May 172013
 

Someone sent me a link to [David Gaider's take on sexism in video games] and asked for my thoughts. That’s an excellent interview, and covers a lot of things, but the part I loved is way at the end. So if you’re short on time, or already read about this back in March, skip down to the last picture and read from there on.*

That’s such a wonderful point and sums up [my feelings] about video games: “You’re not who we want to play this game.” It isn’t that I’m not in a demographic worth making games for, it’s that most of the games are actively hostile to my demographic. A game doesn’t have to be [Dead-Island-Riptide-levels] of shitty to be hostile to me, either.

The other day my awesome brother, who is way more into gaming than I am, recommended that I grab Lego Batman 2 while it was on sale on Steam. It started with a lengthy cutscene and then I was too tired to figure out the controls, so I’m waiting to give it a better try when I’m actually awake. It looks decent and I like puzzle-type games so I’m still excited. But look at [this list] of unlockable characters. Notice anything? My cursory count is that 11 out of 60 are female (I may have missed some because I’m not very comics-savvy). Out of those, several are either “superhero’s girlfriend” or “lady version of superhero”. I’m going to say it: Tokenism is hostile. It perpetuates stereotypes and shitty tropes. People who aren’t in tokeny subgroups don’t notice how much this affects them.

There’s no such thing as a Normal Gamer. We are a diverse group. We are not all Dudes-Under-35.

Feminists and allies and anti-rape activists all love to hate on Penny Arcade and I kept not caring because often I laughed at the comics. Yes, even the gross and sexist ones. I like a lot of offensive things, and you can’t sue me for it, so there. They recently ran [this comic] and I was like, yes yes that is totally what is wrong with fucking games someone understands!

But then there’s the [accompanying news post] to that comic, which enraged me. Tycho calls the character depiction freaky and scary, but then says anyone uncomfortable with it is a brainwashed zealot feminist.

Then he points out the nearly unreadable font art of the games title, see how their core artistic style is to make things so stylized that you cannot recognize what they are supposed to be? He would have a great point if the character in question looked like [this] instead of [this]. When you watch the tits and ass of the “female” characters swaying in the artificial breeze of the game’s website, you instantly understand that you’re looking at sextoys. There is no artistic fucking refracting prism.

And then our buddy puts on some 7-league boots and takes the third step aaaaaaaaaall the way backward to MRA/VD country. Meeeeeean psychotic bullies don’t want to hear about how many times he jerked off over this visionary art that is so visionary that he just called it freaky, scary, and unable to convey basic meaning.

That sort of thing makes me feel unwelcome and actively pushes me away. It isn’t a hyperemotional lady reaction, it is a simple fact that some of these “thought leaders” spew words and attitudes that make it clear they think gaming is about men and for men. Anyone pleased about “girl gamers” on the basis of it being better to have people available for them to be sexually attracted to, that actually makes this whole thing worse, so please consider how dehumanizing it will be before making a comment about how horny guys should want to have women around in the gaming community.

Gaider is right. I don’t need a pink box and unicorns to buy a game. (Although I’d totes buy a [Charlie the Unicorn] adventure game. So would you.) I know there are great games out there that depict females artistically and without hate. All I want is to not have to wade through 50 males and a half-dozen swaying-boob sextoys to find that depiction.

Slowly but surely, the industry is taking note and changing. That pleases me and frustrates me — if you look at the pace of change in technology, you’ll laugh with me when people compare the pace of this change favorably to civil rights struggles. Yeah, it takes a long time for bigoted generations to die off and we make some progress while they get senile. But since I was a kid playing nintendo pinball, how many new consoles have come out? How many geniuses are making games? There is [a game] that will let you cast spells with your fucking brain, and you’re telling me this industry, an industry constantly eating the tail of its own revolutions, can’t figure out how to simultaneously market a game to horny 18-year-old males and crotchety 32-year-old females? I CALL BULLSHIT.

In the meantime, you’ll find me playing Portal (female protagonist, female antagonist, one of the most popular games ever, thanks, with a great but problematic sequel) and Unmechanical and Braid because I like puzzle games, and being disappointed that I couldn’t play [Bioshock Infinite], which sounds like a great less-sexist title.**

 

 

* His GDC talk. Actually I like this link much better than the one at the top, but that’s the one I was asked about. *shrug* I aim to please. (buzzzzzzz)

** I suck at first-person shooters. I loved the opening bits of the game, and then I got shot in the back 15 times in a half-hour, on baby-easy mode, so I gave up forever. The saddest part is that I’ve heard from people who played through it that the FPS element probably could have been removed entirely. *sigh* Maybe they could release a shooty-free version?

May 102013
 

My parts of the internet are all talking a lot about [this post], which if you haven’t read, please do so. It is required reading for the rest of this post.

Not that you have to read my post.

Thousands of people are having “I cried” and “I so identify with that” reactions to her wonderful, insightful, honest post. That’s awesome. Being depressed feels alone, and knowing we’re not is good. I mostly laughed when I read it yesterday (today I cried a little). Like when you watch a movie and some tragedy is presented in a quasi-humorous fashion, laughing is an acknowledgement of your discomfort with the events even though it is inappropriate/incorrect from the standpoint of “what normal human empathy requires.”

I am justifying my reactions, explaining why I had them. That is how I interact with you, reader. That’s what normal people do, right? Smile in the right places. :D

Two things stood out the most to me in the post. First, the lying on the floor of a room crying. God, lying on a floor, my old frenemy. When one finds oneself sitting on a floor weeping uncontrollably because everything is empty, and horribly clean, and the only thing one can feel or remember feeling or picture feeling ever again is vague-grey-bad, then it means there is something very wrong.

DSC03018Last time I had that, I was on a cruise in Alaska with family. I couldn’t stop crying. I sat there for an unknowable amount of time, weeping, scaring my husband. I didn’t want to die, but I did want to be erased and not be there and not hurt anyone anymore with my stupid existing. Other than that, the cruise was lots of fun, but my memory of shouting at myself inside my head to shut up and put clothes on and go eat dinner without a blotchy face and for fuck’s sake act normal is just as vivid as my memory of biking to a glacier and taking chilly pictures of it.

I don’t tell that story about the Alaska cruise very often because I am deeply ashamed of it. I was ashamed when it was happening, that I wasn’t properly enjoying the vacation, and I still feel ashamed of it now, because it feels raw and gross, and writing about it feels like attention-seeking and is self-indulgent.*

Okay, here’s the second thing that stood out to me: the self-portraits. Oh. My. God. I’ve recently been interested in [Frida Kahlo], and her [gruesome depictions] of [self-perception] are what I was reminded of when I looked at the curled, cringing pink narrator. Where Frida is serenely bloody, Allie Brosh is dead-eyed and grumpy. I love them both.

They show me what it looks like to feel like they do, and that makes me feel like I can face looking at myself.

 

 

* Note for commenters: I know. Please don’t tell me not to feel ashamed, or that I don’t have to, or whatever. I’m just sharing, okay? Roll with it.

Apr 082013
 

2013-04-08 18.00.37

6:35 pm

Sometimes I feel determined to prove that my place in the world is “manic hipster dream girl” and at times like that I ask chaos to bring home goat milk so I can make ice cream.

This is one of those times.

Ice cream is too fiddly for me to talk about process. I use internet recipes and a lot of hope. This one has an egg custard base and I had to skip the blender directions. My blender doesn’t go “slow” because it is a motherfucking ninjashark. If you want to temper the old-fashioned way, watch this video. I liked her. She was clear and helpful, and has a necklace just like one of my very favorite necklaces (which has no bearing on her ability to make ice cream, obvs, but does make me instinctively trust her).

The best part of watching that video is that when the goat milk and honey mixture started to boil over, I didn’t panic (as much). I blew on it to break the skin, just like the video taught me. I still lost many of the precious real vanilla bean specks, lost forever on the stovetop.

Now it is chilling (not like a villain because only fools drop the g just for a cheap dated rhyme) and later tonight I’ll run it through the ice cream maker, report back, and finish this post.

8:56 pm

I made meatballs and marinara sauce for dinner and watched a bit of Northanger Abbey.* As time flows only forwards and I become older, not younger, I decided against allowing the flavors to meld overnight. I poured the proto ice cream into the machine and let it churn for about 20 minutes. Now it lurks in the freezer, hardening, but before I put it there I filched a spoonful; the taste is complex and barely sweet, like thistles and mushrooms and nectar.

10:23 pm

We are eating bowls of what chaos calls “the most complex ice cream that’s ever existed” with chocolate syrup. So. Good. NOM.

 

* The species enslaved by humanity for me to enjoy my evening include cows, sheep, goats, durum wheat, ITV costume designers, and bees.

Apr 052013
 

I never got pregnant and I never had an abortion. Considering how weird and painful my ovaries can be, I wonder if I was ever fertile at all. It isn’t a question now, because I took essure implants when I was 30. When I talk about that procedure, I get excited about how great my anesthesiologist was* — the moral or personal implications of my reproductive status aren’t really a thing for me.

Today I read this piece by Molly Crabapple about her abortion (please read that, you have to read it) and I cried. Partly because it is a very moving piece all the way through and maybe partly because I’m currently lying on an overstuffed chair with a heating pad and painkillers while my right ovary stabs flaming spikes into my guts.

I never had an abortion, but I’ve wept with pain in probably the same Manhattan Planned Parenthood, behind a metal detector and security doors that made me feel like a criminal for getting STI tests and asking whether I might have to have another cyst surgically removed.

She writes: “There are so many reasons why women need abortions. Those reasons are often wedded intractably to money.” Money figures into a lot of people’s abortion stories. Money and class are the worldbuilding of every abortion story — that’s why so much of American politics right now is filled with stupid hateful sound bytes about women’s bodies. If you want to get into sentimental reductionism, then class and politics and economics always come down to somebody bleeding and somebody crying.

This is a body that never had an abortion.

This is what a body that never had an abortion looks like.

Here’s my abortion story: When I was an angry lesbian teenager, I wore patched BDUs everywhere and had a green mohawk. My parents supported all of this because they’re supportive motherfuckers, and also I think it must have been a relief not to have to worry about their daughter getting pregnant. I couldn’t figure out what my politics were, but I read too much sci-fi and didn’t like anything and wanted to go to a military academy so someone could tell me what to think. I read an article about how difficult it was becoming for young women to get abortions, because terrorists, not just murderous domestic terrorists but legislative ones, and how there were already entire states with only a few, or no, abortion providers. I bitched loudly about this in the way of a teenager trying on causes, and a well-meaning older relative took me aside.

“Don’t worry so much,” in hushed maternal tones. “If you ever have that sort of problem, you’ll go to a regular doctor and it will get sorted out.” All the implications hit me immediately and I felt sick, not the nausea and little upward punch from the pelvis to the spine that mean I need to check my tampon supply, or the spreading flush of heat from my sternum around to the back of my skull that means I ought to find my migraine pills, but the intellectual terror of instantly understanding some piece of knowledge that you wish you could un-know.

In the real world, my world of white Lutherans and discretion and plenty-but-not-wealthy, “finding an abortion provider” would never be any trouble. It wasn’t even a matter of othering the poor people or scared daughters of strict religion, it was as if those people were an abstract fantasy tribe. Don’t worry, when dragons come, you won’t be sacrificed because you’re not blonde. Sci-fi worlds made a lot more sense than this bullshit, small wonder I kept my nose in books.**

I was supposed to be relieved by my relative’s advice. I still get upset when I think of it. I don’t remember how I responded; I’ve never been mad at my relative for this.

Today I know more about why access to abortion means so much to me. If organized religion is a means of control, outlawing abortion is a means of codifying that control while heaping misery and death on a whole lot of people. It isn’t even about being a woman, not really. If you look at people without wombs and think they can’t understand what being in your body is like, viscerally or politically, then you’re still thinking in terms of gender binarism, and you’re not paying attention to all the wonderful writing out there about being human.

And you know what? If you’re uneasy about the whole debate and think abortion is wrong and evil? Then please make sex education and safe, readily available contraception your causes, because outlawing abortion doesn’t fucking prevent it. Education and contraception, not stupid laws and shame, mean fewer people will have abortion stories. Or maybe their abortion stories will be about support and comfort instead of stark cramping fear, or even about how they never had one.

 

 

* All the literature says you don’t need a general for it, but I had a general, and then excellent painkillers and adequate time off work.

** Because Jo Walton’s Among Others also deeply affected me, I will mention here that I remember everything important by what I was reading or listening to around the event: I was reading Sheri S. Tepper and listening to Enya at the time.

Mar 222013
 

In Boston after numerous train ADVENTURES. First I wandered the horrific maze that is NY Penn Station — you’re never quite sure if the people lying down are homeless/sleeping or the ones who gave up on finding their platform and just lay down to die. Then I had the wrong time in my head, so I went up to the Amtrak counter to pick up my ticket for the 12:35 train. The agent handed me *a* ticket for the 12:35 train instead of informing me that my reservation was for the 2:00 train. None of the people who looked at my ticket noticed that it was in fact the ticket of one Keith Mitchell (and hey, Keith, I’m sorry about whatever inconvenience you went through; it wasn’t my fault). So I rode the wrong train with some other dude’s ticket. Ooops. I still got here and the Boston ticket agent I talked to straightened out my reservation. Yay!

Anyway, now I’m here, gonna go get coffee with A shortly.

Having all sorts of uncomfortable thoughts about how I need to change what I’m doing overall in life. I need to be working and it is increasingly clear that NYC has no work for me. I like it there and don’t want to move. But I also want to move. Being alive is hard.