I have been dealing with some major tech woe (the ThinkPad is currently at the shop), contending with the usual heaps of clutter and deadlines, making an effort at regular exercise, and working on an engrossingly involved birthday present for a friend. Another friend is in hospice, and several others currently coping with various stages of cancer, financial and/or mental distress, and other challenges. My week included two meetings for the committees I'm on at church, assorted e-mails to/from the worship coordinators of two other churches, and 6.5 hours reading for the Nashville Talking Library.

Put another way, I have an extremely full life away from the Internet - especially now that I'm trying to get enough sleep, which has meant deferring or discarding several projects I'd hoped to pursue. It's hardly a tragedy - after all, being able to choose is itself a luxury - but what it does mean is that my interaction with the online world has become increasingly spotty and superficial. Which in turn means I'm even less likely than before to keep tabs on high-volume (in both words and decibels) controversies such as RaceFail '09, much less participate. It makes me sad (and admittedly more than a little resentful and defensive) when I read that I'm "part of the problem" by not weighing in.

I make choices about which battles to fight, and when. This means I disappoint and infuriate other people on a regular basis, because my non-engagement signals to them that their priorities are not important enough to me. I wish it didn't come across that way, but I don't know how to fix that. Sometimes I wish I was one of those larger-than-life hyper-articulate certain-of-myself writers who are energized rather than sapped by confrontations.

Earlier this week, I was chatting with a friend who mentioned - and this is a problem I share - that he has found it challenging to simply listen to people without leaping in to solve whatever ails them. He's an emergency room physician: his professional life is all about dealing with the crisis at hand. I'm the one in committee who asks, "So what's the action item for this?" sooner rather than later.

Something I've learned from over a decade on newsgroups, mailing lists, etc., is that what I post online is simultaneously ephemeral and permanent. It is impossible to take back anything posted online (even under lock), and there is no guarantee that it will ever be presented to other people in its full context. In other words, if you make a misguided post or ill-worded comment, there will be people who see it later who will have no idea that you rethought or retracted it. Things get clipped, pasted, transcribed, screencapped, mirrored, (mis)quoted, paraphrased, appropriated -- you cannot control its presentation, never mind how it will be interpreted and perceived by others.

Another thing I've learned: if I don't approve of someone's behavior or mindset, my odds of getting them to see the error of their ways are no better online than they are in person -- which is to say, not high at all. I don't mean to sound cynical: it's not that people are hopeless, it's that they're complex, and the complexity often includes reacting to criticism or disagreement by getting resentful, defensive, dismissive, or lashing out, rather than meekly saying, "You are right, of course I'm being [thoughtless] [clueless] [mean] [vicious]." I'm not saying people shouldn't call out others on their misbehavior if they feel compelled to do so: if nothing else, it can educate lurkers and readers-by on something they themselves need to consider. I am myself frequently clueless more often than I'd like, so yes, there have been times when I've read friend x's rant about the uncoolness of y, and realized, "Oh, crap, I do that -- that's how that comes across!?"

Which leads to another reason I've been sitting on my hands instead of responding to various triggers (not just in relation to RaceFail -- there's usually at least two or three headdesky moments amongst my everyday interactions, both on- and offline. I run in opinionated circles): I have, several times in my life, spoken up or spoken out on a problem with the best of intentions, but screwing up spectacularly and losing friendships in the process instead of easing the situation. I periodically receive e-mails from friends and colleagues where I have to stop and remind myself that quite a few people don't realize they're coming across as brusque or condescending or passive-aggressive when they don't mean to be -- they're just typing in a hurry, and it would sound way different on the phone or in person. And last but not least, there are quite a few people who matter to me in spite of some fairly significant blind spots, and who put up with me in spite of my own.

What all this translates into is that I sometimes don't speak out when people insist I should because I either don't feel up to it or because I feel I would do better to concentrate my energies on other fronts. A friend of mine recently noted that, as a preacher, he's conscious that if he takes people somewhere fraught during the course of a sermon, it is his responsibility to help them back out (or to at least ensure there are others willing to act in a pastoral capacity following the sermon or workshop). The internet equivalent is, as a number of other people have recently pointed out, taking responsibility for what one posts and not attempting to silence others' reaction to it; I don't respond to every comment or e-mail I myself receive (sometimes from lack of time, sometimes I don't see it -- journalscape doesn't send notifications, and I don't always review my spam filter -- and sometimes I simply have nothing new to add), but I do write these entries with a fair amount of care (this one has taken me all morning), and I've shelved quite a few entries rather than posting them because I felt they contained more fail or whine than potential illumination or entertainment.

I'm not presenting this as a better way of interacting with the online world than others. I have a certain amount of envy for the folks who write faster and swing harder, and admiration for how they are able to influence and engage so many more people as a result. However, the fact remains that this is how I function, and to maintain the balance necessary to do the things that make me me - to create poems and stories and songs, to brush the dog, to launder the towels, to finish the letter to Rae I've been drafting since last Friday - this means that I often don't pay attention to issues or causes that other people in groups I identify with view as urgent or compelling, and sometimes I choose to voice my concerns or perspectives in private correspondence or in-person conversation rather than in posts and comment threads. Sometimes I'm not ready to charge in because I feel as though what I could say will be more about my airing my own issues yet again rather than attempting to ameliorate a toxic situation. I'm often convinced that the best thing I can do is to stay focused on my own knitting - honor my existing commitments, stay in better touch with the friends I already have, and concentrate on the things I fancy myself to be somewhat good at. This is wholly self-serving, and yet I also truly believe that it's being true to myself that strengthens my own social capital among people who don't recognize that there's even a problem, let alone how they may be contributing to it. I have had conversations with people that wouldn't have happened if we hadn't first built a certain level of history and trust -- enough meetings, meals, rehearsals, and/or poker games for them to raise questions with the expectation that I wouldn't automatically dismiss them as clueless gits, and me to field such questions without feeling as if they were seeing me only as an Asian American woman rather than as "Peg." (And, in all honesty, I have some acquaintances around whom I'm unlikely to ever feel wholly comfortable, because they do give off a "I've pigeonholed you as [the Asian, the poet, the confidante of z]" vibe that makes me desperate to escape my interactions with them. (And in typing this, it's just dawned on me that I've been doing this myself to at least two people at church. Oh physician, heal thyself.))

What I've been striving to say with all this is that the silence of assorted pro writers regarding RaceFail is not a simple, not-giving-a-flying-fuck silence. As Mary Anne indicated, the mess may seem huge, but there are plenty of corners of the Internet it hasn't reached (in my case, I witnessed the start of it in January, but it then dropped off my radar until this week -- and hard as it may be for online fandom to believe, I have a fair number of friends who don't keep up with blogs regularly or at all (even mine). My husband discovered "Dr. Horrible's Singalong" only this week -- whereas I've known about it since its premiere, but still haven't watched it. Yes, I realize I'm missing out, but last year was, to say the least, a complicated year. Participating in vs eschewing online firefights isn't the only kind of prioritizing that goes on here...). I fear most or all of this will sound like a muddle of excuses to the fen who have been in the thick of things, but from the sound of it, I'll be equally damned if I choose to say nothing whatsoever (which is still awfully tempting - what's that saying about better about people assuming one's a fool rather than giving them actual proof?).

But -- and this is where I'm ultimately coming from -- I've witnessed other people struggling with the "you're part of the problem if you don't say anything" equation over the past several years -- sometimes in relation to race, sometimes in relation to religion, sometimes in relation to free speech -- and it makes me nuts every time I see it, because often the people agonizing the most about their responsibilities are ones who I see already exerting themselves mightily to help the world where they can -- who are speaking up on many other issues (on which they are better informed, or in realms where they've amassed the professional or social capital to have more influence), or engrossed in the demands of everyday life. Seeing the equation of "silence=not caring" flung at my friends and myself is simultaneously heartbreaking and exasperating -- heartbreaking, because I do realize it comes out of profound frustration and pain and despair -- and yet exasperating, because it serves to alienate me rather than bring me into the fold, and I'm reasonably sure I'm not alone in this. Telling me that I'm failing to help with "x" -- well, it makes me want to demand, "What have you done for cancer research lately, and when was the last time you conversed with someone in person about their support for former President Bush, and have you ever cooked a meal for someone homeless?" Which would not be productive in the least. There is so much to do, and things that are totally worthy of our attention aren't going to get it because something else is currently closer to our hearts or easier to address.

I'd like to see more folks giving silence the benefit of the doubt: people have many reasons to hold their peace on a given issue, and it's not always because of cowardice or apathy. I would like to see more calls for action phrased less as accusations and more as encouragement: that is, less "if you stay silent, you're condoning the enemy" to "it would help the morale of x, influence y, or support z if you were to speak up." This is not pandering: this is about not alienating people who are already on your side. When someone tells me I'm not doing enough, my gut reaction is, "Of course not, but you don't know me, so I'm going to go talk to my dog instead, and then when I calm down, I'll go give my time and dollars to someone who managed to ask for my help without trying to bully me into it."

For my part, in terms of giving people the benefit of the doubt: I realize I need to do so with the people who use that particular equation. I imagine many -- perhaps even most -- of the people using it would be upset to learn that it can discourage action instead of shaming people into it -- though I'm equally certain there will be several people who read this, conclude I need to get over myself already, and dismiss everything here as an individual Twinkie's idiosyncrasies and copouts. I need to strive not to automatically classify people who employ that formula as righteous, unforgiving idealists with less complicated lives. I know that's not fair, and that the sheer complicatedness of my own life reflects more than a little privilege and luck on my part. But whenever someone says "either you're with us or against us," or "either you speak up or you're okay with how things are" -- be it at church, online, or in any other gathering where people have ended up at odds -- I find myself wanting to stomp away with the words, "Fine, I don't belong here, what else is new." I am frequently out of step with other people of color on issues of tone, appropriation, and ways to foster diversity, while agreeing with them all too often about the ways too many people don't get how they're being clueless or outright offensive. (I started to type "white people," but you know what? I'm irritated just as often by people of African, Hispanic, and Asian ancestry making unwarranted assumptions and comments based on my slanted eyes -- though I will also say that it's been well-meaning white people who don't get why being the Other is a pain in the ass rather than a privilege.) To borrow some words I posted in a private discussion last month,

Speaking as a woman of color, I reserve the right to engage in such debates on my own terms when possible, which includes choosing to lurk or to outright ignore such conversations when I lack the time, energy, or inclination to add my .02 to the mix. I don't get to dodge such confrontations in my offline life (last year I was at a party where some of the other guests were making fun of a black football player's surname, and when I told them "Toomer" was also the name of an important African American novelist, they said he should reserve that name for when he's around people who care about that). Then there are times when I want to tell well-meaning white folks who are eager to discuss anti-racism initiatives with me that the white privilege I actually envy is that of not being expected to weigh in on such things. And that when I do, I am not speaking for any other person of color other than myself -- which is not something I can assume all readers/listeners understand, which is what makes such conversations fraught and exhausting in the first place, and why I'm selective and cautious about if and when I'm going to participate.

...so, my reaction when someone insists that silence = not caring is frankly resentment and bitterness. I'm not unsympathetic to their frustration, but no cause or topic -- no matter how worthy or noble or pressing -- is entitled to all of my attention all of the time.

Put another way: there are a finite number of hours in a day. Often either-or choices must be made in terms of what I choose to do, and when I bake a cake or crochet a blanket or write a sonnet instead of explicitly engaging in anti-racism activism, some people are going to label that as a cop-out or self-indulgence/self-justification, but I see it as matching my specific skills to their best use.

Typing this post has taken almost all of a day I had earmarked for other things, and aside from resenting the time it's hoovered away from my work (including two poems I started after reading some RaceFail threads), I'm far from convinced it was the wisest use: among other things, I fear that some people will read it as a variant of blaming victims for speaking out against their oppressors. That's not my intent. Nor am I saying I shouldn't be judged or criticized for choosing to work on x instead of raising my voice on y. That's part of my point here: no matter what one does, or chooses, people will judge, and draw conclusions, and sometimes give you more credit than you are actually due and sometimes extend none whatsoever, especially if your work is internal or offline or otherwise less audible/visible to the masses.

What I am trying to do with this post is to show how I see silence as more complex than it's often perceived or presented. This is partly to commiserate with others who have their reasons for remaining quiet, but also to encourage those who are in the thick of things: silence doesn't necessarily mean people aren't paying attention, or thinking things over, or taking notes. I've heard from some fanfic writers that the ratio of comments to readers is only 1 out of every 50, or perhaps even 1 out of every 100; I don't know where the statistic comes from, or how legit it is, but I try to remember that when there is little or no response to the things I've lavished hours upon writing/revising/submitting, or when a talk fizzles among its hearers. Silence is not in itself reason to despair or to stop talking.

At the same time, I want to encourage the people who are on the sidelines to become more involved in working toward social justice, if they're able. There's a hymn in the UU hymnal (text by Sally Rogers) called "Love Will Guide Us," and the second verse goes:

If you cannot sing like angels,
if you cannot speak before thousands,
you can give from deep within you.
You can change the world with your love.

I'd like to nudge more people into participating in interfaith and nondenominational ministries to the poor and disenfranchised, such as Room in the Inn. Or helping local teachers acquire supplies for students who can't afford them. Or crocheting caps for babies in Third World countries. Or helping a charity thrift store sort donations, or volunteering an hour or two as a receptionist or office clerk for a nonprofit, or literacy tutoring, or as a cashier for a library book sale. These activities too are part of repairing our world (and maintaining one's perspective, I might add), and they don't all require massive heaps of time or money. (If it's a choice between a shift at a soup kitchen or reading this blog, by all means hie thee to the soup kitchen. Seriously!)

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Some of you reading this are probably new to this blog - so I'd like to refer you to a handful of sermons I've preached on related topics:
Introversion and Community
Telling Someone They're Wrong
Unicorns, Hippogriffs, and Bisexuals
The Sweetness (and Scariness) of Saving the World
Hyphens and Acronyms
Was Thomas Jefferson Really One of Us?

(Put another way: I'm not always silent, nor am I an advocate of sitting out if one has something to say. Again, my aim here is not to present silence as a superior option, but to urge people to recognize the multiple factors in play, and to consider ways of inviting others in their communities into speech rather than (what comes across to me as) condemning silence across the board.]

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One other aspect of my reluctance to weigh in on SF/F controversies is that, while I can consider myself a member of the pro community (I've sold a number of poems and I'm a member of the SFPA), I'm only sporadically involved with it -- I sometimes read some of the stuff my friends have published, and sometimes manage something speculative of my own, but I can't even say I've got one foot on sea and one on shore -- it's more like a couple of toeholds. I drift in and out of transformative fandom, and right now my interest is in manga rather than the fantasy series that dominated my activity over the past five years.

Which is not to say that I don't have a voice, or that I shouldn't raise it, but it is another wrinkle in whether I feel my opinion will carry any weight with someone, which in turn affects whether voicing it in a given discussion is the best use of my time and potential influence. Put another way, sometimes I feel like I would be inserting myself into a conversation where I do not belong not because I am a person of color, but because I am not enough of a fan (and by that, I mean that I am not well-read enough in general SF/F, let alone works by POC). My history is not of longing for books with people like me in them (though I will admit to wondering what was so damn special about golden hair while fantasizing about being a live-in cousin of the Ingalls), although I've finally ordered Gene Luen Yang's American Born Chinese (a graphic novel that was a National Book Award finalist several years ago), and, I haven't discarded the ARC of Eric Liu's The Accidental Asian, which I've owned for over a decade, but I've always ended up choosing to read something else whenever I see it, and I don't see that changing soon.

There's a romance novel by Nora Roberts called Heaven and Earth, where a police officer named Ripley has furiously, emphatically, and repeatedly tried to ignore her heritage and abilities as a witch -- only to fall in love with a man who specializes in studies of the paranormal, who was himself a child prodigy. At one point he tells her, "I know what it is like to be pushed in a direction you don't want to go, or one you're not ready for. People say they know what's best for you. Maybe sometimes it's true. But it doesn't matter if they keep pushing until they take your choices away."

And later, they have this exchange:

"Ripley...You're not a freak. You're a miracle."

"I don't want to be either. Can't you understand that?"

"Yeah, I can. I know exactly what it's like to be looked at as one or the other, or both at the same time. What can I tell you? All you can be is who and what you are."