Not doomed to repeat it – doomed to never escape it.

I had occasion today to reflect that we may well be into the most turbulent and divisive times this country has seen since the 60s. And I think I meant the 1960s, but it’s possible it will get worse before it gets better and I might end up meaning the 1860s. That’s not hyperbole, that’s me paying attention.

First, I have only to pay close attention to my own situation: the most precarious I’ve ever been in, including my stint as a single mother working for just over minimum wage in the 1990s. At the time, I lived in California and there was both a state sponsored social safety net and my nearby family to help me out. (I availed myself of both at different times.) Now I have neither of those things. I am middle aged, uninsured and suffering from untreated health conditions, in the midst of retraining for a relevant career that at best will garner me lower-middle class wages for the rest of my life (at a student loan rate that, thanks to last night’s Senate vote, I’ll be unable to claim tax shelter from), and scraping together the money to pay my bills each month by virtue of a limited divorce settlement, selling my plasma and relying on my adult daughter to make up the difference.

Meanwhile, I and many of my peers wait for access to unfettered internet to expire and watch our government pass laws to both keep us in poverty and destroy the environment around us.

And I have it pretty good. I eat regularly, I can get out of bed unassisted, all five senses are in working order, I just got a part time job and enrolled in classes for spring semester. I have friends, heat, a working vehicle, and a computer. There are people I care about who can’t claim any of those things.

Those are just the personal stories. Every day I watch the government and my neighbors tear each other apart over disagreements about human dignity and as much as I see it happening in real time I still can’t quite wrap my head around it. The aging population – the ones who stuck daisies in gun barrels and marched for civil rights and sent men to the moon and brought them back from war and created art and literature that changed the world – have become scared of their own shadow. They, and in some instances their children, when faced with video evidence of police brutality and an avalanche of numbers about corporate greed, lash out at victims and claim that evidence is “fake news”. They rewrote history books to call the transatlantic slave trade “immigration” and they put spikes on benches to keep the homeless on the ground – or in it. They stand in pulpits and preach hate, then hide behind their god and cry persecution when contradicted. They steal future and resources from their grandchildren and blame iPhones.

We tend to look back and history and see what progress was made. That’s called survivor’s bias. Some people didn’t survive the 60s. And I don’t mean the graves that we keep sacrosanct or the bank holidays we use to sleep in. I mean plain, simple, everyday people didn’t survive. They starved to death. They died from abscessed teeth. They asphyxiated in garages. They slid off roads with no guard rails. They drank until their liver gave up. They got cancer from lead paint. And before they died, they suffered. Their families suffered. Some daughter, somewhere, watched her daddy get a toothache, be unable to afford or access a dentist, watched his face get puffier and puffier, until one day he got a fever, fell asleep and never woke up.

Once, we considered that kind of suffering beneath human dignity – both his, and our own. I guess we don’t feel that way any more. I wonder if I’m destined for an end as undignified. If any of my friends are. I fear it’s quite possible.

I don’t know how to explain to you that you should care about other people. In some cases, the argument isn’t that there is a large segment of our population that doesn’t care, but that they aren’t even willing to admit that their actions effect other people.  They are so concerned with protecting themselves – from injury, insult, or intelligence – that they will pull out an endless chain of excuses as to why “others” deserve what they get, but “I” is a protected class. They are so isolated by their fear of change, their fear of losing their privilege, that they have developed an entire system of blindness to the indignity of their fellow humans. And then they elected people who capitalize on it.

I used to be interested in history. I used to wonder about the mindset of people who went to public executions. I don’t wonder anymore, and I realize that this is history – right now.

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Drinking Beers and Smashing Bottles

Where does one draw the line between reasonable conversation and the end of compromise?

This is a question that has been on my mind a lot lately. I recently ended contact with some people who’d been in my life a long time because I had reached the end of compromise on certain issues. But then I turned around on social media and advocated for diplomatic solutions to diametrically opposed political and social stances. How do these thoughts coexist? Can they?

My answer is yes, but with caveats that require unpacking privilege and identifying context.

In defense of bad advertisements

Social beverages, like soft drinks and beers, have recently decided to enter into the public conversation of social discourse, with mixed results. Pepsi and Heineken have both received a lot of free publicity by both enraging and encouraging the consuming public with recent advertisements. Pepsi with a cringe-worthy, tone-deaf, white-washed ad of stunning incompetence meant solely to cash in on the lives of victims. It was universally regarded as awful. Heineken followed suit with an ad that ostensibly posed the question about whether or not people with diametrically opposed political views could enjoy a beer and talk about their differences. While met with different responses, it has been (rightfully, in my view, but more on that later) criticized for also being tone deaf and irresponsible towards victims.

Full disclosure: I liked the Heineken advert. It spoke to that place within me that yearns for diplomatic responses to seemingly insurmountable differences and wishes very much I could be the kind of person who engages people in reasonable conversation and (if I’m being honest) emerges the hero by changing minds with my wit and charm and ability to connect with other humans.

It’s important to note, however, that I’m not particularly victimized by opposition to my ideological stances. I’m a white, middle-aged, straight, (nearly) middle-class, able-bodied, (mostly) neurotypical, English speaking, American cisgender woman. I mentioned in my original analysis on the commercial that people who are victimized or even marginalized by their social/economic/biological position are under no obligations to respond diplomatically to their oppressors. I believe that strongly. As a woman who has been silenced most of her life by patriarchal views on my “place” in society, I am in favor lashing out when backed into a corner.

On wielding a sword 

In my personal life, I recently reached the end of my rope trying to deal with relatives who hold opposing ideological views and insist that we share reasonable and “respectful” conversations about it. I’d had about as many quiet, diplomatic conversations as I could have with someone who used those conversations as a tool to further their agenda without actually listening to mine. Who brow-beat me with the idea of “respect” where respect meant I couldn’t express my anger or hurt or disappointment that they would espouse – and more importantly vote – for policies that actively threatened my loved ones.

So I got angry. I yelled (or at least used the caps-lock equivalent), I stopped validating their perspective, and I definitely stopped sandwiching my criticism between affirmations and compromise. I pulled out my firebrand persona and let loose with the sort of vitriol that I felt was absolutely called for when facing viewpoints that maintained a status quo of oppression and bigotry. In the end, they offered to never communicate with me again, and I gratefully accepted. I was and am convinced of both the rightness and appropriateness of my response. A response that is about as far from discussing our problems over a friendly beer as one can get.

The cognitive dissonance dance

The most conspicuous criticism I’ve seen against the Heineken ad was that the premise gave equal credence to unequal premises. In other words, the sort of false neutrality that the alt-right is famous for advocating, and, not coincidentally, why I recently cut off family members.

So, why did I advocate for representation of a diplomatic response? And a clumsy, ill equipped one, at that? Context, for one answer, and privilege, for another:

I’m not disadvantaged in the way that so many of my friends and family are. I’m not going to be immediately, physically threatened by the presence of an anti-trans bigot, or a climate change denier. Given my numerous other privileges, I’m not even particularly threatened by an anti-feminist blow hard. When I superimpose myself onto those positions by giving in to the manipulations of a 3 minute advertisement, it creates a context that makes it easier to imagine being able to talk about it.  It lightens my burden of self-examination and transports me to setting where real danger isn’t happening to real people.

The problem, of course, is obvious. And while the commercial may have been targeting people like me, it was speaking for people who are regularly victimized by their ideological opponents. The result was a statement on the irrelevancy of those victims, and it stung those who recognized it right away. It should have done the same for me. As a friend put it, a company with the economic resources of a multinational beer distributor had the ability to not make that statement (intentional or not) and should have done better. The fact that so many people find themselves analyzing the content (and, I dearly hope, their response to it) should be a strong indicator that if a company with that sort of reach wants to weigh in on social issues, it had better get it right the first time. The idea isn’t enough. The execution matters. Context matters. Privilege matters.

Speaking for myself only, I am privileged to be in a position where I can talk to dissenting people with a reasonable expectation of safety. A better context for Heineken’s intention would have been to put someone like me in a room with the anti-trans person and let us drink and talk. Those are ideological differences. An actual transperson or feminist woman of color is not going to feel safe in real life sitting across from someone who denies their right to exist and who is also diminishing their inhibitions with alcohol. (That part was weird to me from the start.)

I vehemently disagree with the assertion I’ve seen circulated that it’s “stupid” to like the Heineken ad. It’s not stupid to advocate for diplomatic solutions to ideological differences. It’s how politics work, it’s how we manage to not murder our neighbors, and how we keep from becoming totalitarian societies. Taking the ad at face value, however, is imperceptive at best, as I hope I’ve demonstrated here. Diplomacy doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Criticizing Heineken’s failure to acknowledge the real dangers inherent in some of our differences is appropriate and necessary, as is identifying the dangers of promoting solutions that begin on false equivalency. But since progressive liberals don’t seem poised to unleash a violent revolution, a framework for discussing tenable, peaceful solutions to resolving those differences also seems appropriate and necessary. At the very least, Heineken’s wishful thinking advertisement pointed out that the lack of such leaves a void many of us would like to see filled.

 

 

Things That I’m Over

An abbreviated list:

The idea that selfies are narcissistic, especially for women. Firstly, so what if they are? Like the mental masturbation that you do to feel superior isn’t? Secondly, no they aren’t. Women putting themselves front and center with their own agenda is simply weird because they’ve never been allowed to do it before. Welcome to the future. It has filters.

Purity progressives. Fuck those guys. Guess what? We’re nowhere near a revolution, guys. And policy making equals compromise since the founding fathers. Who were no saints, by the way, but it WAS their lives on line at the time. It’s so great that you can pontificate from metropolitan cities where your wi-fi is fast, your food is slow, and your activism is a giant circle jerk with other pasty white people who try on “bi-curious” for size. How’s the air up there? Some people do real work. You might want to try it some time.

Getting older. I pulled a muscle in my sleep the other night. How the fuck does that happen??

“Devil’s Advocates”. Shut up. Just shut up. The devil is his own best advocate, okay? He gets around making his argument JUST FINE all on his own. It’s called life. You’re not an advocate, you’re a stinky troll. Go back under your rock.

People who don’t understand privilege. Really? C’mon, it’s part of the vernacular now and if you still don’t get it, it’s because you don’t want to get it. Privilege does NOT equal wealth or fame. Privilege DOES equal certain unearned “free passes” from daily struggles not shared by everyone. Privilege does NOT mean you’ve never had it rough. Privilege DOES mean that you could’ve had it rougher. Privilege does not mean you can’t vent, privilege does mean you might not want to vent about Starbucks being out of your favorite flavor to a single working mom drinking yesterday’s Folgers. Use some sense. Then use your privilege to speak up for those who don’t share it.

Women’s clothing industry sizing. SERIOUSLY GET IT TOGETHER GUYS!! MY WAIST HAS A MEASUREMENT AND SO DOES MY INSEAM. YOUR “12” IS BULLSHIT AND SO IS YOUR METHOD FOR SEWING ON BUTTONS.

Commercials. I’ve lived so long without network television that I forget how offensive they can be. And then Pepsi invades my internet news feed.

Divorce. FML, I really, really want to be over this. Hurry up already.

Selling things on Facebook. Nope. People are entitled, pushy assholes. Over it.

Living in “rural America”. Where the church folk are terrorists and anti-intellectualism reigns supreme. Look, hillbillies and rednecks, I’m sorry you are constantly picked on and made fun of by “liberal elites”. MAYBE STOP GIVING THEM SO MUCH MATERIAL TO WORK WITH, MMMMKAY?

Listicles. These things suck, don’t they??

Bitches Get Stuff Done.

But marches don’t. This article explains why in terms that are easy to understand, and it uses examples to support its view. (That’s a step in something called “logic” kids!) I marched anyway, along with an estimated 4.7 million people from every continent (yup, even Antarctica) because while marches don’t make lasting change they are a great starting point.

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Park Central Square in Springfield, MO, facing the stage. I walked through a crowd just to get to this point, the edge of the square.

I marched in Springfield, MO with approximately 2,000 people – a huge number for a city of only 160,000 firmly settled on the bible belt. Almost dead last in a march that stretched at least a quarter mile, the positive energy was palpable all the way back there. I had goosebumps. That’s a physiological effect of being part of a mob, by the way, even a friendly mob. It wasn’t spiritual, but it was deeply affecting. I felt proud to be there, and proud to be marching with women and men. Unable to stay and listen to all the speakers, I drove home considering what it all meant.

There were no news cameras, though the local station says they had a photographer there and would present a segment in the evening. I never saw anyone doing any kind of coverage, and I was disappointed that the media wasn’t more visible. It felt silencing, and like a deliberate tactic to make us seem unimportant. I don’t like conspiracy theories so I won’t say that’s the absolute truth, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some truth to it. Pardon my cynicism, it comes with 41 years of being a woman on this planet.

Since I didn’t stay and see them personally, I can’t form an opinion on the speakers, but I did listen to our MO house representative, Crystal Quade, talk about the diversity of the speakers coming after her, and how important it was to remember that women of color and the LGBTQ community of women need to have a prominent place at the table. That we wouldn’t be successful without them. I was proud of that.

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“TERF” is an acronym for trans-exclusionary radical feminist, in case you didn’t know. We don’t like those. All women are welcome in feminism. It’s called intersectional feminism and we recognize that different backgrounds have different experiences and we must not only value and protect all of them, but hand them the bullhorn equally.

I wondered what to do next, and one of my (numerous, wonderful) friends posted a link to this:

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www.womensmarch.com/100

which is a plan for 10 actions for Trump’s first 100 days in office. It’s simple, linear, and includes step-by-step instructions for the first action. It’s not overwhelming, even for the busiest among us, and I encourage everyone to participate. Especially if you couldn’t march – these are steps you can take with us. We can’t lose momentum, either out of ignorance or from hopelessness. This is a marathon, not a sprint.

That being said, I’ve also been thinking about causes I want to drill down to and focus on. So much is at risk, if I apply the same level of energy to everything, I will burn out in a matter of days. I don’t want to admit to caring more about some causes than others, but I simply have to prioritize because I’m human and have limits and I don’t want to give up. To that end, I think I’m going to focus on state-level legislation, and women’s issues. Women’s issues covers a lot, but I will probably be tackling health care and poverty mostly. I’m passionate about education, LGBTQ equality and dismantling racism, but honestly there are more qualified people out there to harp on those subjects. I’m not giving up on those ideas, I just won’t be devoting my precious free time to being a watchdog over those issues. I’m making a promise right now that when I post about an issue, it will be because I’ve done my homework on it, and you can trust me as a source. (With the obvious caveat that nothing replaces personal research, but I’ll not be posting anything without reading it completely and verifying with at least one source that is not the first return on a Google search.)

My year is off to an incredible start, and I mean that almost literally. It’s almost impossible to believe that I am a full time student, will make a drive halfway across the country and back, will move, will watch my daughter graduate college and start her career, and will become an activist for real. And that’s just the first six months.

It might be a roller coaster, but at least I volunteered to get on this one.

Dr. Empathy – Or How I Stopped Judging and Learned to Love the Millennial.

I talk a lot of smack about people who dis millennials or “kids today”. My low opinion of that attitude is well documented. What I don’t talk about is if I sometimes struggle with my perception of youth or youth culture, and the answer is: I do.  “You little twerp” has crossed my mind on numerous occasions. In some instances it’s because I’ve interacted with a little twerp (being a kid doesn’t exempt one from being a jerk), but more often it’s because I have a set of expectations that aren’t being met. This is a story about one of those times.

Before I left my previous job, I made small bags of holiday candy and gave one to everybody. For the people who weren’t there, I just left it on their desk. They went over well – almost everybody said they enjoyed their treat, or thanked me for thinking of them. The gratification filled me with holiday cheer. Except that one kid, the senior college student who worked for the vice chancellor. I left his bag on his desk when he wasn’t there and that little shit never once even acknowledged that I gave him anything!

Ugh, rude! How dare he ignore my hand crafted gesture of holiday goodness! What a little twerp! Boy, if I was still going to be working here, I’d never give him anything again!

I had those thoughts for two days. The cognitive dissonance was really fucking with me. I couldn’t reconcile my affinity for millennials with the voice in my head that kept telling me he was rude and (Zeus help me) “entitled”. What follows is a transcript of the conversation I had with that Voice.

Voice: This is why people call millennials entitled, you know. He doesn’t even think he has to say thank you.

Me: I know! Although, maybe he wasn’t brought up to have those kind of manners.

V: So? He’s an adult living in the adult world and that shit is basic. Ignorance is not an excuse in adulthood.

Me: Exactly! It’s just basic good manners to say thank you.

V: Besides, we’ve heard him say it before – it’s not like he doesn’t know how. Remember when you brought donuts and hot cocoa? He thanked you twice!

Me: I remember. I made some kind of joke about bringing them and he was laughing and talking with the rest of us. Um, actually…

V: Right! Now here is, just ignoring you. So rude. He should be acknowledging your gift! That’s why you gave it to him!

Me: Wait, what? No, that’s not why…

V: But didn’t you feel awesome when everybody else specifically came to you and thanked you for your gift? Didn’t it make you feel all glowy and validated? Isn’t that why you gave them gifts??

Me: (whispering) Sort of?

V: Of course it is. So why don’t you just march right over there and take away his gift?

Me: Because that would be horrible! And rude! You don’t give gifts with the expectation that the recipient is going to make you feel good about it! You give gifts because you want the recipient to have it.

V: Are you sure? Because I bet you’re related to a lot of people who would disagree.

Me: This is not the time for that conversation. Look, hold up. The point here is that I gave him a gift and I feel bad that he didn’t make me feel better about giving it to him.

V: And you’re not taking it back because…?

Me: Because if it comes down to it and I can only have one or the other, I’d rather he have the gift than I have my thank you.

V: But that doesn’t excuse his behavior!

Me: Only if I’m operating on a very specific mode of social etiquette.

V: Everyone operates in that mode.

Me: No, they don’t. If I really wanted him to acknowledge my gift, I could go right over there and ask him if he likes it. Better still, I could have waited until he was present to offer it to him, instead of sneaking it onto his desk like a reverse thief. Santa leaves presents in the dark when nobody is looking and nobody thanks him! Maybe he’s respecting MY boundaries? Ever think of that?! Maybe he thought I left it for him because I didn’t WANT to interact. Otherwise, wouldn’t I have said something by now? You know, millennials are really sensitive to introversion and boundaries on personal interaction, it’s part of what makes them so great. Maybe all this time I’ve been listening to you call him rude, and from his perspective, he’s being super respectful!

Voice: (a little quieter now) It still feels rude.

Me: Yes, it does. Because I’m functioning on an unspoken set of rules of social interaction that date back to the Victorian era and I’m too full of myself to just go over there and talk to him about it. That’s my failing, not his.

And that’s when the voice shut up, my cognitive dissonance disappeared and I felt even better about giving gifts at work.

I’m not saying social niceties aren’t valuable or that we should all abandon expressions of gratitude. What I’m saying here is that sometimes empathy is hard work. Sometimes anger feels better than understanding, especially when that understanding only comes after a lengthy struggle. Sometimes overcoming social programming and what is “normal” is a lot of goddamn work and we don’t want to do it. I have found however, that it is nearly always worth it.leftridgepick-strangelove-650

The Little Year That Killed

Another music icon from my teens – George Michael – passed away today (in London, aged only 53) and brought the by now predictable chorus of “Fuck you, 2016” from most corners of my social media. Which, inexplicably, sent up its own backlash pointing out how it’s not the year’s fault.

Well, yes, we know that. A year is a trip around the sun, measurably, with the calendar being sort of weird and arbitrary. 2016 isn’t a sentient being hellbent on mayhem, destruction, and the kind of soul sucking grief that turn you into a husk of your former self. *ahem*

Which is a pity, really, because regardless of intent, that’s exactly what 2016 has done to me and an inordinate number of my friends and acquaintances, and we’d all really like to hold someone – anyone – accountable. Assigning some order to this chaos goes a surprisingly long way toward making it feel like we had some measure of control over this careening, runaway train that was 2016.

No, it’s not the year’s fault. Neither is a celebrity death inherently more valuable than anyone else’s. But to deny that cultural icons create space in our consciousness – and therefore leave a space when they leave – is to discount most of human history. Art shifts and reinvents; both itself and its audiences. Not every celebrity is an artist (the same may be said in reverse), but there is not a 70s or 80s child that I know whose heart didn’t break just a little when America’s Mom, Carol Brady, passed away. Of course I mean Florence Henderson, who had a long and productive career playing many different roles, but there is an entire generation for whom she was the mom they came home to after school. That, my darlings, is an intersection of arts/entertainment and culture, and like it or not, its affecting.

Glenn Frey’s music is one of the few things my mother and I agree on. Gene Wilder turned up in all the films that made me realize what a weirdo I am. Leonard Cohen was one of the greatest poets of life’s essential truths. Morely Safer and Gwen Ifil were part of the old guard of authentic journalism and their influence will be missed. Prince was the soundtrack for and Muhammed Ali was a personal hero to a vast swath of America. What the loss of these people means to their friends and family is private, but the loss of their place in the cultural pantheon is significant, and in many cases symbolic. When David Bowie passed early this year, I was already lost in my own downward spiral of grief. A marriage that had just entered the explosion phase of the slow motion crash and burn that has characterized my life since August of 2015. Losing such a huge cultural icon and influence shocked me into reflection, and forced me to confront grief.

And then there is the political circus that was 2016, and that sadly, marks the start of what promises to be a 4 year shit show of incompetence at best, and WWIII at worst. That’s if climate change doesn’t get us first. The policies and promises that just under half the voting population managed to get into office promise to make my own life a Sisyphean struggle for the next 3 years, and for many of my friends and family as well. This isn’t hyperbole, this is just a simple fact over which I have almost no control.

Taken together, the national cultural tragedies added insult to the injury that was my personal life in 2016. I have wrested what control can be wrought, and am now at least in the engineer’s seat in the aforementioned runaway train, but it can still go off the rails at any moment. I could blame the train, or the tracks, but 2016 will pass from this earth and never be seen again. It can take the brunt of our anger and blame. 2017 will bring its own challenges and celebrity deaths, but it will not be the same as 2016 and for me, that’s enough.

Post Skepticon Thoughts

Wednesday morning hit me hard, as it did many people. My week proceeded from the numbed shock and horror of a president-elect Trump to the whirlwind of the 9th annual Skepticon in Springfield, MO. As it turns out, the timing was impeccable. Wednesday was for crying, and shocking my coworkers by walking out of work because my emotions were so acute. Evidently, it didn’t occur to them that anyone would cry over something as silly as an election. Thursday was for traveling, checking into the hotel, and commiserating with friends. By Friday, I was attending workshops, having the most amazing conversations with strangers, meeting some of my godless idols, and feeling hope and purpose bloom in my chest.

The workshops were planned long in advance of the election, but I found them especially timely. I attended Stephanie Zvan‘s workshop on how to handle public criticism first. Mainly it reinforced my ideas about what is right to do in those circumstances, while simultaneously reminding me that I have yet to successfully implement those ideas on a  regular basis. Scarlet, get thee some practice. Following that was Stephanie Novotny’s presentation on Ethical Advocacy, which introduced me to something called the “power and control wheels” and gave me a lot to think about.

Finally on Friday, I saw Neil Carter‘s “Nonversations: How NOT to talk to very religious people” which was a profound end-cap on the day’s lessons. I’m already an avid reader of Carter’s blog, Godless in Dixie, but come to find out he’s also an engaging and dynamic speaker. While engaging believers in discussion about their religion isn’t high on my to-do list, it is painfully apparent that talking with folk who have opposite political and social beliefs is a necessary part of moving forward – both for myself as an individual and for all of us as a country. Carter is a self-described diplomat, as opposed to firebrand, though he sees the importance of each. I myself tend to go firebrand first, but I very much want to be the diplomat in my approach. I want to be that person that can calmly and rationally have a conversation with people who espouse pretty much every political and social belief that I find abhorrent.  Shouldn’t be too difficult, right? *ahem* Listening to Carter’s thoughtful perspective drove home my inadequacies, and how important to me rectifying them are.

Saturday was for more speakers, including Greta Christina who abandoned her original presentation to give a heartbreakingly poignant talk about survival and resistance. It was hard to listen to, quite frankly, but a necessary outlet for the terror of marginalized communities.

Speaking of which, I’d like to address the safety pin issue. There have been some excellent expansions and rebuttals about it online, and my point (as I said on facebook) was this:

I thought the safety pin was a great idea because I have, and will again, stand or speak up when witnessing threatening behavior. So it didn’t occur to me that some may see this as more of a declaration of their values than as a declaration of their intended behavior. For me, the pin isn’t just a sign for at risk individuals; it’s a warning to potential violators. Please be conscious of this.

Edited: Also, please Fellow White People – don’t expect the pin to make you trustworthy. Wearing symbols does not make you an ally. Your behavior makes you an ally. So until you’ve had a chance to prove yourself, don’t blame marginalized people and/or communities for viewing your symbolic gesture with the same skepticism that’s been protecting them for centuries.

I foresee needing practice at this, as my natural inclination is to (again: firebrand) stomp my way into a situation of injustice with a loud verbal sword, which is exactly what they ask you NOT to do. Another reason Friday’s talks were so necessary. But, as a good friend pointed out on the same facebook post: “…a woman I’ve never met approached me and said, ‘thank you for being a safe place for me; I’m Muslim. My husband is black and disabled. Our son is gay and married to his perfect love, a black man who is deaf and also Muslim.’ So, I’ll wear the damned pin. She seemed to have as many people or more in her life as I do who are marginalized and living in fear right now.

The take-away here is do what is right for you. Not wearing the pin doesn’t make you against the idea, it just makes you a little less visible, and that’s okay. The pin is a commitment to constant vigilance, and is not for everyone. That being said, if you would like to share your plans, questions, or concerns about activism in the coming months, I would be happy to hear them. I belong to several groups that are focused on practical and effective advocacy right now and if I can offer feedback, I’d be happy to do so.

In all, I was desperately hoping that Skepticon would be a safe, healing place for me following the election, and it absolutely was. By Friday night I was feeling empowered, by Saturday – hopeful, and while saying goodbye to friends old and new on Sunday was bittersweet, ultimately it was an act of faith in my fellow humans. A reminder that endurance is a human trait, and every community has infinite variety.

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