This is such bullshit.
January 7, 2008 41 Comments
So the call for submissions of the anthology was revised just enough to make it seem like they were paying attention. And if you look closely at the new topics, you see that they paid attention enough to cherry pick words and phrases from various criticisms to cover their asses. (But keep in mind they linked Ravenmn, a great ally who did the work of compiling writings and attributing credit about three weeks ago.)
I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did on the thread. I don’t like letting people see me hurt, for all the times I’ve written on here fully vulnerable. An equal number of times I’m nauseated, headachy, and I’d just like a decent hug or a stiff drink.
Think I’m enjoying the disappearing act on so many people who have written so many thought-out and remarkable things on the subject of rape culture, feminism, women of color and feminism, media, political movements, and community building?
(And I’m telling you now, don’t you dare think of linking me as a half-assed conduit because I took the, oh, FIVE MINUTES to find WHERE people were writing these things and I could tell you off the top of my head who they are because unlike SOME, I have respect for the people I learn from. This isn’t even everybody! What does it mean when you need a fucking acknowledgment list for a half-assed call for submissions?)
Think I’m writing shit about what I think of the new call for submissions?
Think the point was so I wouldn’t want to write shit relating to them in any way?
Just as I am not a women’s studies professor, I am not a publisher’s aide. I am not a faceless, nameless presence that always passive-aggressively appears under the aura of “some critics” or “critical” viewpoints or the ever-famous “women of color” (quotes included) or whatever the fuck you feel like using to dismiss me and a whole lot of other people.
So this is what it feels like to be invisible. Naked, shrouded in darkness, lines and words and concepts blurred in tears, and utterly alone. Skewered and choked and stomped and strung up if you move in any direction. Beholden to the fact you recognize your legacy, you recognize your friends, you recognize those wonderful people who survived the gauntlet before you…but no one else does or ever has to. They just keep picking up table scraps, dressing them up as if they’re full course meals, and keep pushing on.
And me? Well. In a world of thieves, I’m expendable. I could use a night’s sleep.