© 2019 Jonnie Wilder
“People sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf” — Richard Grenier paraphrasing George Orwell
In the fictional near-future, I’m standing overwatch on the wall of the Haunted House Control Point near the present-day Octagon Museum, about two blocks from the White House, watching a group of men burn to death in a fire I set with a portable flame-thrower turret. It’s a beautiful sight.
Some of them drop their weapons and I walk in to take them for myself as the fire dies out, then I roll behind a jersey barrier and fire off a few rounds of suppressive fire toward a heavily-armored man weilding a chainsaw. He’s barely phased by the bullets that pancake on his ballistic armor and he revs the chainsaw menacingly as he runs at me.
I’m rebuilding society in the shadow of a biological terror attack, making America great again. I’m playing Tom Clancy’s The Division 2, a video game about killing people who kill people and take their stuff, and then taking their stuff so you can kill even more-well-armed people and take their stuff too. I kill people to show that killing people is wrong.Continue reading The Politics of Tom Clancy’s: The Division 2
© 2019 Jonnie Wilder
Seattle Weekly’s last print issue hits the streets today. It’s another exclamation point at the end of a string of exclamation points that signal the exasperation of excitable writers witnessing the end of an era that began in the mid 1970s with the rise of alternative weekly newspapers.
Alt Weeklies, as they were called, were the counterculture’s attempt to take back the media narratives that were at one time controlled by daily newspapers. Dailies were the CNN, FOX News, and MSNBC of their day, respected and read by everyone who wanted to know what opinions they’d have at the clubhouse after a round of golf.
The alternative was newspapers like the Chicago Reader, Village Voice, and the L.A. Weekly who reported weekly on the culture beneath the dominant culture with a loud and proud voice that told it like it was. The mid-to-late seventies were a time of cultural upheaval, and the rebels wanted their own balladeers to properly sing their praises. The upstart young poets would weave epic tales worth rhyming, and the hearts of the broken-down cities of the ‘70s were bleeding to the beat of a different drummer.
The birthplace of great writers such as Susan Orlean, Ta-Nehisi Coates, and Matt Groening — where television personalities Chris Hayes and Jake Tapper got their journalistic start — alt weeklies were the WNBA of the literary sport: the place you’d go to see the game the way it was meant to be played, without the oversized egos and the steep ticket prices.
After Woodward and Bernstein’s investigative journalism had just brought down a President, what else was it capable of doing for the public good? This was the ‘70s on a stage set in the aftermath of the assassination of Dr. King, the riots at the Stonewall Inn, and the fight for an Equal Rights Amendment. Great social change was ongoing, and it was in this chapter of Journalism’s greatest story ever told, the Seattle Weekly proudly proclaimed themselves the alternative to the alternative weekly.
What the hell, Seattle Weekly?Continue reading Farewell, Worthy Adversary
©2019 J. Wilder
I’m surrounded and the enemy is closing in.
Backing away from them, I look over my shoulder at the edge of the futuristic Egyptian garden wall and imagine myself leaping into the mists below, where I will surely perish.
If I don’t, I will either be crushed by a well-dressed man with a giant cybernetic fist, poisoned by a one-eyed grandmother, or nuked by a South Korean esports legend. But more likely, the overly polite climatologist with a reputation for freezing her enemies, will blast me with her freeze gun and then stab me in the eye with an icicle.
I choose to rob them all of the satisfaction and step off into the void.
Multiplayer combat-oriented video games have been an growing popular form of entertainment over the last decade. With names like, “League of Legends”, “Overwatch”, and “Fortnite: Battle Royale” they rake in billions of dollars and strike fear into traditional and new media alike.
Netflix recently explained to its shareholders that it’s biggest competitor is the online multiplayer game Fortnite, not HBO.
These games are addicting, stressful, violent, and insanely fun. Parents are increasingly wary of their potential to engulf their children’s free time; to the detriment of face-to-face social interaction, outdoor time, and performance of household chores.Continue reading Start ’Em Young: Embrace the Violence of Video Games
©2019 Johanna Wilder
For most all of my childhood, and quite a bit of my young adulthood, I was bullied. Growing up in rural Indiana in the ’70s and ’80s was a challenge that required a child be either rugged brute or resilient target. Target I was, but I was neither resilient, nor rugged, nor brutal.
While I was being hunted down by my menacing peers, I was scoping out alleyways for safer routes to school. I didn’t want to fight. I wanted to be left alone so I could focus on what was important to me at the time: reading fantasy and science fiction, orchestral symphonies, track and field, the neighbor girl with the pretty brown hair who seemed to like me, and the Doctor Demento radio show. All of these apparently anarchistic thought-crimes that would bring about the demise of the heretofore incorruptible moral traditions of Terre Haute, Indiana.
I was a twelve-year-old enemy of the state that needed to be dealt with extrajudicially, so as not to sully the impressionable.Continue reading Bullies Rule The World Only Because We Demand It
The Internet machine lets me type on it and I can’t resist a box with a blinking line in it.
Not rude at all, you were very polite. Thanks.
Let me preface by saying this is my experience, and my perspective on my experience, and I’ve made no attempt at all to adjust for other’s experiences and perspectives.
I’m old. Long, long ago, when the internet was new and shiny, the word “transgender” was used among trans people to describe those of us who wanted to “live the role of someone of the other biological sex, without seeking medical intervention.” I grew up reading weird science fiction where people could switch bodies while keeping the same mind. Those stories resonated with me. I had an uncomfortable relationship with my (male) genitalia from with my earliest memories: puberty was very traumatic for me.
Growing up, trans people on television were portrayed as jokes and/or sex workers and usually ended up as incidental murder victims on cop shows, illustrating the decline of civilization. That wasn’t me, I would think, so I never built an identity as a trans person.
But what I felt I was internally never left me, and when I started to read more about it on Usenet what seems like a million years ago, I was able to talk with and read stories of trans people much more like me, who sought biological change, not social change.
You ask, “what’s the difference between changing biological sex and changing gender”. For me, it was as simple as saying I wanted to change what I was, not who I was. I like who I am! I’ve liked who I am for my whole life. But I was deeply uncomfortable in my physical body. I’ve met trans people who share those same feelings, but I’ve also met plenty who were mostly uncomfortable with their social role as determined by their biological sex. (Saying “biological sex”, by the way, is completely redundant, but I do it with purpose because the terminology gets so skewed with usage.)
Back in the day, and probably still now, we are required to partake in quite a lot of therapy to suss out exactly why we want to make this change. My therapist described her experience as a lesbian growing up in the bad old days, thinking it would be so much easier for her to change sex than to be accepted as a lesbian, and she sought one out, but the therapy process helped her identify what she really sought out of life: which was to be comfortable with her same-sex attraction.
There are quite a lot of us who see this process as a type of oppression and have worked very hard to remove it from the process of transition. There are quite a lot of trans people who feel that the whole medicalization of their identities is a type of oppression and have worked very hard to redefine the trans experience as a non-medical, completely social process.
I fully support their desire to have a non-medical, completely social, gender change process. I can’t see into their hearts and divine what makes their life complete, so I have to trust that they will do what is best for them. I just don’t believe that it should supplant what I feel I need for myself, and unfortunately, there are cis-sexual people who benefit from trans people being defined completely through a gender lens.
Most trans people just want to be able to use the bathroom that we feel safest in, and work and live in peace. I’ve watched, over the last twenty years, a bargaining take place with the left. I remember when the Pride parade in Seattle was the Gay and Lesbian Pride parade. They begrudgingly added bisexuals and fought for years to exclude trans people.
In the end, in order to be included we gave up being transsexuals and agreed to be transgender.
Because who cares, right? It’s just words. Nobody really cares what those words mean anyway, and as long as I can have some peace, it’s worth giving up a definition without a distinction.
Well, the chickens are coming home to roost.
I said in another comment, 90% of this is about bathrooms, and when people think about bathrooms, they think about penises and vaginas. The conversation on the left has been about how people feel inside, regardless of their outsides, which is a beautiful conversation because sex-reassignment surgery is incredibly expensive and there are people who will never be able to afford it.
Oh, yeah, and we gave up calling it sex-reassignment surgery. I think I might be one of the last people to have gotten sex-reassignment surgery. I signed paperwork with the surgeon in 2001 to pay for it and everything read “sex-reassignment surgery” but after the surgery, when they sent the letter that I’d have to use later as proof, it read “gender-confirmation surgery”. I made them change it — because I am a belligerent, pedantic asshole — and they did. But by that time, the whole pipeline had been changed to “gender-confirmation surgery”.
As for me, personally, my gender and biological sex don’t match. I am the bro-iest bro that ever brah’d, but I have a surgically-constructed vagina and breasts that grew in at the ripe old age of 28, from the estradiol I was injecting. I do have very long pretty hair, but that’s never been a Seattleite trait that was tied to a specific sex or gender.
We have a map of our bodies that is wired into the folds of our brain. If we poke the brain with electrodes, it makes us feel sensations in our body. My hypothesis is that my brain map was the female one, not the male one; though I had the male body. Since I couldn’t change my brain map, and medical technology has gotten to the point where we can do some pretty decent terra-forming, that’s what I went with. I am very, very happy with how things turned out.
Could they have turned out better, certainly.
In the future, when we can change the brain map to match the territory? Those will be interesting times. Humans are strongly attached to the identities that we form to match our ideological terrain. Deaf communities reeled at the invention of the cochlear implant. Trans communities will certainly reel at the invention of a “brain fix” for what we call Gender Dysphoria.
When I was a kid, I devoured science fiction, because it detailed a world where people were free to be what they wanted to be. There was a strong libertarian streak that ran through the fiction I read that I felt an affinity toward.
In the future I hope for for my people, we can have both brain fixes and body fixes and people can choose whichever fits their own situation best. Maybe that’s utopian, but that’s my dream.
In the meantime, I am very cognizant that whenever I enter a women’s restroom — even in Seattle — I have a responsibility to alleviate the anxieties of the people I share the restroom with. When I pee, I’m a sitter, so quite often a men’s restroom isn’t the best choice for me. But I’m a big scary person to someone who hasn’t met me and I’m not very feminine.
I am, however, exceptionally kind and courteous. I would like to see my people using that as a tactic to earn our safety in the restroom debate, not assertions of oppression.
Let me end by saying that I, and every other trans person I’ve ever met, has been horrifically scarred and traumatized by this experience. Most of us are so embattled that every interaction triggers the fight-or-flight reflex and we become very difficult to have any kind of empathy with or sympathy for in those moments. When you see us with a grimace or a scowl on our faces, it’s because we are mentally preparing ourselves to be harassed and/or harmed. It’s not about you, it’s about survival instincts that get triggered by living a traumatic life of exclusion and shame.
I wish I could write more, but this is already deep, deep into tldr territory. Thanks for being courageous and asking for information. I wish people would be more kind to people who are curious about other people, so I hope that I’ve treated you with the kindness you deserve.
tldr I’m a weirdo, but I’m not a bad person.
Classic front page story from The Onion, from the Jonnie Era. Christine Wenc found the whole batch of microfilm at the Wisconsin Historical Archive.
I’m finally living in the cyberpunk future I’ve dreamed of living in since I was a kid.
In my younger mind, the cyberpunk future was a cultural mélange raising a new age Tower of Babel over an aging infrastructure. Looming above the honeycomb of wearable computers, iconoclast retro-tech, autonomous taxicabs, bespoke electric bicycles, shining arcologies, and crumbling super-tenements. I would write software using deluxe object-oriented languages on my portable computer for my biometric wristwatch, weaving in and out of traffic through the over-crowded megacity on my electric bike.
The entire library of humanity would be available to me at my whim, with a gesture or a word. The stirrings of artificial intelligences would glimmer through the fiber optics deep beneath the city; gathering data, sorting, analyzing, learning. My interactions with them providing the training they need to interact with me: I would be their tutor and their student.
Then there were the robots. Their cybernetic forms simultaneously familiar and unexpected. Their cold eyes — if they had eyes at all —wouldn’t have the light of personhood behind them. They’d range from the cuddly to the terrifying. Some would be huggable dolls to comfort the infirm and the lonely, fashioned after children’s toys; or they would be modeled on children themselves, underfoot and skittering about, seen but not heard; or giants playing with toy blocks the size of skyscrapers, lumbering behemoths blotting out the sky. They would be servants and partners and they would be building the next world, and they would be fearsome weapons on land and in the sky, raining down hellfire.
We would hack our own biology with chemicals known and unknown, jack up our nervous systems with electronics and stimulants, chimerically rewriting our DNA and replacing our limbs and senses with cybernetic upgrades.
It would all be part and parcel of life on the rain-slicked, cyberpunk streets of the Seattle metroplex. And then I grew up and the future arrived.
Tent cities reach out in every direction along congested arteries leading in and out of the cities, ancient transports belching pollutants we struggle to cast off in our nostalgia for a time when life seemed simpler and there was freedom on the open road.
They frighten and confuse. Yet, when we feel something missing in ourselves, we yearn to integrate with it. Starting with a missing limb, we build a prosthesis; never satisfied, we upgrade and there is always an upgrade. First we tune it to walk, then we tweak it to run, then we hack it to fly.
We live in uneasy acceptance of it all, that it will rise up and take our place. Ancient fears those, every parent has had them from the dawn of time. The progeny casting the progenitor out, the student becoming the master.
Mega-corporations hold more power than governments. Government has fallen out of favor, replaced with a yearning for the anarchy of a fantasized frontier where we had freedom from the press of humanity and the burdens we impose on each other to keep the fragile peace. Yet, irresolute in our commit to the precariousness of liberty, we abdicate our natural desires and abilities to grocery delivery services, military-styled private police forces and constabularies, and an ever-growing list of entertainment options provided by a shrinking list of of suppliers.
The list of illnesses, diseases, ailments, disorders, maladies, and afflictions that plague us grows longer every day, yet we live longer than our ancestors ever hoped. The effort we’ve exerted to extended our precious lives belies the negligence in how we spend them. We’re not driven to live, we’re simply afraid to die.
We live in the future and yet there is always another future ahead of us.
We write the story of our tomorrow today.
Trans-sexual and trans-gender warriors marching under a battle standard defined with muted pastel colors around a milky white center do not inspire. Is it because my people spend so much of our lives trying not to stand out, but to fit in, to over-accommodate and become assimilated. Some even accuse us of attempting to mimic or impersonate.
My people have been accused of being in other people’s spaces, inserting ourselves where we don’t belong, wanting special rights and access, wanting to become something that’s physically impossible or socially inconvenient. Everyone’s always telling us what we can’t do. So, we work hard at being invisible, because laying low is the best way to avoid being just another statistic of our status as the most murdered sexual minority.
From my own personal experience, I don’t spend much time with my people. When a minority group is sufficiently marginalized, the people create their own cultures and those cultures can be dysfunctional in the extreme. Trans culture can place too much emphasis on being mistaken for cis because being cis means being safe and secure. It means being able to get a job, to have a family, to have a place to live.
Being trans means being less than, being undeserving, being targeted. For trans women, along with that, it means being told we have unearned privilege, that we are a problem that needs to be solved, that we are a danger to people who matter more than we do.
We make people uncomfortable, it’s plain to see. Though, your discomfort is nothing compared to the discomfort we address every day of our lives.
That we would rally around a flag that is little more than a dingy white flag of surrender doesn’t surprise me. It’s a terrible flag that I will never fly.
My people are being beaten and murdered daily. My people are still denied basic human rights. My people are grossly misunderstood and misrepresented by all, including those who call us allies.
We are an endangered species. We are refugees from an ongoing ethic cleansing. Those of us who’ve survived this long are modern day ronin just looking for a home and honest work.
Our flag, if we must have one, should be a golden chimera on a blood red field.