A Few Ways of Thinking About "Cancel Culture"
1) I increasingly think it's not helpful to say of someone, "They have been canceled." The passive phrasing of "has been canceled" feels very Orwellian. Pro tip: when people insist on using a passive phrase, it usually means that somebody is trying to evade responsibility for their actions. The phrasing I prefer is, "They have disgraced themself." This clarifies what has occurred, and has a nice active verb.
2) Other kids started calling me a faggot in elementary school, and this carried on all the way through middle school. Some of my earliest memories are of hearing homophobic insults directed at me in the school hallway — which somehow both went over my head and hit me squarely in the gut. This went on for years and years. At a certain point in (I think) eighth grade, I started making homophobic remarks too, about nobody in particular — maybe so I wouldn't be so much of a target myself, or because I had internalized that this was how we were supposed to behave. I pantomimed having a limp wrist and talked about fairies. I parroted jokes about buttsex that I barely understood. By the time I got to high school, I had fully internalized that making anti-gay jokes was part of being a kid in late twentieth century America, even as I was also increasingly aware, in the chilly midnight of my id, that I had a truckload of feelings that I was scared to even try to make sense of.
We often throw around terms like "internalized homophobia" or "internalized transphobia", without necessarily inquiring deeply into the question of how these things become internalized. We marinate in shitty messages about ourselves, and about other people whose bodies, or culture, or behavior, fail to conform to a highly specific image enshrined in mainstream culture.
3) Sometime in early 2017, I started to feel really bad about myself, specifically as a trans woman. Feelings that I thought I had long since put to rest started coming back: I was disgusting, I was ugly, I was unworthy. I started to have nagging feelings of shame about the flamboyant queer life that I had spent years crafting and celebrating. I realized after a while that being bombarded with so many hateful messages in the media, and especially the political sphere, was having an effect on me. These icktastic feelings got worse during the pandemic, both because there was more popular fearmongering and because I wasn't getting to spend time with my community.
In June 2021, the local covid case rates dropped to nearly zero, and I was briefly able to go to a few queer events in person, including a wonderful drag-king show. I can't even describe the relief and gratitude, and most of all love that overwhelmed me, looking at all the excellent gorgeous queers around me. I could actually feel the internalized stigma falling away, because I was with my community and it was joyful and there were beautiful people of all shapes and sizes and backgrounds, wearing their cutest silliest outfits. It felt not unlike when a stabbing pain suddenly vanishes. I felt life pouring back into my body.
When people appear to be unable to take a joke — bear in mind that "taking a joke" can feel, over long periods of exposure, like losing a piece of yourself.
4) There have always been people who were not allowed to speak freely, and things that it was unacceptable to say. In the past, most of these constraints were for the benefit of a highly privileged minority of people, who didn't want to hear opinions or jokes about religion, racism, politics or queer topics that challenged their privilege. It's only quite recently that the balance has shifted and people with immense privilege have had to watch what they say, a little bit. And meanwhile, marginalized people are slightly — slightly! — freer to speak the truth about the things that affect their lives.
The burden of self-censorship has not increased, but has simply been redistributed. In a sense, nobody is ever really arguing that so-and-so should lose their job — instead, we're arguing that the thing that so-and-so said should join the constantly shifting (and relatively short) list of things that are unacceptable to say in public.
5) I've seen a few hundred discussions lately of how toxic Twitter is. And yes, Twitter is incredibly toxic. Twitter is designed to facilitate bullying and knee-jerk outrage. There are a hundred small design decisions, including Twitter's algorithm, that seem calculated to make it easier to pile on someone, and harder to insert nuance or context. I recommend reading Isabel Yap's newsletter discussion of Twitter from a while back, and listening to this episode of "You're Wrong About." I recently tweeted my own philosophy about the service, which boiled down to not tweeting or sharing outrage when I don't have an informed perspective.
At the same time, I've always had a conflicted attitude to Twitter's somewhat kneejerk reactive culture. On the one hand, I'm always low-key terrified that I'll screw up, or someone won't like a thing I chose to include in one of my books, and this will snowball into a major thing. I definitely think that Twitter is too quick and too happy to turn people into pariahs and non-persons over misunderstandings and questionable creative choices. On the other hand, though, I'm always acutely aware as a trans person that people are much more civil to me online than they would otherwise be, because they are scared of being called out. I personally benefit from Twitter's hair-trigger, in ways that have made my life noticeably better.
On the third hand... I think the consequences of becoming the Twitter Main Character [tm] are so much worse for marginalized people than for people with plenty of status and security. A high-profile cis dude can turn a Twitter freakout into money and opportunities, but for people who depend on their community for support it can be a nightmare. And I sometimes feel as if the fact that we can't do anything about certain famous trolls just makes us go harder against the people we can affect.
6) On a related note, there used to be one set of rules for Britney Spears and a different set for Britney Smith. Actual famous people, or public figures, could expect to have their every move scrutinized and obsessed over, but regular people were relatively safe. But nowadays, anybody could become the new Twitter Main character [tm], and suddenly become a public figure with zero warning. This is... disconcerting. In general, the internet gives us all of the pitfalls of fame without any of the protections, like an army of publicists or bodyguards or whoever. When ordinary people hear about "cancel culture," this is almost certainly part of what they're imagining. At any moment, you could become Bean Dad.
7) It can be weird to look back at pop culture from even twenty years ago. I just re-read the first issue of the Preacher comic, for example, which liberally features the N-word in a way that feels very Tarantino-inspired. A lot of pop culture from the twentieth century is horrifying in various ways. I have started to dread re-watching old movies or TV shows, because they're all so much nastier than I remember. In the 1990s, Andrew Dice Clay became a hot comedian with a stream of offensive jokes that didn't have much of a point that I can remember. It's weird to think back now to the time, not too long ago at all — when we didn't even have the concept of "punching down" because *it was all punching down*. I think a lot of people are nostalgic for that time.
8) Careers in media, entertainment and other culture industries have always been precarious. It's only ever taken one media merger, one failed project, one thoughtless act or one random fluke to damage — or end — a career as a journalist, writer, actor, teacher, etc. In the early 2000s, I heard from various LGBTQIA+ authors who'd been told their books were no longer publishable because "queer lit is over." We all eagerly gobble up stories about some formerly hot actor who is no longer being cast in projects because they offended someone powerful. It's still not okay for major Hollywood stars to come out as gay or lesbian — as evidenced by the fact that so few of them have.
It's hard to overstate the insecurity that comes along with a job spinning words or ideas or images — even if you claim to believe that you gained that position through merit rather than luck and social status. That kind of fear makes you superstitious: we'll all be fine if we just do everything the right way. It's almost impossible to admit that none of us have that much control over what happens to our livelihoods, and that we just have to do our best.
Is it any wonder that so many of us in the culture industry react with paranoia to the notion that people should face consequences for offensive speech or behavior? We're already starting from a place of fear.
9) It turns out that living through a plague, a barbaric war, a slow slide into climate apocalypse and an ongoing attempt to subvert our democracy is fucking stressful. Who knew? People are on edge, and it's harder and harder to believe that we can do anything to fix these messes before it's too late. Traumatized, anxious people don't always handle provocation well. Shocking, I know.
10) Saying that someone has disgraced themself is helpful, in part, because disgrace implies the possibility of grace. We can leave a space to recognize when people have behaved gracefully and treated other people, especially marginalized people, well. We can also, if we choose, offer grace to people who have screwed up and who seem genuinely apologetic and aware of the consequences of their actions. (This second type of grace is not required, and should never be expected, but it can be a genuinely healing act for everyone involved.) I have disgraced myself many times in the past, and I'm certain I'll disgrace myself again in the future. I've been very grateful to everyone who's taken the time to help me understand, and to do better.
Music I Love Right Now
Commando is a new queer supergroup consisting of some of the Bay Area's most consistently awesome creative minds, including Juba Kalamka, Lynnee Breedlove and Honey Mahogany. If you've been craving some obnoxiously loud and brazen rap-metal about queerness and sexuality and accepting your own body, then their self-titled debut album might rock your world as much as it's been rocking mine. You can get it on Bandcamp! The album is totally uncompromising and invigorating, and ends with a trio of songs where Breedlove muses about influential musicians: Prince, George Michael, and Mykki Blanco.
My Stuff
I am still publishing a young adult trilogy! The first book, Victories Greater Than Death, is out in paperback now and was just nominated for a Nebula Award. The second book, Dreams Bigger Than Heartbreak, comes out on April 5. These books are seat-of-your-pants off-the-chain space adventure with a healthy dollop of fantasy and lots of unapologetic queerness. The second book is even queerer than the first, featuring even more people modeling consent and getting each other's pronouns right. All of the questions that were raised in the first book are answered in the second — and of course, we raise new questions, which I promise are answered in the third book. If you enjoy my ramblings about life and the universe, please do check out these books. It means a lot to me.
I'm at the Tucson Festival of Books this weekend!
Also this weekend: Writers With Drinks, the spoken word show I organize, is back. Featuring Malinda Lo, Khan Wong, Sumiko Saulson, Betsy Aoki and guest host Celeste Chan. It's gonna be excellent unto the max!
I contributed to Marvel Comics' "Women of Marvel" special issue, with a story about Squirrel Girl and Black Widow, and it's out today!