Con Fail 2016
Jul. 9th, 2016 03:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rynlingHave you ever wondered why pop culture conventions tend to be so male-dominated? Well, let me tell you.
This is a story about the steampunk panel I was invited to chair at a certain DC area pop culture convention a while ago.
So here's the thing – I totally flaked and didn't show up. This isn't quite professional suicide, because my job in no way involves volunteering to speak at pop culture conventions, but it was still a garbage thing to do. I want to try to work out my reasons for why this happened so that I can ensure it doesn't happen again.
This fiasco began when one of the con organizers approached me and asked me if I would be interested in doing a panel on steampunk. As I recall, I told her NO FUCKING WAY, but she was insistent, and in any case she told me she would take care of the details.
I eventually agreed and came up with a panel title, which I sent to her along with a few lines of text to go on the convention program. When she asked her for names of fellow panelists, I gave her the contact info for one of the marketing managers at a local bookstore who organizes public events and knows local authors.
The convention organizer took this information and started doing a ton of recruitment legwork, which ended up resulting in a full panel lineup with me listed as the "moderator." So far so good.
Because I had been helpful on this front, she later asked me for names of potential speakers for a panel on anime. I replied with the contact information of a few people whom I knew of by reputation. Shortly thereafter, several additional people joined the convention staff, panel management became more fragmented, and I stopped getting personalized emails. Since I thought everything was squared away, I didn't really care.
At the beginning of June I flew to Japan, and my life became very busy very quickly. I also started receiving several listserv emails from the con organizers every day, and I didn't have time to read them closely. When I arrived back in the States, I was jetlagged and exhausted, and the con was the farthest thing from my mind.
Two days before the con, however, I woke up to a barrage of emails from panelists, all of whom wanted to know what the hell was going on. There were multiple email threads, so I girded my loins and sent an email to everyone saying that we were good to go, no worries. In the resulting explosion of activity, it became clear that I had somehow been cast as the moderator of the anime panel, whose members were for some reason listed as belonging to the steampunk panel, whose members were in turn listed as belonging to the anime panel. In other words, there were two panels with a complete overlap of panelists, and I was supposed to be the moderator of both.
Once I got this sorted out, the real fun began.
The anime panelists decided that they wanted to take an "East vs. West" approach to science fiction as a genre, and that they wanted to focus on cultural differences. This raised all sorts of red flags for me, so I suggested that we focus on specific works as much as possible so as to avoid the sort of unintentional racism that often stems from overgeneralizations. The panelists, who were already pissed off at me for what they perceived as my mishandling of their panel, were not shy about casting aspersions on my expertise. Oddly enough, it's not that they thought I wasn't an expert, but rather that I was being unfairly elitist.
To make matters worse, two of the anime panelists decided that they did in fact belong on the steampunk panel, which at that point had eight people. One of the steampunk panelists – let's call him "Mister Author" – went ahead and invited them onboard. Mister Author and a man I'm going to call "Mister Anime" then began a rapid-fire email exchange in which they descended into truly dark depths of geekdom. Two of the original steampunk panelists, both women, tried to contribute, but their messages were no match for the dude deluge, and they ended up dropping out of the panel, saying that they felt it was too crowded.
At this point I decided to interject, arguing that, while Mister Author and Mister Anime's ideas were great, there might be a bit too much of an emphasis on the concerns and artistic output of straight white men. I argued that we would be speaking to a broad and diverse audience, and that we needed to be more accessible. They replied that they had already put together a PowerPoint, and that if I wanted to shape the direction of the panel then I should have been more involved from the beginning.
On the morning of the convention, as I read the chain of emails in which the other members of the steampunk panel – all of whom happened to be white men – agreed with them, I was like, "Okay, okay, whatever, fine." Then I read through the email chain for the anime panel, in which the lone female panelist resigned after her suggestions were all vetoed by Mister Anime.
I also accidentally found out on Facebook that the male panelists were being paid and had special biographies printed in the convention program, while of course the female panelists (including myself) were not accorded the same privileges.
The whole thing made me feel physically ill, so I sent an email to both panels saying that I was sick and wouldn't be able to make it. I didn't drive to the venue, I didn't pick up my badge, I didn't attend the con, I didn't get in touch with the organizers to apologize, and that was the end of that. I know that everything would have been okay if I had just put on my adult pants and shown up in person, but I couldn't summon the emotional energy.
What I want to do is to hate men for ruining genre fiction and media fandom by pushing out women, but I know that part of the blame lies with me. I should have done three things:
(1) If I wanted to put together a panel, I should have selected my fellow panelists myself.
(2) I should have immediately abnegated any responsibility I didn't feel comfortable with.
(3) I should have asked to receive compensation, which would have elevated my status in the organizers' eyes and thereby resulted in the extra degree of attention that could have prevented the scheduling mix-up.
I'm saying this as if I'm going to do things differently in the future; but, if I'm honest with myself, I need to admit that there probably isn't going to be a future for me and pop culture conventions. Someone needs to get out there and fight the good fight, but I am sick and tired of trying to be that someone.
This is a story about the steampunk panel I was invited to chair at a certain DC area pop culture convention a while ago.
So here's the thing – I totally flaked and didn't show up. This isn't quite professional suicide, because my job in no way involves volunteering to speak at pop culture conventions, but it was still a garbage thing to do. I want to try to work out my reasons for why this happened so that I can ensure it doesn't happen again.
This fiasco began when one of the con organizers approached me and asked me if I would be interested in doing a panel on steampunk. As I recall, I told her NO FUCKING WAY, but she was insistent, and in any case she told me she would take care of the details.
I eventually agreed and came up with a panel title, which I sent to her along with a few lines of text to go on the convention program. When she asked her for names of fellow panelists, I gave her the contact info for one of the marketing managers at a local bookstore who organizes public events and knows local authors.
The convention organizer took this information and started doing a ton of recruitment legwork, which ended up resulting in a full panel lineup with me listed as the "moderator." So far so good.
Because I had been helpful on this front, she later asked me for names of potential speakers for a panel on anime. I replied with the contact information of a few people whom I knew of by reputation. Shortly thereafter, several additional people joined the convention staff, panel management became more fragmented, and I stopped getting personalized emails. Since I thought everything was squared away, I didn't really care.
At the beginning of June I flew to Japan, and my life became very busy very quickly. I also started receiving several listserv emails from the con organizers every day, and I didn't have time to read them closely. When I arrived back in the States, I was jetlagged and exhausted, and the con was the farthest thing from my mind.
Two days before the con, however, I woke up to a barrage of emails from panelists, all of whom wanted to know what the hell was going on. There were multiple email threads, so I girded my loins and sent an email to everyone saying that we were good to go, no worries. In the resulting explosion of activity, it became clear that I had somehow been cast as the moderator of the anime panel, whose members were for some reason listed as belonging to the steampunk panel, whose members were in turn listed as belonging to the anime panel. In other words, there were two panels with a complete overlap of panelists, and I was supposed to be the moderator of both.
Once I got this sorted out, the real fun began.
The anime panelists decided that they wanted to take an "East vs. West" approach to science fiction as a genre, and that they wanted to focus on cultural differences. This raised all sorts of red flags for me, so I suggested that we focus on specific works as much as possible so as to avoid the sort of unintentional racism that often stems from overgeneralizations. The panelists, who were already pissed off at me for what they perceived as my mishandling of their panel, were not shy about casting aspersions on my expertise. Oddly enough, it's not that they thought I wasn't an expert, but rather that I was being unfairly elitist.
To make matters worse, two of the anime panelists decided that they did in fact belong on the steampunk panel, which at that point had eight people. One of the steampunk panelists – let's call him "Mister Author" – went ahead and invited them onboard. Mister Author and a man I'm going to call "Mister Anime" then began a rapid-fire email exchange in which they descended into truly dark depths of geekdom. Two of the original steampunk panelists, both women, tried to contribute, but their messages were no match for the dude deluge, and they ended up dropping out of the panel, saying that they felt it was too crowded.
At this point I decided to interject, arguing that, while Mister Author and Mister Anime's ideas were great, there might be a bit too much of an emphasis on the concerns and artistic output of straight white men. I argued that we would be speaking to a broad and diverse audience, and that we needed to be more accessible. They replied that they had already put together a PowerPoint, and that if I wanted to shape the direction of the panel then I should have been more involved from the beginning.
On the morning of the convention, as I read the chain of emails in which the other members of the steampunk panel – all of whom happened to be white men – agreed with them, I was like, "Okay, okay, whatever, fine." Then I read through the email chain for the anime panel, in which the lone female panelist resigned after her suggestions were all vetoed by Mister Anime.
I also accidentally found out on Facebook that the male panelists were being paid and had special biographies printed in the convention program, while of course the female panelists (including myself) were not accorded the same privileges.
The whole thing made me feel physically ill, so I sent an email to both panels saying that I was sick and wouldn't be able to make it. I didn't drive to the venue, I didn't pick up my badge, I didn't attend the con, I didn't get in touch with the organizers to apologize, and that was the end of that. I know that everything would have been okay if I had just put on my adult pants and shown up in person, but I couldn't summon the emotional energy.
What I want to do is to hate men for ruining genre fiction and media fandom by pushing out women, but I know that part of the blame lies with me. I should have done three things:
(1) If I wanted to put together a panel, I should have selected my fellow panelists myself.
(2) I should have immediately abnegated any responsibility I didn't feel comfortable with.
(3) I should have asked to receive compensation, which would have elevated my status in the organizers' eyes and thereby resulted in the extra degree of attention that could have prevented the scheduling mix-up.
I'm saying this as if I'm going to do things differently in the future; but, if I'm honest with myself, I need to admit that there probably isn't going to be a future for me and pop culture conventions. Someone needs to get out there and fight the good fight, but I am sick and tired of trying to be that someone.
no subject
Date: 2016-07-09 09:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-07-10 05:35 am (UTC)Really, if the con cannot give you fair credit and compensation while doing so for others, I don't see the point in counting your remaining fucks.
Sorry you got dragged into this.