne sais quoi of Chuck, Katniss, and the rebooted Star Trek franchise.

...hel-LO new school.

It's not just coming from one corner anymore, either. Glee lifted choir kids out of the social-strata underworld; supernatural creatures like vampires, werewolves, and Misha Collins are all over late-night TV; and the ubiquity of the Marvel films— not to mention the collective dazzle from the MCU's star-studded cast— has made it gauche not to know your Avengers on sight.

So what's separating the geeks from the muns, these days? Some might argue we've got to step up our game to keep our street cred. In the wake of the Lord of the Rings movies, I wasn't the only person I knew willing to go to any lengths necessary to prove I'd been a fan before the movies— in fact, my fervor was outshone by people two and three times my age, from my father to my college advisor, who actually offered a seminar on Tolkien in 2004. In those brief and brilliant years when we were inundated by a new Rings or Harry Potter movie every time we turned around, it became the shibboleth of nerd culture to know "how it really happened", to toss out pieces of trivia like Quaffles through a goal hoop, each of us hoping to rack up the highest score.

And I get it— I really get it. When I was little, books were my best (sometimes my only) friends. Frodo wasn't just real to me, he was important. Knowing him was important, and discovering someone else who felt that way about him was the best kind of surprise, an instant recommendation of someone's character. It was how I learned who was like me and who wasn't— who it was safe to be myself around— who I could trust. Geek was my identity, and when you own an identity that slaps you firmly onto the margins of mainstream society, you come to terms with the fact that most people will never know that part of you. You just can't trust them to understand it; you'd rather hide it than have it denigrated.

better question: who doesn't like debating
the finer points of Westerosi politics?

So as the curtains have been drawn further and further back, the titans of geek media given spit and polish for presentation to a wider audience, we nerds have found ourselves swimming in a much more crowded pond. All of a sudden, knowing who Frodo Baggins is isn't a barometer for geekdom, because everybody knows. Dropping a joke about Thor's hammer isn't an indicator of who's a geek versus who just wandered into a showing of the Avengers by mistake. You can no longer automatically trust that you've found a kindred spirit in someone wearing a Winter is Coming t-shirt. So how do you tell who it's safe to debate the finer points of Westerosi politics with, and who will look at you like you're nuts for thinking that much about it? The sieve has to get finer; the tests have to get harder. Are you really a geek, or are you just pretending?

It feels like an important distinction to make. Because in labeling ourselves different, we set ourselves up as a foil to that which we're different from. The opposition is right there in the title— Revenge of the Nerds. Sometimes it can feel that dire— that we do need revenge for all the slings and arrows we've weathered defending our right to enjoy things unironically, without caring if it's cool. And reading a Red Wedding freakout on Facebook from someone who mocked you mercilessly for reading fantasy books in high school can be— well— a little galling.

Right now we're at the epicenter of the earthquake, the blast point where counterculture becomes culture. And I'll be the first to admit it's not pretty. Sharing sucks; I'm an older sister, I know. It feels like something's being taken from us, that our stories are no longer our own, and in order to keep our identity intact we have to pull up the stakes and retreat further into geek territory, rebuild our pylons and siege towers to keep the non-geeks out. We can still use our geekdom as a stick to draw a line in the sand; it can still be us versus them.

But that's a bat'leth that cuts both ways. Nobody can absorb all facets of geekdom— there just aren't enough hours in a day. I can talk Star Trek and fantasy literature for days, but the number of video games I can hold a conversation about can be counted on one hand. So does that mean I'm not a "real" geek? Does the fact that I'm 30 and only just contemplating buying my first game system somehow make me "less" than people who've been using controllers as long as they've been using silverware?

There's been a lot of talk lately about gatekeeping in geek culture as it relates to women— about girls who go into comic shops and get awkward-stared off the premises, women who go to cons and get harassed for their cosplay, women who get quizzed and challenged by whiny men who feel threatened by the presence of women in "their" geek space. I know I don't need to state that that's bullshit; we can all smell it from where we're sitting, and we know enough to avoid stepping in it.

But if I'm being honest, it's not okay to do to anyone. Who cares when someone became a fan of something? If you were lucky enough to be born with a Silver Age spoon in your mouth, good for you. But we geeks put our pants on one leg at a time just like everyone else. Who are we to judge whether someone's interest is "real"? Who are we to stand with our arms crossed and say "Not you, you are not worthy, you shall not enter here"? We're not Gandalf— we don't get to say who shall or shall not pass.

Fantasy, sci-fi, video games, comic books, they're all ways of telling stories, the purpose of which is to talk about our experiences of being human. I've talked a lot about fandom and how it provides a haven to people who are underrepresented in media— that fandom is where I go to find people like me, whether on the pages of fanfiction or in conversation with other fans. That's what draws all of us to partake in geek culture, isn't it? Sharing our experiences of what a book or movie or comic or game meant to us. Sharing. Communicating. Interacting with people who are like us.

Pardon me for waxing a little Professor X here, but we— we geeks— have more in common with the rest of the world than we might think. Peaceful coexistence with the uninitiated in a geek-oriented space is possible— and not just possible, it's happening already. So maybe this is where we find our common ground: in the exposure of our touchstones to the public eye, in not only allowing, but inviting non-geeks to experience them along with us. In welcoming the newcomers, not excluding them.

Who knows— maybe in being a guide instead of a gatekeeper, you'll help someone discover they've had a Browncoat inside them this whole time. You'll be the one that opened that door into Narnia, the giver of that Green Lantern ring. The analogies I could make are endless. The point is, we all know the experience of reading a book or watching a show and feeling the tops of our heads lift off as that spark in our brain catches and turns into an inferno of excitement. We know it, and we live for it. It's the best feeling ever. And take it from me, watching someone else experience it is like a contact high— and who wouldn't want to be the bearer of that wondrousness?

Look at it this way— this pervasiveness is the nerd's ultimate revenge. We're everywhere now, and we're turning "them" into us without even warning them first. Instead of the geek taking off her glasses to reveal the "normal" girl hidden inside, we can be responsible for the opposite transformation. It's the ultimate comeback to the challenge of hipster culture, which asks us to love things only ironically, from a safe emotional distance.

Screw that. Reject the idea that by sharing our culture there's less of it to go around. Stop worrying, and learn to love the spotlight. Love your stories, share your stories, and make other people love them too. Those people are our people now. And if the proliferation of the nerd herd doesn't sound intensely awesome to you… are you sure you're really a geek?

Guardians of the Galaxy: A-Holes, Whores, and Things You Just Don't Say to Your Friends

Marvel used the word "whore" in one of their movies, and I'm really not okay with it.

Let me back up.

When I was sixteen, I called my best friend a whore, and it ended our friendship.

Okay… let me back up some more.

On shipping, and being wrong

I came across a Tumblr post the other day with a set of gifs from a recent movie, showing the two nerdy scientist characters (both male) grinning and hugging each other from the moment in the movie right after they help save the world. The OP's tags were quoted below the gifset, saying something like, "I actually thought they were going to kiss", or something similar.

The person on my feed who reblogged the post had amended it with tags of her own. Paraphrased, she said that she didn't understand "why a fandom refuses to just let dudes who are friends be friends", that not every fictional friendship "involves touching penises".

This made me, to understate, a little mad. Not because I happen to enjoy that particular ship (though I do) but because of the self-righteous queer-phobic sentiment behind the tags. It's the nature of the fan world that you'll come across ships that make you go "Huh?" or "Yikes" or downright "Ew." It's just a fact of fanworks, and being part of fannish culture. Some people see a ship where you cannot imagine one existing. Eat your vegetables, kids; some people like things that you don't like.

So I'm not taking issue with the fact that this person doesn't ship these two characters. That's her gods-given right as a person; to ship or not to ship, as she sees fit. But I am taking issue with her castigation of "a fandom" seeing a ship where she doesn't see one-- of her taking the fact that people ship these particular characters and turning it into a general interdict against ships she doesn't enjoy. I don't personally understand why people ship Draco/Hermione or Mal/River or Dean/Sam or any number of the roughly five million ships that scroll down my Tumblr dash every day. But frankly, it's not for me to judge.

Because here's the thing about shipping. Non-fannish people often have a hard time with the concept, because they don't tend to be the types of people who think a lot about fictional canons and characters when they're not watching/reading/playing that canon. But fannishness-- broadly speaking, and shipping in particular-- is about seeing the possibility of the story to go a different way, for it to contain more than just what's shown on the screen or the page.

To date, one of my favorite things the internet has ever churned out to talk about slash fanfiction is this post by dreamwidth user Cimorene, in which she talks about representation (gay characters and relationships in the textual context of the canon) versus slash (queering the canon through your own interpretation). A few years ago I also wrote a post about queer representation in media, especially genre fiction, and my participation in fan culture-- specifically fanfiction, even more specifically slash. If you're new to the concept of shipping or slash, those are good places to start.

When we talk about slash, we're talking about dragging the lens from mass media's obsessively heteronormative view to something that feels more like what we experience in reality. I love this blog post, which discusses the "script of desire", the expectations we're taught to have and the incredibly narrow roles men and women are "supposed" to fill when interacting with each other.

Heteronormativity isn’t just about the presumption that everyone is heterosexual. The expectation that boys woo girls feeds into your mind the expectation that relationships are necessary for fulfilment, and you are less than if you are not having particular kinds of sex with a particular, and a particular kind of, person at particular intervals.

And if you don't have that kind of sex, if you aren't even remotely interested in it, then what? Where do you find those people that you remind you of yourself? When I watch a movie and I look for someone to cast myself in the role of, it's almost never one of the leads. It's usually the socially awkward geek; the brainy bookish kid with the sharp tongue; the withdrawn angry kid with the enormous chip on her shoulder.

And when I see that character form an attachment to another character, especially one of the same sex, I can't help but wonder how it might grow beyond attachment to attraction-- because that's how I've experienced attraction, sex, love, in the past. That's the story my brain tells, because it's the story I've lived.

So what's the basis of this Tumblr user's bashing of this ship-- and not only this ship, but a group of fans who choose to look beyond what is only textually a friendship? Why the resentment that exists from someone who doesn't ship a particular pairing, towards the people that do? Her tags came off as not only self-aggrandizing but also snobbish-- as though just knowing that some people enjoy shipping these two characters was threatening to her, was somehow tainting what she saw as the "right" interpretation of their relationship.

I talk with my friends periodically about what makes a geek a geek. We've basically boiled it down to the fact that being a geek, at least in the current hipster culture of detachment and "ironic" enjoyment of things, has a lot to do with not being afraid to get excited about stuff. I'm a geek because I get excited about wizards, werewolves, made up worlds, giant robots fighting monsters in the ocean, and a host of other things. I get excited by shipping. And I think people who get down on others for their ships are not only betraying the spirit of geekdom, but seriously detracting from the safe space that most of us consider our fannish lives to be. Like I said in the post I linked above; fandom is where I come to find people like me. And it's contrary to that fraternal feeling to tell someone their ship is lame, or wrong. You wouldn't want someone to do that to you.

In the immortal words of Vin Diesel: Don't be a dick, Dick.

Sure, not all friendships between two dudes involve sex. But the point of participating in a fandom is that you have a platform from which to posit that it could-- that any friendship could turn into romance, regardless of the gender of the characters involved. That if you want to, you could read the friendship between these two secondary characters as being the prelude to, or simply the outward expression of, a romantic relationship. That that's a story that's just as valid to tell as any other.

And if you read a piece of fanfiction that speaks to you-- that tells you the story of someone you relate to, having the kind of sex that you want to have, falling in love in a way you can imagine yourself falling in love-- who the hell is anyone else to tell you you're wrong?

Till next time, geeks, stay frosty. And incidentally, if you're on tumblr, you can see my incredibly nerdy collection of reblogs at opentheyear. :)