I don’t get it. Y’all tell us that if we want representation so badly, then do it ourselves. But when we do, you whitewash, ignore the fact that they’re actually black because you can’t stand that they don’t look like you, and hate when we tell you to shut up, stop whitewashing, and let us have this one thing that’s not about you.
Every thing I write, every novel, every short story, every joke-filled crackfic that I write on a cabin dare has at least one strong, black, female protagonist. No, I am not always writing myself. No, I do not need to learn to write a different type. I’m actually tired of reading books where the lead doesn’t look like me, or my cousins. People tell me all the time, “If y’all want representation in media, then make it yourself.”
So I do. And I just love it when I write a black, female protagonist who isn’t pregnant, drug-addicted, or any other stereotype and people assume:
- I’m writing myself.
- She’s white.
- She’s unrealistic.
And they get mad when I respond with:
- Nope. Go on somewhere with that nonsense.
- Not everyone is white, and I told you otherwise several times over the course of the story and occasionally multiple times in the chapter. You either have no mastery of reading comprehension, or no clue that ebony is a color, referring to dark brown or black, in reference to the dark wood of the ebony tree (think piano keys). You also probably have no idea what onyx is either. I’d be surprised if you were aware of the existence of anything but pearls and snow. Piss off.
- You’re sheltered and perpetuating stereotypes. Fuck yourself.
And feel the need to say:
- You’re mean.
- YOU HATE WHITE PEOPLE.
- I AM NOT. It’s just how black people USUALLY ARE you bad mean awful person.
And get reoffended when I say:
- I don’t have to be nice to you. Fuck yourself.
- Have you met my fiance? And his brother, whom I offered to allow a large, homophobic racist to come to my house and fight me over? And his parents? Yes, I clearly hate white people. Please choke.
- NOnononoshuttheFUCKup. No one asked you to tell me how black people act. I am one. We have a wide range of personalities. Eat a dick.
Eventually the conversation devolves to:
- You’re still mean. This is why no one likes black people.
- I don’t care! Your protagonist is not white and you called me an idiot and told me to choke! You hate white people! Why do you hate white people? Why are you so mad that no one wants to see you in media? It’s just how things are! You guys have black people TV that doesn’t have us in it and I don’t think that’s fair! I’m underrepresented to as a white cis female!
- You do not. You’re a really bad credit to your race, and I don’t believe you. Why do you people want representation anyway? Why do you need it? It’s not like anyone wants to see you anyway.
And by that point the only thing I feel obligated to tell you is
- Yeah yeah, no one has to be nice to your uncreative ass. Get the fuck out of my space.
- Get the fuck out of my space. Seriously. Out.
- Why are you in my space? Shoo.
So I’m gonna need white people to make up their mind, because y’all are contradictory as fuck, and y’all are predictable, and I’m tired of dealing with y’all’s predictable, contradictory asses.
The Deliverator belongs to an elite order, a hallowed sub-category. He’s got esprit up to here. Right now he is preparing to carry out his third mission of the night. His uniform is black as activated charcoal, filtering the very light out of the air. A bullet will bounce off its arachno-fiber weave like a wren hitting a patio door, but excess perspiration wafts through it like a breeze through a freshly napalmed forest. Where his body has bony extremities, the suit has sintered armorgel: feels like gritty jello, protects like a stack of telephone books.
"She missed it by a fraction. She nearly cut it, but not quite. She went in just right, Case thought. The right attitude; it was something he could sense, something he could have have seen in the posture of another cowboy leaning into a deck, fingers flying across the board. She had it; the thing, the moves, and the she pull it all together for her entrance, pulled it together around the pain of in her leg and marched down 3Jane’s stairs like she owned the place, elbow of her gun arm at her hip, forearm up, wrist relaxed, swaying the muzzle of the fletcher with the studied nonchalance of a Regency duelist. It was a performance. It was like the culmination of a life-time’s observation of martial art tapes, cheap ones, for a few second, he knew, she was every bad-ass hero, Sonny Mao in the old Shaw videos, Mickey Chiba, the whole lineage to lee and Eastwood. She was walking it the way she talked it."
William gibson,neuromancer (via foxhole143)