Why am I here?
This entry has not been saved for reasons unknown. I wrote it on Sunday at Worldcon after having come across a anti-German piece of nasty the previous night. It left me so livid that I was not able to function until I got on-line on a precious 15 minute slot where I typed this all down without editing on an awkward keyboard until the internet guy told me time was up. It was like a verbal haemorrhage. After this, I could re-join and enjoy the rest of the con, reviews of which will follow shortly.
I am glad that I never found out this entry did not post until I got back home!
I missed all the panels this morning. My favourite author’s take on the singularity. My workshop on worldbuilding. My last chance to see the artshow—the originals for the covers of some of my favourite books.
None of this matters any more.
Yesterdays glittering costume show, forgotten. A ballroom full of books both hot of the press from the States and hitherto unseen editions of cherished classics remain unbrowsed. I thought I should not even bother to go on this day, so why am I here? Free internet access, that’s why. My only way to vent my anger. In fact it’s not even anger, I suppose that comes later.
For now I just hurt. I ask myself what am I doing here? Not at the convention although that might be a reasonable question (wellcome into the company of 5000 mad people!). No, what am I doing in this country.? Why did I not stay where I came from? What made me travel, attend university, get married abroad? Racism makes you question your very existence. Of course racism doesn’t happen to white people and people from Germany deserve all they get. For almost twenty years I have laughed at Fawlty Towers until my sides split. Germans don’t actually come out too badly of the episode but we remain the butt of the joke. For twenty years. Funnily, none of the (many) Spanish attendees have to endure any waiter jokes. But I do and did, for nearly two decades.
But I did not expect it to happen here. Not at a science fiction convention. Not from people who write about green aliens with exoskeletons, invent languages for their fantasy thugs, build whole societies, re-write history. Not from my best friends or, hell, family.
Take me home, wherever home is supposed to be. I don’t want to play any more.
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