Posted on by Eileen Young · 1 Comment

Cowardice is a sin

When I say this, I’m fully aware that I sound like someone who should clank when I walk and have strong opinions about chivalry. But I mean it in both a broader and more specific context.

And sin, young man, is when you treat people like things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.

Granny Weatherwax, of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld (drawn right by Paul Kidby)

Terry Pratchett had a huge influence on me. Particularly as regards militant decency, the decision to do the right thing consistently and powered by rage. So when I speak of cowardice, I mean moral cowardice. Risk assessment resulting in avoiding physical danger and injury are actually pretty great. But moral cowardice, and deciding that the principles that you hold dear are negotiable and unimportant? That is a betrayal of self. And, to bring it back to Terry Pratchett and Granny Weatherwax, treating yourself as a thing with no moral agency.

That sounds very high-minded, doesn’t it? And also wildly impractical and irrelevant to the real world. But on the contrary: I think it’s relevant pretty often, depending what your principles are. There is a vegan in my knitting group who made their choice on animal welfare grounds. As such, it extends not just to their diet but to choices of materials – like their enthusiasm about a local yarn store now carrying blends containing Ahimsa silk.

For me, it would be downright stupid to work somewhere that campaigned against LGBTQIA+ individuals. I mean, they probably wouldn’t hire me, but part of being good at my job resulting in my life getting worse? Ridiculous. So that’s a non-issue. Where this principle becomes relevant is that I would consider it an act of cowardice to work somewhere where I was strongly encouraged (regardless of the organization’s actual mission) to never mention anything regarding LGBTQIA+ issues or felt like I could not safely bring my whole self to work. I’m not generally particularly flamboyant, but being in an environment where I wouldn’t feel comfortable making a Subaru joke would mean I was self-censoring, editing, chiseling myself down like a thing rather than a person.

Cowardice is a sin. Sacrificing portions of your self and values on the altar of palatability and lack of friction is, to me, unambiguously negative. I also think it’s unlikely to work long-term, and that the stress and misery of that is the wages of sin.

Not everyone has such clearcut priorities and principles in such easily identifiable places, but I think it is and always will be worthwhile to identify what your principles are and where they come to bear in your life.

I also don’t think being deeply and entirely convinced that cowardice is a sin is a hard and fast barrier to committing it; I am aware of my limitations and priorities. At this point in my job search I’d happily commit a few sins for a steady paycheck.

But I wouldn’t let myself pretend that they weren’t sins.

Posted on by Eileen Young · 1 Comment

Man on a horse

One of the things I said I’d do when discussing setting up the Judge My Apocalypse package was review books with an eye to disasters. As it happens, this isn’t a review of the books themselves so much as how they interact with a particular disaster myth: the man on the horse.

The man on the horse is the tendency to point to one person as solving a problem or heading a response, someone who stands out (as if on a horse). The reality of most disasters – of most problems – is that there are a ton of people working hard and in concert in order to fix things. There’s a lot of literature about it, and about the ways communities come together, and how the act of communities coming together is in itself powerful.

But right here and now I’m less interested in the academic literature than the fantasy novels. So, the books: Captive to the Shadow Prince by Mallory Dunlin, Paladin’s Grace by T. Kingfisher, and The Hands of the Emperor by Victoria Goddard. What they have most in common is that I was re-reading all of them recently, and re-reading offers a chance for thinking about books differently.

I was specifically re-reading Captive to look at how the magic apocalypse is handled, because I enjoy Dunlin’s books and wanted to revisit the exact parameters of why my brain doesn’t screech about sociological factors in disasters. It turns out it’s because the focus is almost entirely on the perspective characters and very high-level plans, and people at large are shown acting sensibly (getting treated by healers, evacuating from blast areas to nearby houses, not approaching seven foot monsters) but very briefly before we narrow back in on our main characters.

But because I was re-reading Captive at the same time as listening to the audiobook of Paladin’s Grace as this weekend’s accompaniment to crafting, I found myself thinking about scope and scale of action. The main characters of Captive are both cause and cure for their magic apocalypse: their abilities and positions make them pivotal to the whole shape of their world. As the seven foot monster on scene, the main male character of Captive doesn’t even need a horse to stand out. Of course main characters are main because they do make a difference in their world, and all three books I’m discussing here the main characters make positive changes in the world through expertise, ability, and love, but the way they interact with the world is different.

One of the things that drove this post is that the main male character of Paladin’s Grace is very clear on the fact that he used to be infantry before becoming a paladin: no horse for him. And, indeed, as part of the narrative he does help solve problems but as part of a superstructure wherein he answers to a bishop and frequently dismisses his own contributions to the world as being good at hitting things, carrying heavy things, and knitting socks. Even then: his world may still be full of terrors, but the people he loves will have warm feet.

The Hands of the Emperor I am re-reading because I recently recommended it to a friend and wanted to both be able to discuss it better and be inspired again in my search for work. In some ways the main character does end up as a man on a horse, because he ends up head of a world government. But it’s a story about – well, friendship and homecoming and culture, but most importantly public administration. The small incremental and deliberate policy changes that can contribute to a sweepingly better world. The fact that the first time I read it (while at the Biden School for Public Policy and Administration) I read through the night and was crying about public administration at 6am probably says a great deal about me as a person.

To the books as a collective, though. One of the things I most love about speculative fiction in general is that it lets us set a baseline for a world as it could be. One of the things I love about this particular trio of books is that it sets such different baselines for how we can make a difference in the world. The clean dramatic sweep of magically reshaping the world and the quiet stand for decency; the divinely-inspired monarchs and the public servant who dismantled the trappings of empire one piece of legislation at a time; the shining palaces and the pink socks. In their contexts, they’re all valued.

That variety is what I think I appreciate most. Real life doesn’t offer heroes very often, much less the opportunity to be the man on a horse. So I like books that offer the heroes – and also the quieter and more familiar heroes, who do their best to improve the world with the tools at their disposal. And I appreciate the authors who show that the world can be improved.

Posted on by Eileen Young

On books and callout culture

One interesting thing to me about purity culture on tumblr- I know the impulse has been there for a lot of us as we grow, for something that is simple and clearly delineated and clean. But the idea of crusading for that in fandom spaces is baffling to me (oh, I know it’s because it’s where people can feel heard and feel like they have control, but still) because to me fiction is inherently going to be problematic, and that’s what makes it interesting.

Fiction has been shown to improve empathy. But if the fiction you’re used to consuming tends overwhelmingly to portray things in one way and to not challenge empathy – if it’s a series of neverending unproblematic AUs where everyone is Super Woke and never challenged by the behavior of people they hold dear – does that still hold true? It doesn’t challenge a paradigm.

When I was a kid, I read dealing with panic attacks: the series (in Italian, once, because the library was out of English and French), God is dead (with hella underage sex), war crimes with children: series 1, war crimes with children: series 2, child slavery and business ethics, and this is why we have the FDA, amongst many others. I grew up reading books with age gaps and neglect and abuse. The things I read were frequently upsetting, and challenging, and there was no one to really complain to even if I’d been so inclined because they already existed in indelible physical form and no one had forced me to read them. I just kind of accepted that bad things would happen and people grew through overcoming them. I think that was good for me. I know that what I read encouraged my to be significantly more empathetic than I would have been otherwise.

I don’t want to be one of those people who says ‘fiction was better in my day.’ Because there’s so much diverse, amazing literature being produced these days. I think maybe what I want to say is that, next time you get the impulse to tell the author of a fanwork that they’re disgusting for writing something uncomfortable to you, maybe go read something from a banned books list instead.