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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!


Back @c2e2 this year w/ @Karnythia @karlyn_darlin @ytashawomack & @kdc talkin’ BW characters w/in SFF! So excited!

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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I had planned on spending this entire post ranting about the supernova-esque fail that was Chi-Fi even though plenty of colleagues and fellow local nerds have already mapped out its cringe-worthy pre-party problems in the more concise ways. I’ve spent the last week and a half giving this post a lot of consideration.
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So you want to be an ally? That’s nice. More specifically, you want to be my ally? Well, that’s even better. Before I send you off to your designated live training seminars, please review the following Quick Reference Guide that I’ve created to assist you in times of social justice discussions, should you ever get confused or suffer the inevitable foot-in-mouth moment. This Quick Reference Guide has been formatted to fit nicely in your wallet or on your smart device for easy retrieval, so here are my 7 simple rules for being my* intersectional ally.


I don’t know how else to expound on this rule. It seems pretty simple and straightforward, but you would be surprised at the number of people who have difficulty performing these two rather instinctive functions. If you find yourself opening your mouth before taking the time to let the other person’s words roll around in your frontal cortex, I would suggest repeating the following mantra:

“This is not about me. This is not about me. This is not about me.”

If this does not work, please extricate yourself from the conversation and proceed to smash cranial cavity against wall until concept has penetrated your psyche or consciousness is lost.** Read More »

And instead of talking over my feelings with a select few friends in the privacy of one of our domiciles, you know, like an emotionally mature, socially conscious bipedal mammal, I decided to share these feelings on the one platform that is destined to come back and bite us all in the ass.

Before I begin, I do understand that I have spent the better part of my life in and out of various dance studios, do-jangs and your standard elliptical factories shilling out $30 energy drinks and exacerbated cases of body dysmorphia. That being said, I know that any criticisms that I may voice against those who don’t understand how a gym operates are going to make me sound like the biggest, privileged asshole.

Globo Gym Meme

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