With a zombie slayer, a dinosaur, and a nativity hut from Rwanda to guard my writing desk, I know my books are safe.
Or possibly Michonne and the carnosaur are guarding the nativity hut. I can’t be sure.
Merry Advent!
Stant Litore
Year: 2016
Ranting at These Annotations for Esther (Or, How Well We Read Matters)
So, I’ve found this rather good translation of Esther, but I keep making the mistake of glancing at the ‘scholarly notes’ at the bottom of the page, which are genuinely pissing me off. They are foolishly unscholarly and sneeringly anti-Semitic:
– The annotator keeps bringing up quite compelling interpretations from the Targums only to dismiss them in the next breath as ‘unlikely readings of the text’ (he never actually says why they are unlikely, other than that he deems them so, despite his obvious lack of knowledge of the literary tradition and despite the authors of the Targums being steeped in that literary tradition) and then proceeds to offer the most nauseating opinions of his own without a shred of scholarship or literary context to back them. At one point, he brings up the Midrash reading that Hadassah (Esther) hid for four years before being taken to the king’s harem, which does fit both the spirit of the story and the four-year gap in the plot, only to knock it down as a rather ‘nice’ effort by Jewish scholars to ‘defend Esther’s virtue,’ and then advances his own explanation that Esther probably went willingly (after a four-year hesitation???) and then ingratiated herself deliberately with the overseers of the harem, submitted happily to dining on nonkosher delicacies, and he tops it all off in his notes on the second chapter by noting that the text is ‘remarkable’ in that it ‘offers no moral judgment about the actions of Esther, a young Jewish virgin who gave herself to a pagan king.’ The text offers no ‘moral judgment’ on this, so the annotator is quite happy to imply one of his own. No, you ignoramus, this is manifestly NOT a story about a young gold-digger who chooses to slum it with a foreign monarch and then later gets redeemed by a virtuous act; it is literally a text about surviving, confronting, or circumventing oppression, assimilation, or annihilation by means of courage, concealment, commitment, and cunning, a story about a captive people whose captors can do anything they please with them (up to and including genocide) and who exist within a social order in which men can do anything they please to their concubines (including do away with them), an order so autocratic and restricted that the first ‘disobedient act’ by a wife is treated as a matter of national crisis. It’s one of a series of stories (Daniel, Nehemiah, Esther) about a people whose liberty, clothing, diet, language, and even their very names are stripped from them, their own names replaced with the names of the gods of their captors, so that Daniel becomes Belteshezzar (Bel Guards Him) and Hadassah becomes Esther (Goddess Ishtar). They can be thrown to the lions if caught praying to their own ancestral deity, or tossed into a furnace for refusing to prostrate themselves to a gold statue of the king. Esther can be killed if she approaches the king to plead for the life of her people while he’s in the wrong mood. Much of the early drama in the story comes from the fact that she has to conceal her ethnicity in order to survive. It is an utterly harrowing story about the blindness of autocracy and a beautiful story about the courage to speak truth to power, even absolute power and about the ethical and religious necessity of risking it all to aid and defend those who stand to lose it all when you have the opportunity to make a difference.
– Also, the annotator has an alarming tendency to identify with Xerxes more than with all the story’s other characters. Which is very weird. Granted, the narrative presents Xerxes (much as Herodotus presents him, too) as a fully human character, one trapped and shaped and warped to a considerable degree by the society at whose apex he sits, but also one who wreaks great damage by following the extreme moods he is subject to. But I don’t understand this annotator’s obsessive need to describe how Xerxes’ ‘burning rages’ are ‘justified.’ He even adds a header above the text of the first chapter, replacing the more traditional translator’s header of ‘The King’s Banquet’ with ‘Vashti Angers the King.’ Seriously. I ask you!!! No, Vashti did not ‘anger the king.’ The king got drunk, completely off-his-butt drunk, boasted to a bunch of other drunk nobles that he would parade his queen in front of them wearing only her crown so they could all see how beautiful his most prized possession was. (The scholar, predictably, rejects this Targum as well as ‘unlikely,’ despite that this is exactly what the diction in the Hebrew implies.) Then, when she refused, he had her banished only to regret it later. Vashti did not ‘anger the king’; that isn’t the point of the story, except perhaps to Xerxes. Vashti claimed a little basic dignity, the king got angry, and the next queen was so terrified of the king’s rages (and the consequences thereof) that she asked her entire ethnic group to pray for her before she went to his hall to make a request of him. I will hazard a guess that this seminarian either never read Herodotus or forgot most of his stories of Xerxes. We are talking about a man who was legendary in the ancient world for spending fruitless seasons chasing the Scythians across the steppes of what is now Russia because he was pissed, or for responding to the old engineer Oebazus’s request that he leave his youngest son behind from the march to Greece to comfort the engineer in his old age…by slaughtering all three of Oebazus’s sons and then forcing the old man to come with him to war instead. Dude, the whole point of putting Xerxes in a story at all is to say ‘Here is a man who is easily provoked at a word or two, regularly throws temper tantrums, and burns down kingdoms. Thankfully he had no nuclear codes.’ But no, this scholar from the School of Glaringly Missing the Point wants to contend that Xerxes’ rages are ‘justified’ and that Vashti really should have done her job and shown up barefoot, naked, in her tiara at the banquet.
That’s just the notes for the first two chapters. I am enjoying the translation (and Esther is such a powerful and timely story), but I am going to console myself by taking a black marker and voiding half the man’s commentary on it. What bothers me is that this foolish person who apparently thinks uninformed opinion is the same as scholarship (or that simply categorically dismissing any Jewish interpretation of a Jewish story is the same as informed scholarship) is teaching at a seminary somewhere. And he is teaching future religious leaders who will then go on to teach future parishioners or churchgoers. And that is an utterly horrifying thought. The stories you tell and read and hear matter; how well you’re able to investigate what’s going on in them, matters. Especially now. We are the most technically literate generation in human history, and we are terrible at reading well. Especially when it comes to our sacred texts. I want to pick this scholar up by his lapels and shake him.
#reallygrouchyreader
Stant
“It’s Against my Religion” is a Shallow Excuse for Discrimination
With Congress talking over FADA, I just want to point out that regardless of one’s personal opinions on the matter or the opinions of one’s community, there is no religious text on this planet that I am aware of that expressly mandates denying services to people you don’t approve of. I could be wrong. But I am fairly certain, at least, that when Yeshua (Jesus) fed the 5,000 with a few bread loaves and fish, he didn’t first separate out the gay Hebrews and tell them to go home unfed. And when he healed the citizens of the Galilee far into the hours of the night, I don’t recall reading that he turned away the lesbians at the door. Nor did he ask for anyone’s papers. There was no qualifying test of religious sect, gender, sexual orientation, marriage status, or national pride that had to be passed to get either the bread or the healing.
Stant Litore
The Day After
Woke up this morning to my wife crying and held her for an hour. Not cool, America. Not cool.
Today, as I’ve gone about my work, tried to keep productive, listened to heartbroken friends, I’ve tried to think of what to say, what to write, what to do.
I’ve tried to think of what to tell my children, my daughters.
I’ve tried to think of what to say to my Latinx and LGBTQ+ friends, who are very dear to me.
I’ve tried to think of how to console my wife, even as my own gut is gnawed with worry over Pence’s pledge to gut Medicaid and Trump’s blithe disregard for the disabled. I see my wife surviving (with a strength that wows me) the worst PTSD symptoms she has dealt with in years, the morning after we elected a man who sees nothing wrong with walking up to women and grabbing them by the p*ssy, whose core followers chant online “Repeal the 19th!” and chant offline “Lock her up!”
I’ve tried to think of how to respond tactfully and with grace to my well-meaning but oblivious conservative friends today who try to tell me, “It’s not that bad. Calm down please.”
I’ve tried to think at all.
At the office today, a lot of people are in tears. There is my Latina coworker. There is my white coworker with a Latino husband and Latinx family. There is my gay coworker. There is me, frightened for my daughter’s health and safety.
On my phone, there are my dear friends who are wondering if a few years down the line, if it will be illegal for them to raise their children together.
I am stunned.
Not because I have been caught off guard, not because of surprise, but because of the shock of it. You can see a fist coming for your face in advance; when it hits, you’re still going to be stunned.
All I have in me to say is this:
To those who stand to lose far more than I do: I will stand by you and fight for you and will back you and listen to you and hear you. Always.
To my daughter River: Take care of your POC classmates at school who are scared. Sometimes the bully wins. But not forever. Not tomorrow. Not the next day. You are young and smart and your mother and I will defend you while we can, but you are also strong and no one can ever break you and you will make this world what you want it to be. Remember the Grand Canyon? A little river made that. A little river cut that out of stone. A little River can do anything.
To my daughter Inara: I will fight for you with every breath I have. I am so proud of you. When you walk, everything in me sings. You inspire me to keep living a life of reckless love, relentless service, and unstoppable hope.
To my readers, present and future: Yes, I’m hurting today. Time to roll up my sleeves and tell more stories. We’re going to need them.
Stant Litore
Lilith!
I am so pleased to share with all of you that my friend Christine Emmert’s story Lilith is back in a new edition. This is probably one of the three or four most eerie and beautiful stories I have ever read; back when I ran an online literary journal, I selected ‘Lilith’ and edited it for that journal. Today, it’s an ebook … and an extremely good one. Go take a look!
An artist must defend her infant son against the darkest of predators.
The enemy of every hearth, Lilith visits homes and devours children. When a graduate student writing a thesis on Lilith meets the demoness in the shape of a barn owl, she sees the perfect research opportunity … until she learns Lilith is hungry for her child! Will Evelyn be able to protect her son from the owl’s tearing beak and dark heart? Will she be able to keep her husband from falling to Lilith’s wiles? Will she be able to learn who — and what — Lilith is in time to save her child, her marriage, and her mind?
Men, Can You Hear Us?
Women: If you’re willing to comment, is there one thing you wish more men knew or could hear?
Men: Just step back and listen, please. This post is here as a listening space.
_______________________
Kate. I wish men understood that essentially all of us have been subject to the kind of behavior described these past 10 days at some point. It makes me frightened to have it so out there right now, and being discredited.
Sherry. My husband is a die hard Trump voter. I wish he understood how much that makes me feel like he doesn’t value my feelings. As if he would allow someone to speak to me and treat me that way.
Teresa. I wish more men saw and understood what women do. We keep households and the world moving and in exchange we are belittled and asked to do more. That’s if we’re not outright assaulted.
Bethie. I wish people understood what it’s like to be stalked like prey. I won’t say just men because there are women who are privileged enough to never have experienced that feeling.
It seems so easy to dismiss. ‘Oh, they weren’t really stalking you. It was a coincidence.’
It wasn’t until I was literally stalked through my apartment complex by someone who lived downstairs from me, and I came home sobbing, that my husband understood. All I did was go check the mail. I passed him on my way out of the breezeway. Walked all the way across my complex. Got the mail, stepped over to talk to the management about something. Came outside, and he was there. Waiting. I took the long way around back home (in plain view of cars/people) and he followed me the whole way. I got lucky in that I ran into a maintenance person I trusted, and she and another drove me back to my apartment and supported me when I told the office what happened. The guy didn’t even live in my apartments. He was just staying there.
And I could share this with people, and I would get told that since he lived in my building, he just happened to be going the same way, as if I was paranoid, and my word about what happened wasn’t enough. My word should be enough. Even if it was a coincidence, my fear should be enough to be validated, not explained away.
Kimberley. I wish it was understood that women have more value than how they look. We are intelligent, caring, and full of promise. We are more than our body shape or our chest size. We also need the men around us to realize that they have the power to teach their daughters to demand respect. By example.
Nikki. Yes, this, about value and appearance. When I’m struggling and you’re trying to build me up, men, don’t start with my physical appearance. That does not help and often makes me feel worse. I am not a thing, an object to be gazed on. I’m a person with feelings and ideas and interests and desires and abilities. Engage me about those. Then we can get to my body after I feel you like me.
Melissa. How much we don’t talk about small things because of how much we’ve been called crazy, bitchy, naggy, whiney, etc., and how important those things actually are. How hard it is to survive a billion “small” things over the course of a lifetime.
Ariel. I wish more men understood that under the broad category of “women,” there are literally millions of individuals. We are all unique, complex beings. Each of us with an intricate tapestry of skills and knowledge and ideas. That our abilities are numerous and should be valued as much as theirs are.
Kimberley. That crude things that are said that they feel are a compliment are usually more of a put down. Personally, I’m not flattered in those cases and it makes me feel uncomfortable and even threatened in some cases.
Kara. I wish men knew what it felt like to work for years at a job trying to move up…and then watch a man waltz in and be given the very position you’ve been working towards. It’s happened to me more than once. It’s happened to my female friends and family. It’s more than just pay inequality.
Jenn. I would like it if, when I described something more subtle I was seeing, like a condescension or abuser-type warning signs in a third party to guy allies, that it wouldn’t be written off as nothing just because they might not see it themselves. I’m a writer. I’m observant and I know a bit about psychology. I’m pretty logical and I’m not emotionally reactionary. So I’d like my concerns/observations taken seriously. Yet there’s a block there that’s not with the women I know.
Jami. I talked with my dad today about a deal he made with a male mechanic in another state, sight unseen, to fix a car. I wondered about the type of business contract he negotiated, and if he had any legal ground if anything went wrong. He was impressed with what I came up with…but they essentially shared a virtual handshake. No contract. I was surprised by this. I let him know that as a woman, as well as a business person, I’ve learned that I had to have contracts in order to protect myself. So, I was proud of myself, but sad, too.
And I almost regretted posting this. I was so sure I’d have to explain that, “Yes, it’s important for every businessperson to make sure to have contracts for everything, but there are still men who are perfectly confident that a handshake is honorable enough. But I know that I would be screwed over somehow with just a handshake. Especially by a male mechanic.” This. Second-guessing myself and having arguments for everything I say, just in case. This is my life, every day. I wish men knew how exhausting this is.
Amber. I wish men understood how it feels to have someone yell “HEY BABY NICE TITS!” out the window as they walk home alone at night… the fear, the panic, the shame…
Vivian. I wish more men could hear “no” without ignoring it or taking it personally. I wish they would respect the power of the word.
Kathryn. I wish they knew how much it hurts to be judged by my weight. I have PCOS and have fought against my body my whole life. I have an eating disorder and body dysmorphic disorder. I hate my body and always have. You wouldn’t believe how many men have walked up to me in my life and said, “You know, you’d be cute if you weren’t so fat.” Whenever I hear Trump make fun of a woman’s weight, it hurts me, because it’s clear that in his mind a woman who isn’t perfect and beautiful has no worth, and a lot of others seem to feel the same. I’ve always felt worthless because I just wasn’t pretty enough. This campaign has been utter misery for me.
P. Just because I like it when you tell me I’m pretty doesn’t mean I’m going to fuck you. Just because I wear skirts, doesn’t mean I’m not the smartest person you’ve met this month.
Kate. Don’t tell me how to see things or that I’ve got it wrong when even the question wasn’t for you, much less the answer.
Becky. Love us, love our pets.
Janet. I wish men (and a sadly high number of women) realized just how much females are taught to appease and accept. Don’t sit with your legs spread, don’t do too well in science or math class, don’t wear short skirts, don’t beat a male in any sporting or cerebral competition because guys don’t like it/are distracted/it isn’t ladylike – and that last phrase makes my blood boil. Accept the fact that your manager gropes 18 year old you every chance he gets because “that’s just how it is” and when you slap him for it end up on a disciplinary for it. Don’t make eye contact for too long because you’re asking for trouble by sending a sexual message. Don’t avoid eye contact because it means you’re untrustworthy. Don’t where frumpy clothes because men think you aren’t interested. Don’t wear skimpy clothes because you’re asking for someone to rape or sexually assault you. Don’t outshine the men in your class or workplace because it means you slept your way to success. Don’t come stone last because then you’re just another silly little girl. Don’t drink in public because it’s your fault that taxi driver raped you on the way home. The list is never ending and the running theme through all of it is that you are responsible for the actions and reactions of the males you encounter because of the way you look, smell, act, think and dress. It dehumanizes both men and women, because absolving males from their own actions has created the results we see today.
Not all guys take this route and thankfully an increasing number of men are calling it out as unhealthy, but I’m pretty sure most women have experienced this. It goes with having a vagina and it’s as common place as brushing your teeth in the morning.
Megan. I wish men knew that we teach our daughters from the time they’re in kindergarten how to read boy’s body language and what to do to not set boys off just like our mothers taught us. Because we have to live in a “better safe than sorry world.”
Terri. I wish more men understood and accepted that women get older. There’s nothing wrong with being strong and healthy and vital, but gravity is the law and it gets us all. That women over 40-50-60 shouldn’t need to feel like they need to act like aging sex kittens to get or keep attention. When I became a “woman of a certain age” it was like donning an invisibility cloak. I don’t need to be flirted with or flattered, but see me (and know that I have accumulated knowledge, skills, and experience in vast and fascinating ways – but I’ll never pass for 25 again.) Don’t ignore me. Make eye contact with me.
Suzi. I wish men could hear the screaming frustration in my head every time a man ‘explains’ something I not only already know, but I’m a borderline expert or I am an expert in and they’ve watched from the sidelines and know nothing about. I wish men at least kept pretending to enjoy deep conversations about everything even after dating for a month. I wish more men would understand how much of ourselves we give up and how much we’re expected to sacrifice, and with only an occasional reward. I wish more men understood what feminism means instead of automatically assuming it’s some sort of attack.
Patrice. I wish people understood that there are many reasons women don’t report sexual aggression, abuse, and rape… and one of them is that it’s so fucking sad. Infuriating. Unnecessary. We wish it didn’t happen. We wish it hadn’t happened to us. We wish it away, so we don’t have to think about it and talk about it and we can try to tuck it into a locked compartment in our memories… and even now, as brave and bold as it is to speak out about it, it’s painful. For me, it’s 50 years ago. But it isn’t gone. And it can never be undone.
Karen. I wish men knew how it feels like a prison sometimes not to feel I can go out walking at night without a man to protect me. And how infuriating it is to be cheated by mechanics and car salesmen because I’m a woman; I’ve learned to always have a man do the talking in those situations.
And I wish the good men like you (and my husband and my dad and so many others) knew how good they are. It seems like it’s the good men who do the apologizing for what the bad men do.
Julie. I don’t want men, or anyone, to tell me to smile. I will if I want to.
Jami. One time, my mother and I were discussing how we park under lights in shopping center parking lots…but not a light too far from the entrance. We walk around the car to make sure that no one is in or under our car, and that there are no flyers attached to anything, before we get in our car. Don’t leave your purse in the front seat. Have your keys in your hand before you leave the store. Walk fast. My grown up youngest brother was floored. He had no idea we did this. He’d never been taught this, never experienced fear in a parking lot, never noticed that Mom did this.
Kerri. I always lock the car, always look in the back seat, always look for anything amiss. It is almost built in, we have been doing it so long.
Bethie. I walk with a key between my fingers if I go out at night because I might need to punch with them. I don’t take the trash to the apartment dumpster if it’s after dark. I lock the car doors if I get in and need to sit a minute.
Becky. And you watch out for vans parking nearby because they can have somebody jump out and attack you.
Jami. I actually prefer to walk from the bus stop down the alley instead of the street to my apartment. Because the alley is wider, well-lit, and there are more windows looking out over the alley. Because there are bigger trees closer to the sidewalk along the street. So, more places to hide and actually less light! Plus, the sidewalks are narrow and next to the street parking, so I’m walking next to all the cars. I don’t want anyone to be able to snatch me into their vehicle!
Becca. And then they tell you that all this is just paranoia, that you’re overthinking it and worrying yourself because they’ve never seen anything to indicate that this fear is common sense, while we’ve have almost all had cars follow us for blocks or men turn out of their way to follow us, and we know if we don’t take all these measures the answer is going to be that we obviously were careless or didn’t fight hard enough.
Jami. I know where all the local fire stations and police stations are in my neighborhood. Just in case I’m being followed. I’m also aware that not all people have that privilege, to trust law enforcement…but I count on the possible stalker to be afraid of authority figures. And not to know where I live.
Bethie. I wish I could say “I publish erotica” without feeling like I need to hush my voice, or be careful who I tell lest someone think ‘badly’ of me.
Jami. I always carry some kind of sweater or hoodie. I’m frequently cold, but it also serves as protection from male gaze, effective or not. It also serves to absolve me of guilt, in case anything happens to me.
Nikita. I wish that men would stop telling women to “Just calm down.” I didn’t know that expressing my emotions and opinions is considered being hysterical.
Courtney. I wish men would become more aware of how often they interrupt women. At the next convention panel you watch, just count the number of times a male panelist interrupts a female panelist, and vice versa.
Michelle. Just stop the mansplaining, guys, please, and assume that it’s entirely possible that women know just as much as you, and sometimes about some things, more. And we know it goes both ways.
Alma. Do not use superior height or physical substance to loom or to block exits – when I was at university there was a chemistry weighing room which was literally a cubby hole with weighing scales where you had to go pick up the chemicals you needed for your experiments and there was just the one doorway – only one way in and out. We girls very quickly learned never to go in there alone but always in pairs – because any female on her own would get some guy just leaning on the doorjamb, looking in – doing nothing, really, but squarely in the way of getting out if getting out became necessary and showing no sign that he would give way if that were to become the case. they enjoyed the sense of wary, well, fear for want of a better word, that they caused in the trapped womenfolk inside. It was a power trip. “You aren’t going anywhere unless we permit it.”
Jami. The terror of knowing that men (particularly coworkers) will know I’m on my period, so trying to be as clean as possible and as friendly as possible during that time. Lots of ingrained body hatred within all of us for so many weeks of our lives. So much shame.
Cam. Listen to us when we say there is a problem. Don’t argue. Don’t immediately jump to the gender’s defense. Just listen. There are so many of us with the same stories and we’re still made to feel selfish, weak, bitchy, powertrippy, hysterical, et cetera, just for talking about it. We aren’t allowed to discuss it much less come up with solutions. And how do you fix a thing when you can’t even get people to acknowledge the thing in the first place.
K. I’m not sure how to put this. But it bothers me that a man has to declare a safe space, that so many men won’t just listen and respond respectfully without another man declaring the rules of the space. It bothers me that on my own posts time and again men–it’s always men–will make jokes to “lighten the mood” when I am having a serious conversation. In short, I am tired of the tone even online being set by and governed by men.
This second comment really is for everyone, not just men. But I get it from men more often so I am including it here.
Overthink
Overshare
Overdramatic
Overemotional
Over invested.
STOP IT.
You do not decide what the appropriate reaction is for everyone. There is no baseline acceptable reaction against which everyone must be measured. Thoughts, emotions and reactions aren’t speed limits. Every single time someone says “you’re over[whatever],” what they are really saying is “your Self, who you are, is not acceptable.” And that is just wrong.
Gail. Yes. Also, there are plenty of men who are ruled by their emotions, and these men are usually the quickest to belittle women for doing it, even when we aren’t. Being “emotional” isn’t actually a feminine trait. That’s always bothered me. As a whole, women might be more expressive with emotions, but we don’t have more emotions than men. We express and process feelings differently, and that’s OK.
Jami. Tools (surgical, mechanical, dental, woodworking), phones, weapons, bus seats, and medications tend to be designed for man body shapes. From my experience. Coloring something pink does not magically change its functionality or effectiveness, either. For anyone.
Christy. I don’t like that I have to hide how smart I am.
Glenda. Please, good men, try to understand that sometimes we are reacting to something in the past, not just to an innocent remark or action of yours. Apologies in advance. And now I’m crying and I don’t know why.
Shoshanah. Being dismissed in any situation where I am aggressive or opinionated – things men are proud of – as just “being a bitch.”
If that’s the definition, then you’re damn right I am. Every time I flip off a cat caller or refuse to sit down and have things mansplained to me, I am a fucking bitch. Every time I refuse to go out with someone because it’s my choice, or tell them to piss off for telling me how I should smile, dress, or do my hair, I am thrilled to be a bitch. At least people acknowledge that the bitch is there.
Joanne. My husband and I had a conversation a couple of years ago about sexual harassment and street harassment and the like, and I said it happens often to me, and he said he’d never seen it, and I had to explain that of course he hadn’t, because nobody’s going to talk to me that way in front of a 6’3″ dude who obviously cares about me. And that’s true, but I also realized I don’t mention it when it happens either, because it’s not usually remarkable. And he said, well how can I know what you don’t tell me, if it doesn’t happen when I’m there.
So I started telling him about it every time it happened.
Initially he tried to explain how I might have misunderstood the situation. And man, that hurt. But I kept telling him and just hearing about the frequency of it has been like this slow drip wearing away at his willingness to give strange men the benefit of the doubt over his own wife, and he doesn’t do that anymore, and he’s so much more on board now with understanding that I literally experience the world differently because I’m female. He’s started noticing stuff himself, too.
I’m so proud of the work he’s done. But it’s also exhausting, the amount of emotional labour I’ve had to do to get him there. So I guess what I want men to learn is to see how much work you’re asking us to do for you, all the time. Recognize and thank us and take on an equal share.
Melissa. It’s hard to start mentioning every time something happens because then you have to put it in the forefront of your own mind as well, instead of squashing it into some safe place in the back where you try to forget about it.
Becca. Seriously, why does the man who loves me and supposedly trusts me enough to sleep next to me question what I experience every day that he didn’t see. When he knows I’m not a dramatic person, when he knows I have experience weighing people’s reactions from two widely diverse cultural backgrounds, when he knows I tend to understate things not overstate them, what part of “this happens” is so hard to accept?
Amy. I wish men realized that when we raise our voice is not usually out of anger but out of frustration due to not being heard or even listened to. And we know full well that if we do raise our voice we are suddenly a Bitch, so we wait until it’s the last possible way for our ideas to be heard even though we know it will be lost in translation.
Angela. I wish I didn’t notice the men staring at my breasts all the time. Even when I’m wearing something as racy as a t-shirt. And I wish that when I get angry and cry, that men did not see it as weakness but what it really is: my emotions overflowing my body because I am so upset. Sometimes I can’t help but cry and it pisses me off because I know they see me as weak when I do it.
Kris. I wish I didn’t feel I often can’t look at men directly when walking on the street.
If I get even the tiniest vibe of weirdness, I assiduously avoid all eye contact. I honestly didn’t realize I did this reflexively until I was walking with my brother, and I avoided making eye contact with a man who was trying to make eye contact with me. After we passed him, my brother said something like, “Wow, did you see that weirdo?” And I replied, no, actually I did not, I was trying so hard to not look at him.
It pissed me off that men apparently do not have this problem which I was mostly unaware of until that very moment. It made me feel I was lacking a basic freedom that men possess.
Rachelle. Don’t tell your daughters “you can’t.” They most certainly can. I was lucky that way. My father believed I could do anything. Some of my students and friends were not told that and it damages.
Christina. I resent females being defined by our relationships to men. Every time a book comes out with a title in the pattern of “The So-and-So’s Wife/Daughter,” I want to scream. And it offends me when men can frame their outrage at a female’s mistreatment only in terms of, “That could have been my [female relative].” Way to make it all about you.
Shae. I hate that for a woman to receive help from some men, it expected by those men for the woman to return the favor thru having sex. I hate that women do not receive the same pay a man does for performing the same job. I hate the way our culture sexualizes everything in advertising! There are many things that are greatly disturbing about the way women are treated, put down, manipulated, threatened, abused, sex trafficked and disrespected in this world. Women are the vessels that bring forth life and this is how we are cared for and appreciated?! Where would humanity be if all women stopped bearing and nurturing children?! What the hell guys??! I know there are good men out there that this doesn’t apply to, but overall I am sad to say I think you awesome men are in the minority so please just keep pushing your male friends to be decent by setting a good example and also by calling them out on crap when you see it or hear it and please raise your sons to be gentlemen and your daughters to expect no less than that from the man in her life! Thank you for listening!!!
Julie. The way men leer at my chest. They think that they are appreciating my form. They aren’t. That’s a whole different look than a leer. The leering type? It feels no different to me than if he would have just grabbed me and to be honest? I almost wished they just did because then I could hit them or file assault charges. It wouldn’t feel any different.
And this has been going on since I was 12.
Jennifer. Don’t assume that a woman is going to make “family decisions” and pay her less than you’d pay a man because “she might get pregnant”. This drives me nuts. Many women are not interested in having children. Don’t assume that our life roles are traditional. A lot of us are the primary breadwinners. Respect our capability.
Becca. If you wouldn’t say something about a person in front of them, don’t say it behind their back. “Locker room talk” is something I worry about – I’m working so hard to make a serious career, and unlike you, a conversation like that behind my back could seriously damage how I am seen if a promotion is available or a training opportunity. When you train others to see me as meat it has lasting effects on my life, and when I find out about it that has lasting effects on my trust. I’ve found out after the fact that someone who posed as a friend for years was spreading rumors about how many people I slept with. It may seem like a small harmless thing to you while you’re opening your mouth, or while you’re standing by listening to someone else do it and nodding vaguely but it’s damaging my reputation. If you would hesitate when I’m there, shut your mouth.
Megan. On clothes. I dress for comfort. And wear a lot of black. A lot. I wish men would understand that I don’t want to wear makeup and a “nice outfit.” What I want is to wear clothes that I won’t care if I get a little blood or manure on them if one of my horses go down. I also want pockets to put stuff in. Do you know how many women’s clothes don’t have pockets? I really don’t care how my butt looks in them. I care about functionality. So please stop telling me how to dress.
Nell. Tired of hearing men say “How about a smile? Smile for me.” That just makes me want to say ‘piss off.’
Shae. On the subject of sex. Women are sensual and connect with our feelings more easily than men. We need foreplay…not just slam and bam, thank you ma’am! Please, kiss, caress, and love every inch of us–give us more than ten minutes of foreplay please sir and you will end up having the best sex of your life! Now onto the subject of players. Men, just know this– when you are in a relationship and you are cheating and unfaithful or you are telling multiple women they “are the one, your soul mate, and you want to be with them” trust me when I say that they know you are a cheater or a player. Yes, we know. Now we may choose to either 1)call you out on your bullshit, 2) play your game and play the player (you) ourselves (turnabouts fair play) or 3) stick our heads in the sand and ignore the behaviors because for the time being we are comfortable where we are at. Just know you aren’t fooling anyone and we are all fully aware of and pissed off or amused by your little games. (Yes, I know not all men are players….)
C. As a six foot tall woman, I wish men would stop thinking of me as a challenge and alpha male-ing me. I don’t need bringing down to size — and I’m sorry to say that I get this most from men who are shorter than me.
Jessy. I wish men understood that when I jump, flinch, or avoid eye contact it’s not a personal attack, or to make them feel guilty. If they thought about it they would come to the conclusion that I’m that way because of abuse. A little empathy and understanding go a long way.
‘C’ wonderfully pointed out the height issue. I am not tall myself, but I’ve seen how tall women are seen as someone men have to act macho with. I’m short and I’m tired of being seen as cute and “the right height.” All women are the right height.
I’m fat, that doesn’t mean I’m not worth your time. My appearance shouldn’t dictate whether or not I’m a worthy person. I could be your next closest friend, or someone to talk fandoms with.
Melissa. I also hate being told I’m cute when I’m angry. Like a toddler or a puppy. Someone whose feelings and opinions matter no more than a doll’s.
How Stories Get Made
In fourth grade, I wrote and illustrated a story using #2 pencils, in which a white-bearded patriarch faced off with a Balrog in the midst of a parted Red Sea between towering walls of saltwater, while Admiral Sarah of the International Space Armada flickered back and forth between galaxies fighting black-hooded and black-robed ringwraithy-type riders on giant flying creatures because an evil emperor who took the shape of a green-eyed wolf was trying to conquer all universes and timelines simultaneously, and parting the Red Sea and zooming around in spaceships is how you fight that kind of noxious evil. Obviously.
I sort of wish I still had that story, and not just the memory of it.
I do still have the little book I made in first grade in which Jerusalem the Astronaut went to the fiery lava pits of Venus to find Yoda and rescue Zelda and crashed his spaceship, but the artwork in that poor thing is an atrocity. And I also have the one-page story I wrote in second grade about the roller-blading dinosaurs who eat balloons.
And I’m vaguely encouraged to find that I still take pretty much exactly the same approach to storytelling. I still take stories and ideas I like and slam them together and watch the sparks. My child-self might approve of his adult doppelganger, though my child-self would take one look at my novels and urge me to put some talking trees on the bridge and give the dinosaurs laser guns. He’d have a point: I have been tamed, a little. But hang in there. My stories will get wilder. This is not even my final form.
Stant Litore
Stant Litore is a novelist. He writes about gladiators on tyrannosaurback, Old Testament prophets battling the hungry dead, geneticists growing biological starships, time-traveling hijabi bisexual defenders of humanity from the future. Explore his fiction here. And here is one of his toolkits for writers, and here’s another book where he nerds out about ancient languages and biblical (mis)translation. Enjoy!
Don’t Be One of Job’s Friends
I love the book of Job. Besides the beauty of its poetry and its philosophical depth, it’s also a passionate yet darkly humorous drama about how not to be a bad friend when someone you know is suffering. Job’s friends start out all right — they sit silently with him, just being with him (sitting shiva), which is really the only thing you can do — but the fact that Job’s miserable makes them uncomfortable, and when Job finally speaks up, they don’t really hear him; they just keep trying to dismiss his misery and fit it into a little box where it will make comfortable sense to them. And it goes like this:
Job: Life sucks. Almost everyone I love just died. I’m sick. I’m in pain. This really sucks.
Eliphaz: Dude, you must have really messed up for life to punish you like this. You must have done something to deserve this.
Job: You’re not helping.
Bildad: Maybe your children messed up. THEY did something to deserve this. You can’t pick your kids.
Job: You’re not helping, either.
Zophar: Don’t worry, bro, God has a Plan. I don’t know what it is, but everything that’s happening to you is all part of his Plan. You should be happy, because it’s a really good Plan.
Job: You’re REALLY not helping. You know what, I wish I were dead.
Eliphaz: Sheesh, why can’t you just move on? Man, you’re upset and testy today. Yeah, you definitely did something to deserve this.
Bildad and Zophar: Yeah, if you were really a good person, you wouldn’t be suffering like this.
Job: You know what, now I’m pissed. Never mind dying. I shouldn’t have to deal with any of this; I want to sue God. God, get down here. I want to see you in court.
Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar: *gasp*
Elihu (speaking for the first time, he’s the earnest youngster): You know, I think you’re all wrong. Job didn’t do anything bad. His children didn’t do anything bad. But Job, you know, you’re kind of arrogant. I bet all this awfulness is meant to humble you and teach you something. You’re going to learn something from this. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. You get knocked down and you get up again. You’re going to grow. This is a learning experience. This is a teachable moment. One day you’re going to look back at all this and go, ‘Yeah, the roof caved in and killed all my kids and grandkids, and the flocks got stolen and the crops got ruined and all that, but I learned SO MUCH, and now I’m a better man.’
Job: *just glares at him*
*Whirlwind arrives*
God: All right, who filed this lawsuit? I’m here. You want to talk? Gird up your loins and get out here. Bring it.
…See what I mean? Job is awesome. Everybody read this. Oh, and don’t be one of Job’s friends, ever. Don’t be those guys.
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Stant Litore is a novelist. He writes about gladiators on tyrannosaurback, Old Testament prophets battling the hungry dead, geneticists growing biological starships, time-traveling hijabi bisexual defenders of humanity from the future. Explore his fiction here. And here is one of his toolkits for writers, and here’s another book where he nerds out about ancient languages and biblical (mis)translation. Enjoy!
No Civilization is an Island
Dear Congressman Steve King, in response to your remark, “I’d ask you to go back through history and figure out where these contributions that have been made by these categories of people that you’re talking about; where did any other sub-group of people contribute more to civilization?” …
Well, to cite just a single example, and rather a large one at that, these non-white, non-‘Western’ “sub-groups” you’re referring to gave us the Bible. Or did you think that was written in England?
We could also, if we wanted, mention:
- the invention of chess in India
- the invention of beer, mathematics, and the calendar by the Egyptians
- rock and roll, jazz, blues, southern gospel, r&b, and most American music genres by African Americans
- gunpowder and movable type by the Chinese
- the Sistine Chapel, the Universal Suffrage movement, the conquests of Alexander the Great, and the breaking of Germany’s WWII codes by LGBT individuals
- the establishment of secure American WWII codes by Navajo translators
- algebra, modern astronomy, and the horseshoe arch from the Arabs
- modern love poetry, the romance, the “courtly love” tradition that led to the re-imagining of the King Arthur story as a love triangle, the troubadours, Shakespeare’s poetry of romantic courtship, opera, Hollywood love stories, and every romcom, romance novel, and date movie in the modern world, from the Moors
- the Pony Express, descended from Genghis Khan’s postal riders
… and I’ll stop there so I don’t completely drown you in examples, because I would still be listing them at dawn tomorrow. As would any history professor in the nation. Good grief. Western civilization without contributions from the world’s other civilizations or from LGBT people would be a Western civilization in which your house would include no books, no gun, no 4th of July fireworks, no Bible, no chessboard, no music other than classical and (some) country western, no voting rights for your wife and daughters, no word of romance or love in your marriage vows, no math, no mailbox, no beer, no happy memories of a space program or Neil Armstrong on the moon, and no democracy (because our country would have neither cracked Nazi codes nor devised uncrackable ones in the war with Japan). So it would be rather a different house.
As the great Western poet John Donne said, no man is an island. And no civilization is, either.
And as you can tell, ridiculous remarks like that “figure out where those contributions” comment piss off this history buff. Hugely. How can any educated person make such an absurd remark with a straight face?!
Rant over.
Stant Litore
Stant Litore is a novelist. He writes about gladiators on tyrannosaurback, Old Testament prophets battling the hungry dead, geneticists growing biological starships, time-traveling hijabi bisexual defenders of humanity from the future. Explore his fiction here. And here is one of his toolkits for writers, and here’s another book where he nerds out about ancient languages and biblical (mis)translation. Enjoy!
Stant Litore on Audiobook
I’m pleased to let you know that I’ve released three audiobooks! Here are some samples that you can listen to:
I Will Hold My Death Close
Read by Amy McFadden
Buy the full audiobook: Amazon | Audible
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Ansible: Season One
Read by Amy McFadden
Buy the full audiobook: Amazon | Audible | iTunes
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The Running of the Tyrannosaurs
Read by Amy McFadden
Zombies, Aliens, or Tyrannosaurs? Choose wisely.
(This is a long post, with lots of photos from Denver Comic Con! Get ready for some scrolling. And some amazing photos.)
“Zombies, aliens, or tyrannosaurs?” That’s the question I asked people all weekend at Denver Comic Con; I was really curious what people would say. Over half said: “Give me a T-Rex.” Oh, you brave, brave souls.
Answering “T-Rex” led you to: The Hunger Games meets Jurassic Park. In space. Orbital colosseums for tyrannosaurs.
Answering “zombies, definitely zombies” led you to: The living dead thousands of years ago in the ancient world, as warriors, saints, and prophets hold the Near East together against tens of thousands of ravenous corpses.
And “aliens” led you to: 25th century Muslim explorers transfer their minds across space and time to make first contact with other species around the universe, and get marooned in alien bodies on alien worlds.
Most people joined Egret to run on the red sand with the tyrannosaurs. I suppose I can’t blame them. I love a good tyrannosaur myself. I met this one at Denver Comic Con:
That’s me: Stant Litore, on the right.
The con was beautiful this year: very full of readers and artists and life. I had a wonderful time. As I do each year, I photographed the cosplayers who bravely ventured to check out my stories. Sometimes with my cameraphone:
(This, by the way, is a lovely young reader named Kaylee, who was cosplaying Kaylee. As a fellow browncoat whose daughters are named River and Inara and whose dog is named Captain Mal, I nearly died of squee’ing.)
And sometimes, the photography happened with a ferociously professional camera, as my good friend Shawn Herbert joined me at the con. This is Lord Shawn:
His throne is forged from the melted-down Macs of videographers he has outdone.
He took these photos, often when I didn’t know I was being watched and recorded and surveillanced:
That high-res camera of his is better and sharper than my own eyes. Which is perhaps no wonder, as my eyes are not very good. I wear thick glasses.
And Lord Shawn captured some amazing cosplayers in this official gallery here:
I sat on several panels on topics ranging from the role of religion in scifi and fantasy, to the fascination we have with the living dead, to Kathryn Renta’s wonderful panel of creative writers and artists on the subject of “cultivating your creative community.” At that panel, we all referred to our absent progenitor (who connected us with each other) as The Mohawk, much to the bewilderment of our audience, until one of us leaned forward into the mike helpfully to explain that the Mohawk is local author Quincy J. Allen, currently out of town at another event and having a birthday, getting one year wiser. (His mohawk is truly epic.)
At the end of the panel, after much discussion of ways to start, join, and gather a community (or, as Kathryn Renta would say, a sanga, a Buddhist term she introduced to us) of like-minded artists walking one path together, I told everyone, in my best Dungeon Master voice: “This is your quest. You must cross many rivers and find the Mohawk and bring him back to your village. Only then will you become a bestseller.”
Levity aside, we must have shared some good advice (Lord knows where it came from), because almost a dozen people who attended the creative community panel approached my table later to tell me how much Kathryn’s panel had meant to them.
Here are photos from the panels. See if you can spot the Litore:
My personal favorite moment on the panels this weekend happened at the Role of Religion in SF/F panel. A convention-goer cosplaying Carmen Sandiego (“You found me!” she cried; that made my whole weekend, seriously) asked the question, “How do you think we should deal with the arrival of artificial intelligence?”
“As a man of faith,” I answered solemnly, “my answer to the question of how we should deal with the arrival of AI is: with great compassion and deep empathy.” I paused. “As a science fiction writer, my answer is: We are royally screwed.”
That brought laughter, and we ended the panel on that note.
I wish I had a photo of her Carmen Sandiego cosplay. Finding Carmen Sandiego was my favorite moment from the panels.
One of my favorite moments from the entire convention was when my friends Laura Jerdak and Jesse Phillips came to see me! Most of the con, they were stationed on the floor below with a large troop of talented cosplayers, but Friday evening, they trekked across the wilderness that is a full showroom floor just to come see me. I am really touched; I love these guys. They are the best human beings. Here they are, looking amazing.
…with my deepest apologies for the poor quality of my camera phone. It is a dinosaur of a thing. If you haven’t yet, you should Like my friends’ Facebook page Jessolaurus Rex. They won Best of Show at the con — for their incredible Saturday cosplay; you’re seeing the Friday cosplay in these photos; everything they do is talented and beautiful. At AnomalyCon, they were the Moonshine Fairy and the Rum Fairy, and the moonshine Jesse had in a canister strapped to his back was real and it was very good. At some previous event (I don’t remember which), I met them as Daenerys and Khal Drogo, and they were so good at it that I gave them a free book on the spot: I Will Hold My Death Close. I explained it as a story of a young woman fleeing through the hills from the unburied dead of her people three thousand years ago, on what is now the Lebanon-Israeli border, and Laura’s eyes lit up: “I’m from Lebanon!” she said. And then we all hugged.
Yes, I’m a hugger. Meet me at a con, and if you say you don’t mind, you may get bear-hugged.
Laura and Jesse are wonderful people: uplifting to be around. Jesse is gigantic, generous, and gentlemanly, and Laura is fierce, brave, creative, and real.
My other favorite moment at the convention, my most favorite moment, was when my wife Jessica brought our girls up on the train to the Denver Comic Con for the first time ever.
I left my table for a while to explore the con with them, found River a beautiful pendant she wanted, some dragon art for Jessica, and I forget what for Inara, but Inara had a beautiful time at the con, wheeling along and reaching out to pet everything and everyone, exploring the unseen universe outside her fragmentary field of sight. She grinned the whole time, though her older sister was overwhelmed by the crowds. (We had about 120,000 people this year … it was rather a lot of people.) When my wife and daughters came back Sunday, I let River sit behind the table with me. “Let’s sell some books!” she cried.
I think River loved seeing what Daddy does at the cons.
My wife conquers and survives chronic pain and extraordinary obstacles to do amazing things, including 24/7 care for Inara (who is herself a dragon-hearted conqueror). Though I didn’t know it until I checked my texts during tear-down on Sunday, Jessica’s car burst into smoke and nearly fire on the freeway, on the way home:
My wife — who is far more heroic than I will ever be — got the kids safe home, and nothing exploded. The car is now back to the mechanic, who had sworn, two days before the fire and smoke, “She’s working great now!”
Misadventures aside, this was a glorious con. I met many familiar faces and met many new ones. Mixed up people’s names, a lot. Signed books. Had someone rush to tell me on Sunday that they had stayed up late reading the book they bought Saturday and had loved it so much. That meant a great deal to me.
The fans — you are all wonderful. One of you brought me something to drink when I was near passing out. One of you brought me a Pride pin, a very lovely one. Several of you dragged other people over to the table and thrust a book into their hands and said, “Oh my God you have to read this!” One of you brought over some slime you’d made in the Kids Lab for my oldest to play with. Thank you. I love you all.
I met some wonderful fellow writers, too — like the intrepid and marvelously-hatted Dave Butler, the author of The Extraordinary Journeys of Clockwork Charlie, who greeted me with “Hey, you wrote Strangers in the Land!” (it turns out that Dave was an advance reader for the book; he gave me a five-star Vine review for the novel four years ago, when it first came out; meeting him this weekend made my day), and like E.R. Ross, the talented, Thailand-born author of the YA fantasy The Fire Test:
Sorry, Ellie, for the blurry phone! Here’s a better one:
The author in the middle is the marvelous Kristi Helvig. And the facial expression you see me wearing here is pretty much permanently on my face during cons. Truly.
Carol and Tim Hightshoe of Wolfsinger Publications, who manned the table beside mine and with whom I’ve shared space before — they are deep-hearted people — asked me, “Where do you get your energy? No one should have that kind of energy on Day 3 of a con.”
“What energy?” I asked, puzzled, as I leaped over the table to say hello to some approaching fans.
(A few months ago, my wife: “River has so much energy.”
Me, with a puzzled look: “Where does she get that from?”)
Here are a few more (cameraphone) photos before we go:
(That’s my good friend Jim Porter as Dumbledore; he made a lot of children, and a few grownups, happy this weekend.)
Break those stories open, Harley Quinn!
And a final squee for Kahlan Amnell:
It was a high-adrenaline but warm-in-the-heart event. There is so much to share from DCC this year, so many stories and small moments, and more photos. There may be a video later.
But first, I need sleep. A lot of it. That was an intense few days!
So, while you wait to hear more from me, go get a book to read. The critical question is: zombies, aliens, or tyrannosaurs? Choose wisely.
Stant Litore
Find me next at:
KoelbelCon and MALCon
On Not Forgetting
This post is for my fellow Christians. If you are not Christian and wish to comment, certainly do, but please do so with respect; this is my blog, and that is all I require on it.
I am saddened. That doesn’t mean apathetic, or despairing, or outraged, or anything other than just ‘saddened.’ By the hostility toward other Christians, toward adherents to other religions, toward women, toward anyone ‘other’… By the loudness and crassness of that hostility. Often we have grown concerned with small and petty things or with upholding our own rights and privileges; we don’t bother to listen to other’s hearts or needs. Having so little faith, we become consumed with fear. Fear rides us, beats us to make us gallop faster and further from paths that go anywhere that isn’t dark.
Like the characters in ‘Once upon a Time,’ we have forgotten who we are. We have forgotten what story we belong to, and whose.
All my life, I have oriented my heart by a simple code, a simple story. It is not easy, but it is simple.
1. Jesus loves me.
2. Jesus loves all the children.
3. Be like Jesus.
There are even songs I learned as a child for each of these, to remember them by. I have not forgotten them.
Do you know what word it is, that we translate “truth” in the New Testament? It is the word aletheia. It is a Greek word that means “unforgetting.” Lethe was the river the dead drink from to forget who they were. The word we translate “truth” is un-Lethe. Unforgetting who you are.
Don’t ever forget who you are. Don’t let things distract you from who you are. Don’t let yourself treat others in a way that isn’t true to that.
Remember.
/saddened
Stant
Author and Daughter: River’s First Trip to the Mountains
This weekend, I took River to the mountains (via Rocky Mountain National Park) for the first time. She had an amazing time, and is a natural rock-climber. She climbed to the top of the falls at the alluvial fan, and said that was her favorite part.
We went back down the easy way — through the forest behind. River encountered a herd of deer. I grew up with deer in the driveway, but this is the first time River has run into a herd of wild deer. She was delighted.
“Daddy, I love climbing. I’m a good climber.” She was completely fearless.
Here’s the dad:
I know, I know. I look like a complete goofball. A happy goofball. River and I had the time of our lives: she loves the mountains, and it gave me childlike joy to share them with her for the first time.
We made it up to Bear Lake, which is near 10,000 feet above sea level — as high as you reach by road at this season, with the higher passes and trails still snow-locked. We did the mile-ish walk around the lake, which was a good hike for six-year-old River, because about 80% of the trail was under five feet of packed and frozen snow. She used her stick for balance and made her way completely around the lake, indefatigable.
The peaks above Bear Lake. Looking at them, you begin to feel the immensity and age of the earth:
It was difficult to keep my mind on the Ramat ha-Golan and not picture the Rockies in my imagination as I wrote sections of Strangers in the Land and I Will Hold My Death Close, a few years ago. The mountains get in your blood. They get in your lungs: the air is thin and clean, the water cold. Your whole body feels alive up there. Your heart feels bigger.
I have lived here fifteen years, and been up those mountains many times. My wife and I hiked around the alluvial fan when we first met. She handed me the tripod and her telescope lens, told me calmly, “That’s $1700, don’t drop it,” and then led the way up the rocks. I followed, cradling the lens in a mild panic. I passed the Boyfriend Test, and didn’t drop it. Long after, right after placing a ring on her finger, I took Jessica to the cabins at Gold Lake for a long weekend. We rode horses, we admired the icy lake, we watched the fierce mountain stars from a rock pool heated by natural springs. Those days and nights at remote Gold Lake are among my most cherished memories.
And I remember my first fourteener (we have quite a few of those here) and the first time I stood on a peak and felt like I could see the whole world.
The mountains are full of good memories.
Now I get to help my daughters make some. Starting with River. (I’ll take Inara up, gently, this summer once the mountains thaw a bit more.)
Here we are going home after a very full trip. Going home, River style.
She had a blast! We’re going to have to make it a regular trip, and try some of the five-mile trails (and the long, real ones, when she’s older). I doubt she’ll be daunted.
Stant Litore
Climbing the Gray Mountain
This is a good week, though I am battling fatigue. This is a good week. But I have had many bad weeks. To my brothers and sisters who wrestle, as I do, with depression: You are not in that gray alone. You are not at the bottom of that gray mud alone. You are not crawling up this gray mountain alone. We are going to climb this mountain together. I don’t care if this old granite bastard has a top or not, or a pass, or a summit, or a visitor center up there. I am going to keep climbing it. One step at a time. You are not alone, and it is good for me to know that you are crawling up this slope, too.
Or, if today you are lying in the mud at the mountain’s bottom but are still breathing, well, there are a lot of us lying in the mud still breathing. I would like to say, Those stars up there are very lovely, when we are lying on our backs. Except I will not say that. Because actually we are staring up at a whole bunch of gray, clammy fog. And sometimes it parts, and then yes, those couple of stars glinting though the wrack are very lovely. Though very, very far away. But sometimes there is just a whole lot of mud and a whole lot of fog. And then it doesn’t do anyone any good to say, “Look at those pretty stars.” But if that is today, and you can’t feel anything in this mud, and you can only breathe, well, we are breathing together. You and me and God and a few million people mired in the same gray and probably a few earthworms or a lungfish, here and there. All breathing.
There will be again the scent of pine, of rain on earth, of leaves sweating in the day heat, and the touch of a kiss and the touch of the sun. Some other day. Right now, we are breathing. And that is enough.
Stant Litore
Photo Credit: Basti Steiner on Unsplash.
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Stant Litore is a novelist. He writes about gladiators on tyrannosaurback, Old Testament prophets battling the hungry dead, geneticists growing biological starships, time-traveling hijabi bisexual defenders of humanity from the future. Explore his books here.
Two Pieces of Chocolate
This is a powerful story:
We Are Not Placed Here on This Earth to Act on Our Fears
May 3, 2016
So, a room of 500 parents at a South Carolina school board meeting broke into a chorus of “Jesus Loves Me” to drown out a mother who was asking for bathroom access for transgender youth. Seeing that upset me deeply, and I want to talk for just a minute to my brothers and sisters in the faith. I want to remind you that the name of Jesus is holy, and not to be taken lightly; there’s a commandment against that. And it is never to be used to drown someone out. That’s not what that name is for. If you think that’s what that name is for, you might could want to read the Sermon on the Mount again. Maybe a few more times, in fact.
If our people have fallen to the point where 500 parents can sing a children’s hymn to drown out the voice of a concerned mother, then there is more sickness and rot in today’s church than I knew. My brothers and sisters, we know where this road leads. In the 50s, we hit the point where white mothers chanting hymns and religious catchphrases tried to push over the buses that were carrying black children to school. That’s where this fear of people who are different from you leads, if you let that fear master you, if you let that fear live in and rule over your house.
There is only one place in the Bible where a religious catchphrase or hymn is chanted over and over in order to silence someone. That’s in Acts: it’s when some of the early Christians are dragged into the theater of Artemis in Ephesus, and when they try to speak, they are drowned out by 30,000 people yelling, “Great is Artemis of the Ephesians! Great is Artemis of the Ephesians!” They are silenced by a mob that is driven by its fear of people who are different, people who are unarmed and who have done nothing wrong but who are seen nonetheless as a threat. That is what you are doing, in that board meeting in South Carolina. That is what you’re doing. You are the mob who won’t let a mom speak because you are that afraid of what she has to say. Don’t be that.
You 500, I understand you’re afraid; our culture has set us up with all kinds of fears, and every time you turn on a laptop or a phone or a radio, there’s a pundit or a blogger or a video clip working hard to stoke your fears. But: Who do you think you are?? Who do you think we are? We are the Body of Christ, and that body is to be used to heal, to lift up, to love, to hold and to feed, and never to silence a mother or a child.
You’re afraid, and I understand that, but as a brother, I offer this rebuke: You’re afraid; so what?
Fear counts for nothing.
Unease counts for nothing.
Faith and perfect love cast out fear; don’t you remember that?
Where is your faith?
Where is your love?
You are not placed here on this earth to act on your fears. That’s not what you’re called for. You’re called to love fearlessly, and serve fearlessly, and share the good news fearlessly, and feed the flock fearlessly, and heal, and give people hope. That’s your job; that’s what you’re supposed to be doing. Do your job.
There’s a lot more that I want to say here, but I will wait until I’m not angry.
Stant Litore
A brief follow-up, in the wake of a few upsetting conversations. Dear fellow Christians: Please remember that our calling does not vary depending on who else is at the table. It does not matter if the people at the table with you are Pharisees or tax collectors or zealots or fishermen or social outcasts, or if they are “saints” or “sinners,” or if they share your faith or don’t, or if they are idle or hardworking, or if they are deserving or not, or if they are gay or transgender, or Muslim, or whether they wear pants or a skirt, or have tattoos, or if they are thin or round, or if they are left-wing or right-wing, or if they speak your language much, or if they have a different skin color than you do, or if you happen to like them or not, or if you feel comfortable with them or not. You are still called to kneel and wash their feet. You are still called to love and serve. Your calling does not vary depending on who is at the table. – Stant
“I Can Walk Around the World”
This is River, having the most beautiful weekend. Tall, strong, and endlessly inquisitive. I feel that the caption should my favorite Lois McMaster Bujold quote: “One step at a time, I can walk around the world. Watch me.”
Stant Litore
One Dad’s Take on Whitewashing
I confess I’m a little startled by how vocally people are defending Hollywood whitewashing. Reality check here: Entertainment isn’t an all-or-nothing exercise. You can enjoy something and still be very critical of it, too. For example, I may enjoy driving a Kia yet be very critical of the economic impact of buying foreign rather than domestic. I may have had a riproaring good time watching ‘Braveheart’ yet be critical of its historicity, yet also be really enthusiastic about some of its themes and the quality of its storytelling. It IS possible to enjoy or respect a thing (or some aspects of a thing) and also be critical of it, too, and have zero respect for certain aspects of it. Entertainment isn’t an all-or-nothing activity.
I think this would be a really useful thing to remember.
And we really DO need to talk about whitewashing. That definitely doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy The Ghost in the Shell, or Dr Strange, or that movie about Hawaii, or enjoy some of it. I find Benedict Cumberbatch and Tilda Swinton absolutely mesmerizing. I always will. And wow, in some of these recent trailers, there’s a lot to like, and I’ll celebrate that. But there’s a lot we need to fix, and if we don’t talk about it, it won’t get fixed. (And yes, I probably will vote with my wallet, but I’m not saying you have to. I’m just saying, You can enjoy a thing and STILL listen and learn when people say, “Dude, this has issues, and this part here, this ain’t right.”)
If you don’t think you can handle that degree of complexity — “man, this and this is great, but this here is totally unfair” — then don’t respond to this post. Because we’ll talk right past each other.
Now.
Here’s what I want to say about whitewashing. I’m not going to say it as a writer or as a scholar. There are people more eloquent than I who you can go listen to, who have already taken the time to explain the bigger implications.
But I want to say something as a dad.
And that’s this.
It is so important for young readers and young viewers to see themselves in stories and on the screen. When we hear stories or watch stories, we are shown what’s possible, we’re challenged to rethink what’s possible.
I’ll share a story I was told recently, when I got to listen to Sudanese refugee Deng Adut, who today is a defense lawyer and advocate for refugees in California. Adut was raised a child soldier in south Sudan. He was shot five times, once in the back. When the UN brought him here, he knew very little English. Someone gave him a Bible. Deng Adut isn’t a religious man, but when he tells this story, he recalls that he kept that Bible under his pillow, read it everywhere he went, took it with him to the toilet. Everywhere. He learned to read using that book. And what it did was opened up the stories of all these lives, all these characters. “It gave me hope,” Deng Adut said. “It told me I could be more than I was.”
Stories. Stories did that.
Stories can do that. When you grow up poor, stories allow you to imagine that more is possible than just what you know. And while stories of people very different from you help with this, there is something special that happens when someone you recognize as “like you” is a hero or heroine in a story. If you grow up white and male, you can find an infinity of such role models. Starship captains and knights and barbarians and gun-toting mercenaries and teachers and engineers and brilliant mathematicians and firefighters, and also stories about white boys who discover amazing imaginary worlds or who overcome all their obstacles and “come of age” and “get the girl.” There are lots and lots of stories like that. If I didn’t have good role models in my life, I could open a book or read a movie and find one. I could find a LOT.
Recently (this didn’t used to be the case), there are also lots of stories for you if you are white and female. There are a lot of strong white teenage girls to look up to, for example, on the screen and in books. That makes me very happy for my daughters. That makes me very happy as a dad. Because I can sit down with my girls and say, “Remember how brave Eowyn was? You can be brave like that, too.” Or “Remember how Kaylee always fixes the ship? You can fix things too.” Or “Remember how Hermione sticks to her studies, and uses her knowledge to help people, and solves all the riddles because she’s smart? You can do that.” That’s powerful.
There are a lot fewer stories here in America if you are black or Asian or Arab or Latino. And they’re almost drowned out by all the stories where the people who “look like you” are stereotypes. If you’re a young black man, where is your role model of a young black man piloting a spaceship, discovering an imaginary world, slaying (or riding) a dragon, or discovering brilliant math? There are a few, a very few.
In fact, Ged Sparrowhawk and his friends in ‘Earthsea’ books (the school for wizards back before there was a Hogwarts) were brown and black. None of them were white. And they confronted dragons and corrupt wizards and saved the world, several times. Yet on every cover for those books that has been published in the US, Ged and the others are drawn as white people.
If you’re a young Japanese woman, there’s anime. But the live-action movie Ghost in the Shell isn’t going to have a Japanese woman in it.
If you’re Hawaiian, there’s … ? A lot of goofy stereotypical characters in comedy (who are actually not played by Hawaiian people) and a blonde, blue-eyed actress in a movie?
Where are your role models on the Hollywood screen? Where are your role models in novels? Who are you going to be as brave as? Who is going to inspire you? Obviously, you can be inspired by characters who don’t look and seem to be “like” you. But then, when someone in your house or your school tells you, “Yeah, sure, a white man can pilot a starship on TV, sure, and a white man can go to college and get ahead and get a job and not get shot; you think that door’s going to open for you? You think that applies to YOU?” what larger-than-life movie character are you going to hold up to refute that? Are you going to be able to point to enough such characters that they become inspiring, rather than exceptions that prove an oppressive rule?
If you’re a young Latino man, at last: Adama! And … er … a math teacher (same actor), a very good math teacher, an inspiring math teacher (“Stand and Deliver” — I adore that movie). And … who else?
The role models, the representations of your community and your roots on the screen and in books: they exist, but they are far, far fewer.
And we have young people who are hungry for role models.
And when we get the chance to print a book featuring one, we change the cover to show white people. When we get the chance to put one on the screen, we cast white people. That isn’t right.
That’s all folks are saying. They’re not saying you’re a bad person or a racist if you like some things about these movies. What they’re saying is: This whitewashing of non-white characters in iconic stories: It isn’t right. This is something we can all understand. We’re American; we like a fair deal. It’s what makes us naive as a people, but it’s also what makes us great. We like a fair deal. This isn’t one.
Stant Litore
“How Do You Write Skin Color?”
At least 3 science fiction and fantasy writers have asked me over the past couple of weeks, “How do I describe skin color without using either stereotypes or describing people as food (olive, chocolate, mocha)?”
First, I’m flattered that everyone is asking me this, that people think I have something useful to say that will help them in their storytelling. That’s very kind.
Second, it’s really striking to me that people only ever ask this about skin color. That’s our modern obsession: skin color as the first thing we notice about someone, the first marker of difference. For writers who are writing on other worlds, or in settings in the past or the future, and who want to deal with issues of difference in their novels with nuance and complexity, I would offer this:
Really work with the “play of differences.” What I mean by that is: write within your narrator or character’s cultural perspective (and then challenge their perspective). Skin color may not be the first thing they notice; if it is, that’s a bit of a cop-out, because what you’re doing is playing to the default assumptions of the modern reader, and missing an opportunity to invite us more fully into your character’s world and its social issues (likely a mirror in many ways of our own, but we won’t know that unless you scrap the defaults and make us see things differently).
For example:
If I am writing from a Roman’s perspective in the first century BC, and they encounter a German, that Roman won’t notice the German’s golden hair or his blue eyes or his hulking muscles or any other such modern stereotype. No, he’s going to notice the height. He’s going to look up, and up, and UP, and the disparity in height might freak him out. (Because humans freak out rather easily.)
If I’m writing from the point of view of a member of the Japanese nobility in the 1600s, and some Portuguese or French or English mariners show up, I’m not going to notice that they have white skin. Won’t cross my mind. What I’m going to notice is that those mariners are filthy. Look at the dirt under their nails. Look at their teeth. Look at that scraggly, tangled hair. Is that a WART?? Don’t they know there is such a thing as bathing, and cleanliness? Are they animals?
If I’m a European in the eleventh century and I see a medieval Arab traveler, what I’m going to notice isn’t his skin tone but his mode of dress and even more than that, the slowness of his movements. He moves slower and more deliberately than I do; he doesn’t like to generate a lot of body heat quickly. There is a fluidity and grace to his movements that I, as an eleventh-century European, will find a bit unsettling.
And so on.
The question isn’t “How do I avoid describing my character as olive, mocha, pineapple, or kumquat?” No, the question is, “What differences strike my characters as important or divisive, and what does this reveal about them and their world? How do they treat each other? How will that change over the course of this story? How can I show the reader that?”
In other words, rather than relying on what we today are obsessed with as markers of racial or cultural difference, use markers of difference that reveal something about your narrator’s own culture and attitudes. Mention skin color later, incidentally. Because it, too, is a part of your character’s physical appearance and uniqueness. But why let it be the first detail you give the reader? Why distract your reader with details that our own modern people are obsessed with, when you could use this as an opportunity to reveal the cultures of your characters and challenge how they respond to difference? As a storyteller working in a fantastical past or a fantastical future, you have a rare and unusual opportunity to get us to see our own foibles and our own destructive tendencies toward prejudice and fear (and, for that matter, our own capacity for empathy, compassion, listening, and heroism) through the looking-glass: by recognizing them first (maybe even for the first time) in a situation that we don’t *think* is our own situation. That’s an incredible opportunity for a storyteller, one often denied (or not as readily available) to writers of more ‘realistic’ fiction. Don’t squander it!
Stant Litore
P.S. Also, please don’t use this as an excuse to write only white people. Unless done with a specific intent in mind, that’s playing to the default, too. For me, a huge part of the fun of SF/F (and a huge part of what my own characters have to teach me, as I write them) is to challenge our default assumptions about what “difference” means and our expectations about how different cultures react to each other (and explore new possibilities for how they COULD react to each other).
P.P.S. A counterpoint to this may be that unless you do it really well, your readers may actually assume all of your human/humanoid characters are white even if they’re not. I think mentioning the skin color in later scenes will not only allay this but will allow you to do it with such timing that the mention of it startles the reader into recognizing that they’ve made a silly default assumption. That is to say, the timing of the detail can force your reader to think.
But I am not sure. I am still learning, book after book. Hopefully wiser writers than I will have advice for you, too.
P.P.P.S. It turns out that N.K. Jemisin, who is far more knowledgeable than I, has indeed offered some perspectives and examples, and you can find those here.
P.P.P.P.S. Shameless plug: If my own advice is useful, I do have an entire book of it, worth checking out: Write Characters Your Readers Won’t Forget. I hope you will go get it and give it a read; I’ve been told it’s very helpful.
AnomalyCon: Where to Find Stant Litore!
THIS WEEKEND at AnomalyCon (Denver, CO): Where to Find Stant!
FRIDAY
1:30 | Monsters and Fantastic Beasts | Mesa Verde B (this is a talk for the kids at MinionCon!)
5:00 | Launch Party!!! | 12th Floor Atrium
7:00 | Panel: Social Linguistics | Mesa Verde A
8:00 | Missed the Party? Come celebrate with me at my author’s table! No cake at 8pm, but good stories and good books (and a nearby bar)
SATURDAY
10:00 am | Class: Write Characters Your Readers Won’t Forget: Part 1 (Discover Your Character’s History) | Wind River B
11:00 am | Panel: Accessibility in Future Societies | Windstar A
12:00 pm | Panel: Crowdfunding with Passion | Wind River A
3:00 pm | Class: Write Characters Your Readers Won’t Forget: Part 2 (Dialogue that Reveals Character) | Wind River B
6:00 pm | Class: Write Characters Your Readers Won’t Forget: Part 3 (The Character Arc Tool) | Wind River B
SUNDAY
11:00 am | Panel: Religion in SF/F Outside the West | Mesa Verde A
3:00 pm | History Rewritten: A Dramatic Reading of The Zombie Bible | Wind River A
MOST OTHER TIMES this weekend, you will find me at my table in the author area near Registration, signing books, telling stories, and looking nerdy. Come join me!
Stant Litore
