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Challenge #10 asks us to gush enthusiastically and unapologetically.
So, that was a year. A really difficult year, Fandom. We couldn't see each other in the same ways that we wanted to, to come together for a weekend (or longer) and share our love with each other, encourage each other, admire the merch, and talk to and with each other in the panels, and in the lines (and there are always lines) and, when we're lucky, we even get to talk a little bit with the people who are the guests of honor and ask them some questions. (Questions are short, relevant, and end with a question mark.) And there's always a little bit of sadness at the end, because we don't want the party to end, but eventually, we all have to go back to the world where we have to earn wages, pay bills, and otherwise not devote out full attention and time to the things we really would rather be doing. Sure, there were still guests and interviews and demonstrations, but we missed out on a lot of the panels that we put together, and the meet-ups, and the gaming floors. And even though I was able to virtually attend a con that I haven't attended in years, it wasn't the same thing, because you all weren't there with me. I do kind of wish they'd do it again, though. Because we found out it's possible to have at least some of the convention experience through a screen and made more accessible than it otherwise would have been. Same thing for many of our more professional conferences, as well. Now that we've proven it can be done, not that it was ever in doubt, I hope that we don't fold it all back up again and insist that it's too hard to make things welcoming and accessible.
This year past, there was a lot more than the usual amount of things to process. There were plenty of missing stairs that became much more visible, and lots of terrible takes about the value and virtue of fanworks (one of which just landed a few days ago and I'm still calling part of 2020 because this month has basically been the overtime period of 2020 and all of its nonsense), and far too many examples of fandom, ships, tropes, and other components being wielded as weapons, intended to damage and harm each other or brand someone as "problematic" when what they meant to say was "differently opinionated than me." Or to insist that what someone writes in their works is what they endorse, believe, or otherwise are in their real life. There are not the virtues of the fandom I believe is possible, but I cannot disclaim their existence. I think, though, that seeing the contempt on display for everyone who didn't meet a very narrow definition, openly and without regard for the consequences, meant that a lot of us were part of the Lucky 10,000 for learning and viscerally understanding what a lot of other fans already knew, because they had experienced and seen it all already. And so, we come to something from Kubo and the Two Strings, which is a movie I really enjoyed (and thought Matthew McConaughey's voice was somewhat out of place for):
Fandom has been the source of so many good experiences in life - reading good fic, viewing good art, talking with people about the meta, or about the tropes, and seeing some most excellent cosplay (with permissions asked for pictures, of course.) and a lot of the things that I like doing with fandom is taking things that didn't go well and fixing them to be more inclusive, to make them better than their originals, or to envision alternatives that might have happened. Things like where Tara lived because the showrunner didn't want to troll his audience by having a character who had made it to the main credits die in the episode she made it. Or that, if she did die by such random violence, it was because the showrunner had a point to tell. And had examined whether it was really a good idea to, yet again, Bury Your Gays. A place where the presence of humans bonded very tightly to dragons very quickly threw off the idea of vassalage feudalism and Randian selfishness. The kind of space that acknowledges and recognizes all of the students and works to make them be welcome at the school they'll be practicing and perfecting their magic, rather than insisting there are only two genders and putting measures in place to make sure certain spaces stay segregated.
The thing I love the most about transformative fandom is that it asks for transformation, of works, of canons, but also of us, too. To be able to see the world or the canon differently, to revel in the silliness of it all, or to help ourselves or work things out in our lives through the characters that we enjoy. It seems like a terrible idea to shut people out of that joy and community for reasons that aren't related to things that they do/say to show themselves as unsafe for that community.
So, my letter to fandom is all about being the best kind of people that we can be, to everyone, so that everyone can be the best kind of fans (and the rest of us get the best kind of material).
In your own space, write a love letter to Fandom in general, to a particular fandom, to a trope, a relationship, a character, creator, episode, or it could be your fandom friends. Share your love and squee as loud as you want to.
So, that was a year. A really difficult year, Fandom. We couldn't see each other in the same ways that we wanted to, to come together for a weekend (or longer) and share our love with each other, encourage each other, admire the merch, and talk to and with each other in the panels, and in the lines (and there are always lines) and, when we're lucky, we even get to talk a little bit with the people who are the guests of honor and ask them some questions. (Questions are short, relevant, and end with a question mark.) And there's always a little bit of sadness at the end, because we don't want the party to end, but eventually, we all have to go back to the world where we have to earn wages, pay bills, and otherwise not devote out full attention and time to the things we really would rather be doing. Sure, there were still guests and interviews and demonstrations, but we missed out on a lot of the panels that we put together, and the meet-ups, and the gaming floors. And even though I was able to virtually attend a con that I haven't attended in years, it wasn't the same thing, because you all weren't there with me. I do kind of wish they'd do it again, though. Because we found out it's possible to have at least some of the convention experience through a screen and made more accessible than it otherwise would have been. Same thing for many of our more professional conferences, as well. Now that we've proven it can be done, not that it was ever in doubt, I hope that we don't fold it all back up again and insist that it's too hard to make things welcoming and accessible.
This year past, there was a lot more than the usual amount of things to process. There were plenty of missing stairs that became much more visible, and lots of terrible takes about the value and virtue of fanworks (one of which just landed a few days ago and I'm still calling part of 2020 because this month has basically been the overtime period of 2020 and all of its nonsense), and far too many examples of fandom, ships, tropes, and other components being wielded as weapons, intended to damage and harm each other or brand someone as "problematic" when what they meant to say was "differently opinionated than me." Or to insist that what someone writes in their works is what they endorse, believe, or otherwise are in their real life. There are not the virtues of the fandom I believe is possible, but I cannot disclaim their existence. I think, though, that seeing the contempt on display for everyone who didn't meet a very narrow definition, openly and without regard for the consequences, meant that a lot of us were part of the Lucky 10,000 for learning and viscerally understanding what a lot of other fans already knew, because they had experienced and seen it all already. And so, we come to something from Kubo and the Two Strings, which is a movie I really enjoyed (and thought Matthew McConaughey's voice was somewhat out of place for):
If you must blink, do it now. Pay careful attention to everything you see and hear, no matter how unusual it may seem. And please be warned, if you fidget, if you look away, if you forget any part of what I tell you, even for an instant, then our hero will surely perish.That's what's been asked of us, in all of these years, and in all of these years to come, and it's difficult to keep looking, keep paying attention, and to not collectively fidget, or forget, because when we do, we lose heroes. Sometimes in body, but often enough, they stop being part of fandom, and we lose out on all of the things they could contribute. Or we don't get to see what they can make in any canon, whether original or licensed, because they've been run out of the community instead of allowed to stay.
Fandom has been the source of so many good experiences in life - reading good fic, viewing good art, talking with people about the meta, or about the tropes, and seeing some most excellent cosplay (with permissions asked for pictures, of course.) and a lot of the things that I like doing with fandom is taking things that didn't go well and fixing them to be more inclusive, to make them better than their originals, or to envision alternatives that might have happened. Things like where Tara lived because the showrunner didn't want to troll his audience by having a character who had made it to the main credits die in the episode she made it. Or that, if she did die by such random violence, it was because the showrunner had a point to tell. And had examined whether it was really a good idea to, yet again, Bury Your Gays. A place where the presence of humans bonded very tightly to dragons very quickly threw off the idea of vassalage feudalism and Randian selfishness. The kind of space that acknowledges and recognizes all of the students and works to make them be welcome at the school they'll be practicing and perfecting their magic, rather than insisting there are only two genders and putting measures in place to make sure certain spaces stay segregated.
The thing I love the most about transformative fandom is that it asks for transformation, of works, of canons, but also of us, too. To be able to see the world or the canon differently, to revel in the silliness of it all, or to help ourselves or work things out in our lives through the characters that we enjoy. It seems like a terrible idea to shut people out of that joy and community for reasons that aren't related to things that they do/say to show themselves as unsafe for that community.
So, my letter to fandom is all about being the best kind of people that we can be, to everyone, so that everyone can be the best kind of fans (and the rest of us get the best kind of material).
