Some Thoughts About Readercon, Nice White People [No, Really] And My Leave From The Con Circuit

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.

What We Have Here Is A Failure To Appreciate [Yourself] (Or Why I Am Psyched To Be Speaking At C2E2)

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.

A Sietch of One’s Own

Eight years ago, I picked up this little gem from the Wheaton Public Library. I had been wallowing in the midst of a six-year hiatus from writing fiction due to school and self-degradation over my ability to craft sentences free of dry, academic rhetoric, and at some point between red cup parties in Allston and swag events in the Back Bay, it had been recommended that I read Virginia Woolf. Stemmed wholly in the ignorance of 20th century feminist struggles, I became and grew more aghast with each page as Ms. Woolf struggled to find a place where she could simply enjoy doing what she loved most. Determined to enjoy the freedom given to me by the 21st century, I picked up my pen once more and began to produce prose. What I did not produce until recently was a clear and concise understanding of how much my gender and my race would be so intrinsically linked with everything that I loved, specifically those things within the Land of Geekdom.