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Well, shit.

Wait, let me try that again.

My first Readercon experience provided me with a wide berth of raw emotions, ranging from the elation that sprang from meeting and reconnecting with some of the most creative and progressive minds in the industry, to fiery rage at the bastion of New England Liberal Racism that still permeates the northeast, subsiding on the elitist fallacy that ‘smart people can’t be racist’.

How’s that? You want more, huh? I shouldn’t be surprised. I made a name for myself with my Twitter rants over that weekend on the much-needed progress needed at Readercon when my intention was to lay low and collect data all submarine-style and what not.

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[Content Note: Flashing Images]

And when I say that I don’t make great adult decisions, I mean that I don’t say no to enough things in order to protect myself from how exhausted I currently am. I started this blog entry at my writing group while I was also laughing at some serious schaudenflan when I was supposed to be presenting a positive, inclusive example for my writers. Talk about a failure to pack in my inner asshole. By the by, this is not something that you should say out loud when surrounded by Archer fans.

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[TW: Racism, Misogynoir, Mentions of Racialized Sexual Assault, Gender Slurs, Strong Coarse Language]

I did not come to play with you hos. I came here to slay, bitch. – Big Freedia

I’m probably about one of a million black girl bloggers who is posting her thoughts on Beyonce’s latest visual foray. Being on that weird cusp of Generation X/Y, aka hitting certain milestones on parallel with her Beyness, I never understood the commitment or zealotry of her fan base…until now when Beyonce had reassured us that black excellence was still alive and kicking. Or at least is trying to find a new face.

Because if Lemonade has done anything, and no doubt it’s done a lot, it’s reiterated with electric fury that the world only allows cishet white men with Fuck You money to use it to say Fuck You.

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T-3 days I’ll be @c2e2 w/@karlyn_darlin @Karnythia @ytashawomack & @kdc talking about BW representation w/in SF/F!
http://ow.ly/ZzfCB

Back @c2e2 this year w/ @Karnythia @karlyn_darlin @ytashawomack & @kdc talkin’ BW characters w/in SFF! So excited! http://ow.ly/YFC0k

Because this black woman is not a search engine.

Because this black woman is not a plot device or trope.

Because this black woman is not a puzzle to solve.

Because this black woman is not a project for you to implement.

Because this black woman is not a platform on which you can build your agenda.

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I didn’t want to be on the internet yesterday. Not after Alan Rickman died. We had not even the opportunity to mourn the passing of the Goblin King when the light on another one of Britain’s Suns extinguished a mere 48 hours later. While I cannot call myself a Bowie fan, I cannot deny his influence on me. Alan Rickman, on the other hand, became my Dark Knight in Gleaming Armani when I was 7. At 13, he taught me the advantages of spoons over axes against your adversary. At 15, I was desperate to learn what I had to do to endeavor to deserve him. At 18, I wanted to get drunk on tequila (sans the spitting) because I was out of ideas on how to proceed with my university major. At 21, he seduced me with the potency and importance of knowing one’s Potions. At 25, he provided me with a strange insight into the cynicism of a hyper-intelligent, manically depressed robot.

You get the idea: how do you say good-bye to what you grew up with?

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Yeah, I took a break from writing on this blog. A long ass break. It wasn’t intentional; it wasn’t on accident either. The fact is that my best blog entries come to me when I have focused my anger and passion like a surgeon focuses her scalpel. Over the past 11 months, I have been on a roller coaster of experiences, ranging from receiving one honor to becoming the target of three catastrophes — wash, rinse, repeat the cycle. Given the frequency of emotional whiplash, it seemed inevitable that I would grow…tired. A person only has so many spoons, and when you are in the midst of, among other things, fighting to keep your health and your house together [literally and metaphorically], prioritizing the war against the Kyriarchy first and foremost doesn’t seem like the best course of action.

Because let’s be real: we may be all about the Struggle, but the Struggle is not all about us.

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It’s not until you step onto that Big Con stage that you realize how little you truly know about anything, yet how much your simple presence will affect someone in your audience. After three years of attending C2E2 as an overeager fan ready to absorb the wit and wisdom bestowed upon us by the convention’s guests, 2015 marked the first year that I had been given the opportunity be the person on stage whom people came to hear. Despite having spoken at several conventions prior to this year’s C2E2, it still shocks the shit out of me that people not only want to hear what I have to say, but that they think that what I have to say is smart, insightful and/or inspiring. I suppose that this is the form which impostor syndrome has chosen to manifest itself in my head space; fighting the omnipresent indoctrination that everything about you is wrong and out of place in this cishet white male world seems to be an never-ending battle for many who are marginalized. I find myself fortunate that I head into that battle with amazing comrades and impeccable armor:

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I don’t eat greens. I can’t double-dutch. I don’t speak nor understand AAVE. I’m a product of white neighborhoods, white extracurricular activities and white private schools. I knew of the Cranberries before I knew of the Fugees, and I was convinced that the only TV superheroes were He-Man and She-Ra. As far as I could tell, the only thing that made me black was the color of my skin; however the excess of melanin had never been enough to gain the community’s acceptance. I felt like my brown skin was some sort of disguise, something I sprayed on each morning in order to fool people. I could blend into a predominantly black environment upon entrance, but woe betide myself and whomever would come to speak to me! All it would take were a couple of words out of my mouth, and somehow they always knew that I was an impostor.
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