I am a white person. I grew up in a nice white town that taught me everyone was the same with the same hearts and the same opportunities, and moved on into work environments with whiteness pumped into the air. And it has been a journey.

This article is not about that. This article is about the work.

© E.D.E Bell

In dismantling oppression, the experiences and needs of the marginalized must remain centered. But I am seeing this truth being twisted into a justification for white silence, and so, here, being asked to speak, I will.

First, a piece of fiction.

***

“A Strange Hill to Die On” 

Festival marks the peak of summer. And no one asks which festival, because if another were meant, it would be called by name.

Zeta looked forward to Festival every year. The sounds and smells and electricity of connection, the anticipation of future joy, fueled her forward on the hardest of days, like a light kept in her pocket, with charge for the year. But especially this year, ever since she had learned that Rin Talen would be there, speaking, performing. As a volunteer for the committee, she might even meet them. They could sign her spellbook, the old spellbook, she thought with a grin.

And, Zeta thought further, such a celebratory year might be a chance to finally ease the one weight Festival always held. For many, but also for her. The quiet weight.

She resolved to try.

The fairies of Hela Hill had not largely attended Festival in some years. Without them, the songs were thinner. The air less vibrant. The joy less free. When Zeta had raised the question to the committee, they’d thrown up their hands. “They are always welcome,” The Deputy had said. “We also wish they would go.”

So Zeta had asked a trusted friend over a cup of glitter tea. The friend’s response had chilled Zeta to her bones. Such small things, yet such deep misunderstanding. No, mistrust. And the friend had offered other names, fairies whose words did not feel valued, and so, they no longer spoke them.

They focused efforts elsewhere.

The committee, Zeta learned, had misspoken. The fairies of Hela Hill were not welcome. They were invited. And, Zeta learned, these were not the same.

Zeta changed her plan.

“Zeta,” The Mayor said, “we need to talk about the lights.” She casually waved the submitted plan, her report attached behind it, still in its clips.

“Yes,” Zeta answered, excitedly. “I’ve got the schematics all worked out, and I’ve submitted the plan for review. Well, you have it right there. I’ve already talked to the magicians, and they can—”

The Mayor tapped the table. “You changed the colors.”

“Oh,” Zeta smiled. “The notes are on page three. I’ve asked people in town from Hela Hill what might make them feel welcome at festival, and while the other items are in the report, one is the shade of violet used. Fairies are sensitive to violet and all the shades beyond, and so if we just change that one to mauve, then—”

The Mayor chuckled. “We’re not changing the rainbow.”

“That’s absurd,” she heard another voice say.

Taken aback, Zeta found her own responses slipping. “I’m not…changing the rainbow. I’m adjusting the lights for Festival, to make the celebration more welcoming to all. And if you look in the report, there are other—”

“This?” The Mayor waved the stack of sheets. “We don’t have time for it. But changing the rainbow? The heart of Festival? How you could think to do this without even asking…” The Mayor shook her head.

The rainbow was the heart of Festival. It represented the gathering of all in celebration of darkness and light, in the strength of shared joy. Somewhere, she had a point to make. A way to express the difference. But there was no space to think, and around her, people chattered, louder and now, some with laughter. Zeta spoke louder to be heard. “I’ve never had to ask before. And I submitted it for review, and—”

“Hello?” The Mayor called out. “Is Roy G. Bim in attendance?”

The Deputy laughed.

“It’s not a joke,” Zeta said, now feeling angry. “We’re using fairy songs, fairy wisps, it’s part of how we got Rin Talen to attend. The least we can do is adjust the lights to help more fairies feel welcome.”

The Mayor was no longer laughing. “It should be apparent,” she said, “that we are not changing the rainbow.” She sighed. “I’m delaying the casting of the lights until we can submit a reasonable plan.”

“No,” Zeta said, her face flushing. “We can’t delay. The spells take weeks to calibrate, and—”

“You will stop interrupting,” The Deputy said, voice firm. “Now, on to pastries.”

The laughter had stopped, and the air felt heavy. Zeta glanced around for a nod of support, but the others stared down at their papers, some reading, some making notes.

The next day, she walked to Hela Hill.

*

Zeta raised her hand.

“Yes, Zeta?” The Deputy’s face wrinkled in anticipatory defense.

“I’d like to raise the issue of the lights.”

“We’ve talked about the lights,” The Mayor snapped. “We’re past it, and we are moving on.”

She shook her head, grasping for calmish words. “We’re not past it; the casts are still unordered, and unless you wish to remove me, I am still—”

“Do you wish to be removed?” The Deputy asked, eyes glinting.

“No. I wish to be respected.” Zeta stood from her chair, willing her legs to steady. “The modification of the violet lights to mauve is something that several fairies have communicated as an issue in their attendance.”

“You are not a fairy, nor do you speak for them. We are not going to lose precious meeting time discussing the opportunity to showcase Rin Talen because of your continued interruptions. Now, that’s enough.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, louder. “It’s not enough. I’ve not been given any opportunity to—”

“You do it again, you’ll force us to replace you.”

Flustered now, she peered around for support, but faces were turned away. “What have I done wrong, but put forward a thoughtful plan that you will not discuss? That you refuse to—”

The air snapped around her. A spell, cast by someone at the table. Her voice was blocked from leaving the bubble around her as long as she stayed in this place. Her eyes twitching and face burning, she left the room and walked out into the cool evening air to let the pressure subside, hoping perhaps, that someone might join her.

Zeta sat outside on the bench. Alone.

*

Cherry rapped at Zeta’s door.

Zeta smiled. She was glad to see her friend.

“I’m sorry about what happened at the meeting,” Cherry said, over a freshly offered cup of tea. “They were looking for someone to wrap up the lights for the committee, and I figured at least I could honor the work you’ve done. Could you give me your spell schematics?”

Zeta’s fingers turned cold against the warm cup. “I…need to think about that.” The Mayor had threatened to remove her, but there’d been no discussion. She’d thought, perhaps, Cherry was here to help.

“Sorry?” Cherry scrunched her face. “I told them you were on the right side of this, that you cared about Festival, even if you get wrapped in minutiae at times. But you understand the burden more than anyone. If we can’t use the updated schematics, we’ll have to start over from last year’s, retune the entire solar resonance. Like you said, that takes weeks.”

It took Zeta weeks; the others did not do it as well. She kept that piece to herself. “You don’t have last year’s,” Zeta said instead, looking down at her cup. “I have those also.”

The silence was long and unbroken, until Zeta looked up. Cherry was staring at her, her expression blank. Meeting Zeta’s eyes, Cherry’s softened.

“I get it. A lot of us know how The Mayor is, but there are issues here of more importance. Don’t you see? It’s finally happening. We’re getting Rin Talen. You know what that means to our island. People will travel here, from all over, just to see them. It will be the grandest celebration in years.”

Her own voice felt low, unsure. “But, Cherry, what does it mean to have people from all over when we are not inclusive of our own?”

Cherry nearly sputtered. “The fairies love Rin Talen; surely they’ll come out just for that. Any issue will be solved.”

Zeta shook her head. “But what if they don’t? Or even—what if they do? What if they go, but feel unhappy? Shouldn’t we welcome people with what they’ve asked for, not only with things we think they’ll also like? That’s not welcome, that’s…erasure.”

“I can’t do this,” Cherry said with a sigh. “I came by to try and help, and if you’re going to keep repeating fashions and flutters, it’s just, well it’s uncomfortable.”

The word ticked at Zeta’s mind, but she couldn’t quite place why. “What is it,” she asked, a simple question but all that she could think to ask right now, “that makes you so uncomfortable?”

Cherry stood, disappointment in her eyes. “I just think this is a strange hill to die on.”

“Die on?” Now Zeta’s face scrunched in incredulity. “I think that’s a strange thing to say. This is living. It isn’t even about us, but it’s like…” She had so much more to say, but the words felt twisted into her own anxieties, her own doubts.

With a sigh, Cherry took her bag back up and headed for the door. “Clearly you need time to think.”

“I don’t,” Zeta said, staying seated to hide the wobble in her legs. “I don’t, actually. I want to be heard out by the full committee on the issue of the violet lights. If they don’t like the term ‘mauve’ that’s fine, but we need to discuss adjusting the hue and why it’s such a big deal before I support any transition.”

Placing her hand across her chest, Cherry shook her head. “Can’t, Zeta. You’re banned. They…said you wanted that. That you were making the big deal out of petty things. That you could not control yourself. And, frankly, I am seeing here what they meant.” Waiting for a reply from Zeta and not getting one, she turned and left.

*

The narrator resents the ending, because there are several, and all of them as true as any. In every version, Zeta won’t hand over her plans without a discussion; she feels sick for the stand and the others sick for it.

In some stories, she celebrates the night alone. She finds her friends, she finds new friends, and creates art and joy in other spaces.

In some stories, the next meeting grows heated. Another speaks.

In some, an ending by delays.

In some stories, Festival is celebrated at Hela Hill. In some stories, it always was.

In the most fantastical version, Rin Talen asks what occurred and demands a full review before they will participate, offering their own funds, if needed, to assist. Yet, even then, no one invites Zeta back, for her name, now, is trouble.

In a version of fire and flame, there is no such name, for those who would block are bricks to be tossed, those who would hush are whispers unheard, and those who would mirror are turned from our view. But that is another tale. That is a story of dragons.

Perhaps, then, a fictional ending. A triumphant one? A comfortable one?

No, the narrator resists.

The real ending is tomorrow. And the days beyond. The real ending is long. The real ending is hope.

As for Zeta? She didn’t want to be in words. She didn’t want to be a character. She didn’t want to be alone.

She wanted the rainbow to mean all.

She reminds the reader, it does.

*

Festival marks the peak of summer. And no one asks which festival, because if another were meant, it would be called by name.

A rainbow of lights hover and sway over the calm, cool night, as the sounds of music flow across the jasmine-scented breeze and flutes of bubbling juices offer to tickle the tongue while streams of water could wiggle the toes.

All the people of the island gather. Many mingle and talk, others lounge and watch. Dancers dance, and singers sing. The furry folk eat, prance, and cuddle in nooks. The gnomes bounce from ledge to ledge, on networks of platforms and sheltered views winding through the taller crowds. A group of fairies flap their wings in raucous laughter while others coast through the aisles and squares—talking, dancing, joining in a game of tales or a telling of dice. Elves chuckle and ogres grunt. Merfolk leap and swim through the sparkling channels and into the center pond, their fins shaking glitter into the wind.

These pulses of joy, these spectra of love, the choices of safety, adventure, or rest.

At Festival, everyone is home.

***

So why did I write that story?

I had recently sat in on a speculative poetry talk by Brandon O’Brien, hosted online by the Spectrum Writers Group in London, England. Brandon explained his view of speculative poetry as that which “reshapes the extent to which a concept is fathomable through poetic form.”

I loved this, and had been struggling myself with communicating what has now turned into the topics of this essay: a specific pattern intertwining whiteness and abuse to prevent white people from doing the hands-on work.

The story didn’t go anywhere, as I unfortunately found out that it had received a “1” rating from a reader. And yes, he was.

Feeling unable to communicate this pattern I was seeing again and again and again in xpfic (exploratory fiction—my proposed more globally appropriate term than specfic) I put the story on my website, and tried, amidst my mental disabilities, to move on.

I am deeply honored that Strange Horizons saw this story, found it resonant, and wanted me to expand on it.

So I’d like to focus on this pattern, rather than one or two known events—but, as some context is surely helpful, I have been removed now from major roles in three specfic literary conventions: twice as programming lead, and once as anthology editor. And what I’ve experienced there, and throughout my genre interactions, is a specific dynamic tailored for use against progress being undertaken in part by white people. This technique diverts attention from the issues and harm by redirecting from them by gaslighting about centering and heroism. I don’t see this aspect talked about so much for the same reasons it’s so effective. So I will give this discussion my best try, and hopefully add something meaningful to the conversation.

Oppression is always deeply woven, so I am going to tug on one specific thread: How organizations run change through with the smallest needle, why this is so effective, again and again, and why it is also so effective at keeping white people away from the hands-on work.

Slogans are important. They get us to the work.

Slogans are not the work.

When I mentioned the title of this piece to (white) friends, they either thought I intended to write about the smallness of the needle: a weapon that is not powerful, or the weapon of a thousand needles. No. One needle, as in one tiny little sword, yet one that is given its power by the lack of willingness to flick it aside.

This is very effective. And white people,we have to talk about it.

We need to understand all the weapons of whiteness comprehensively to diffuse them. So today, we talk about the needle. The single needle. The teeny tiny sword given the power to stab deep.

It starts with a need for change. Often uncontroversial change. (Otherwise they wouldn’t have let you in to try it.) Like, wanting everyone to feel welcome in a shared space. That’s a goal the nicest of niceties can get behind. Sure, we do, they say. Go forth. This isn’t destructive. This isn’t reparative. This is just nice.

No one gets in the way of nice.

Until one white person, somewhere, senses any tiny change that they understand to be change. (Usually doesn’t matter if they even like the change, just that they sense it as such.)

Now they are uncomfortable.

They agreed to welcome, not change. Why is there change? You know what, they don’t want to know. Nice just turned to appropriate. To civil.

You’re out of line, and it’s going to be stopped.

*

Stage 1: Discomfort

First they tell you, hey quick note, we’re not doing that.

I’d like to discuss it, you offer.

No, no discussion. Instead they go to the people around you. Can someone talk to you?

You get talked to. You repeat that the idea is a good one, simple enough with multi-faceted benefits, if they would listen to you about it.

May I discuss it, you ask.

This is the part I really want people to understand. Everything that follows is part of a technique, hinged entirely on discomfort. The minute there was discomfort in the house, it needed to be stopped.

They don’t want to understand it.

*

Stage 2: Shutdown

Your circle failed to shut you down, so now you’re going to get shut down. They twist and hammer broader and interconnected issues into something small. Something petty. The needle is forged.

They ask all those around, those who wish for reasonable solutions: Why are you so upset about something so petty? So small?

Isn’t that…concerning?

I’d still like to discuss it, you state. We still haven’t discussed it. I can clarify and explain.

*

Stage 3: Charge

You have not yielded! You do not believe in compromise, they say. Ah, but there must be something to grab on to. A personal reason. An influence. A neurodivergency. A mental disability. Maybe it’s just how you are. You are unstable—uncontrolled. Selfish. Secret motives. And certainly the people around you would remove someone getting in the way of good work! Because they care. They want peace while you want conflict.

You are holding every breath in your body not to tell them you have seen this technique before because perhaps the change is still possible. You do not want conflict, you want some ability for change, even small change, long-term shifts. But for that, you have to be able to do something, anything. You repeat, you are still willing to explain what the team is trying to do here. It was never about you. It is not about this needle. It is about something very achievable that will help.

But now your circle is uncomfortable too.

It’s not about what people intend, whether some people find them “good”, whether they’re funny online, how long people have known them, what they might still have to offer those people.

It’s about the change, and the fact that it can’t even be discussed.

But that needle has not been flicked, and so we continue.

*

Stage 4: Rise of the Hero

People talk a lot about white defensive offense from those openly fighting change. You know, all of it. You think white people are bad. You’re selfish. You’re operating from a place of hate. You’re brainwashed. We need unity not division. On and on and on. You’re now used to this from the “right”.

Then you learned it comes from the “center” too. Civility, getting along, recognizing that people are allowed to have their opinions. Hotel Fragility for those who choose to stay, and a painful path for those who choose to leave.

But all these comments are from the “left”. Your own circles.

First, quietly. What about your image? Is this…your lane?

Maybe, maybe… It should be a BIPOC doing this.

In private, to people you trust, you can say it: BIPOC are the ones that explained the issues in the first place, explained the needs, spent their time and trust to do so. BIPOC have told you many things you will not quote. They were said in confidence. They were said by people hopeful to maybe see some change without having to take the hits on it for once. You can relay a few more things in private, things you will not say in a magazine.

By now, people are louder. Why is this white person framing issues around race? Is this the race card? Are you waving race like a trinket? How dare you twiddle with race?!

This isn’t about me, you say, this is about the change. I tried to do it the direct way.

You tell them what’s really going on.

The room is quiet.

Then a white person will deadpan:

[Your name], you are white.

What they say is: You’re trying to be a hero. You are taking advantage of the marginalized. You are centering yourself.

It gets worse. It gets much more vile. It tries to bring in people in that don’t need to be brought in, that you refuse to help them bring in. I choose not to repeat it.

What they mean is: You violated the number one rule of white people in a room. You talked about what happened there.

And, for that, you must be dealt with.

*

Stage 5: Choice

Your circles now have one more chance to make a choice.

*

Stage 6: Silence

The silence is so loud. So loud. If this feels like a meaningless metaphor to you, then you have not heard it. When you do, it is a sound unlike any other.

I’ll give a non-genre example. I spoke up in a group of my high school classmates about some fairly aggressively racist (whether or not it was intended or understood to be) behavior. Of note, my high school class is almost entirely white. I was accused, then ridiculed, then isolated, then booted from the group. The pattern. Yet—reaching the choice phase, so many people in that group who are well-connected, have notability in their industries, knew exactly what was going on.

Who, then, spoke up to say, yes, this is racist and also, lay off Emily, this is about the racism, not your sudden issues with Emily, someone you don’t even know, to deflect from that?

No one.

I heard the issue was eventually resolved in some form, but I’m still not in the group. Do I really want to be? Noooo… But, was there no consequence to this? Is my removal good for some of the people there who might have been learning new things from me, but wouldn’t be bold enough to “follow” me somewhere? No. And the message it sends for the next person to speak up on again, basic, basic, racism? Very clear. And existentially dangerous:

You will stand alone.

*

Stage 7: Standing Together

I’ve had a lot of good advice from good people. Meaning, good people who are also experts in inclusion work. And what I’ve concluded?

It’s always worth standing.

It’s not always worth standing alone.

While my plea here is to those who might stand up, step forward, I have learned the hard way: sometimes you need to wait until you have a team who will stand together.

And no, no matter how much you think people care, you don’t learn until you do. So it’s a conversation worth having directly.

*

Stage 8: Repeat, Repeat, until Defeat

That bully with the cool, calm demeanor and the needle in their hand knows the needle only works against one person at a time (though maybe taking out a few people who stand too close). Target and isolate. Like a late-night videogame stream.

Things seem like a game, I guess, when you’re not feeling the world around you.

Each of us can only do so much. But I believe, we can choose to stop playing their games.

*

Always At The Money

They always go at the money.

We’ve handed them this, in many ways. Yes, money flows to the writer, but with this as an unnuanced axiom, art remains controlled by those with existing wealth. Changing the system requires organization, and then the organization, they say, even a committee made of writers, is not “a writer” no matter how many writers are involved or being paid.

The work takes money.

Paying writers money takes money.

And you need some organization to do that; it is a basic tenet of societies.

So this is not really about organization, it’s about whose organization is valid. Keeping power where it currently rests. And those powers have learned to quickly hand the microphone to an uninformed, performative white progressive, who can now rally concern: Perhaps this was all about money.

We need to be more cognizant of this attack:

That people seeking resources for change must be doing wrong with it while the people who already have it for the status quo are fully unquestioned.

*

The Devil And The Details

The next step of this is a sudden need for detail. An exhaustive proof of innocence. Full transparency.

Not all information should be shared publicly when it comes to inclusion efforts. There are privacy issues, safety issues, and just bringing people into manufactured drama that they absolutely shouldn’t have to deal with, especially because it will cause them harm.

When inquiries go beyond reasonable clarification, the community needs to trust the integrity of the people running the process or not. Or if there is some need to look into accusations further, at least it should be thoughtfully and intentionally, not by mob. And mindful that those accusations are remotely founded, and not the twisting of the needle.

I am not suggesting that these ideas are new, but I just don’t see enough white writers contextualizing and talking about them. And I think we need to, because what white people do in that room alone can’t be exposed and addressed by anyone but ourselves. Of course BIPOC should be involved wherever they want to be, yet it is unreasonable and untenable to insist that a BIPOC writer must always be present at every moment for any work to occur.

Some points come to my mind regarding what I’ve experienced the last few years. These are only a summary of the current formation of my thoughts, and I welcome correction or refinement. Yet, here’s where I’m at:

• Watch who is coming after the money and why.
• Watch their “standing”—is the person asking actually involved in the management or oversight in any way? Usually anyone legitimately involved doesn’t have to yell online to learn basic facts.
• Watch for nonsense. Don’t pile-on to someone’s reputation based on it.
• Watch who is a bully and who is a (perhaps even well intended but certainly harmful) proxy.
• Watch who purports to be a neutral entity but always avoids discussing things that could still benefit them.
• Reestablish white people talking about and understanding power dynamics as intersectional with marginalization. Meaning, also, power dynamics are still a really big deal between two non-marginalized people.
• Reestablish trust and integrity in the industry. Not figures. Not pedestals. But actual, sustained and understood reputation and connections. This would prevent so many of these knee-jerk performative pile-ons we’ve seen over the last years. And maybe—it would cause some people to deemphasize or move along sooner from people they know are problematic, including performative, because yes, performativity causes harm. (Pauses before continuing.)
• Yes, reputation can be lost. Yes, people betray us. Yes, people hide their harm. Our genres are not yet through the initial internet-era reckoning on that. But I think, generally, we know where people and their ethics are at much more than we’re allowing ourselves to say.

And again, that’s the very heart of all of this. Our expression. Speaking plainly. Speaking truth as in truth in context.

There are many good reasons not to speak. But we, especially those in positions of privilege, can sit and reconsider…what are our reasons? Do they hold up?

*

I’m Seeing What They’re Saying

This is the go-to of abusive voices. On the gaslighting, on the diversion. They will send people out to pester, annoy, poke, pummel people with bad faith questions, and will not stop. They come at you, they come at your friends, they incite with all sort of twisted logic that would be exhausting to even start unraveling.

You’re either going to sit quietly and listen to the abuse or they’re going to point and say, “See—I’m seeing what they’re saying.”

No one should have to sit quietly and listen to abuse.

So if anyone is hoping Emily will behave in the future: I sure will. Anyone comes at my friends or my ethics, I’ll tell them to yeet off too. With cussing.

See, what I’ve learned is: it doesn’t matter anyway. They already had the “I’m Seeing What They’re Saying” in a pocket like a warmed up gummy bear to certify their benevolence. You could tell them an accusation is untrue with the affect of a Hall of Presidents automaton, and they still would throw this out about your demeanor.

So you cuss and game over?

No. I’m not playing it anymore.

A lot of people seem really concerned about this idea that making it clear someone is not welcome to harass you anymore in a less than cordial way is validating their accusations, and I urge those people to consider: Engaging with abusers in any other context than addressing their abuse is already a form of validation. When you’re polite, they don’t stop. When you’re not, they smell salts. And what’s not being talked about in either case, is getting back to the issue that was trying to be resolved in the first place. These diverting character attacks that warp concepts like centering, real issues that really do need to be kept in mind with an accurate understanding of what they truly mean—with the goal of keeping people out of the work—cannot be given air.

The air detracts from the work. It hurts people who are trying to help. And it provides layers of armor to a cultural normalization not only to harassers, but “mean folk” branded writers who hide behind them.

We have to stop playing their games.

***

We Will Prevail

As echoed by voices of time and presence, I believe nothing is more important than this:

We will prevail.

It’s how and when and at what cost that is the issue.

We—as in us. All of us. Any squishy little human that thinks that everyone should be able to be happy. That doesn’t ignore marginalization; it recognizes in its face that as long as it continues, that broader “we” are not there.

We all deserve peace, joy, and safety.

See, that’s not heroism. That’s basic.

Heroes are the people who move us. We choose our heroes: many, some, or none. Each of us. It’s not a label to want or achieve, nor any measure of success, and I think the more we talk about that, the less these concepts of our heart can be weaponized against change.

And that change will continue. It will happen. People have said this since people said things. But some things are different now: fundamentally different. We live in a world where information can be spread. Where independent voices can still speak to vast, global audiences.

It is as powerful of a time as it is perilous. Because those same networks, that same access, the same manipulation of our trust, can also be used to impose silence. To isolate. To lock down. To make sure the right things are being said. And when people don’t hold that line, then to find the right people.

The more of us stand together, the faster this change will be and the fewer people will suffer in the meantime. In what I hope is a quite obvious note: this is not me saying this. This is a known and ancient precept. There are people who think about this a lot in every time, in every culture. If you haven’t thought of this in a while, I ask to bump it up in your decisions. In your thoughts about “conflict”.

I was sitting talking to Brandon O’Brien this summer, and he slowly said, as if working out the line himself, essentially: “People want to be in the fight but they do not know what a fight is.”

We talked about it more. Neither of us like conflict in the least. I despise it, honestly. I want to feel safe around my friends, and I’ve never really had that, even now. I don’t want people to be nervous. I want hugs. I want: “I’m glad you’re here.” But most people understand: You can’t really feel safe, feel welcome, when you’re ignoring that other people don’t.

Yes, you can be happy while other people aren’t, but not when ignoring it.

I have had it said about me that I have gone into things looking for a fight. Looking for conflict. I wish these people would sit and consider what I believe, which is: Seeing there is a fight and hoping to resolve it with the least pain all around is not looking for it. It is seeing it. And not closing one’s eyes. Not stepping behind civility.

Many discussions for many other days, but back to the white-wielded needle. What about it? How do we defeat it?

So many times, the most effective way is for a community to stand up and say, “This is another white person wielding a needle against good work. We see it. We see you. Now put that little thing away and sit the fuck down.”

We have been, and always will be, in this together.

Let’s keep that our priority.