Pleasures of Reading, 2022
by Ritch Calvin
--It’s really one of the best parts of the job.
Part the First
Another year, another year of prepping to
teach classes. This past semester (Fall 2022), I taught two Feminist Theory
classes. One of the most time-consuming aspects of teaching is the prep work.
Whenever I create a new syllabus, I read three to four times as many works as I
eventually include on the syllabus. For a graduate seminar, that would
typically mean 30-35 essays on the syllabus and 2 or 3 books. That would mean
that I read somewhere between 90 and 140 essays and between 6 and 12 books in
preparation. Narrowing down that list of possible texts is sometimes painful.
And then, of course, I re-read the selected texts in a much more intentional
and directed way when the day of the actual class arrives.
This semester, the course focused on two
interrelated topics: epistemology and linguistics. How exciting is it to read
and catch up on developments in the fields of epistemology and linguistics?
Very.
Regarding epistemology, we included the
foundational thinkers and ideas. We began by discussing Plato’s notion of
“justified true belief” (Theaetetus) and worked our way through René
Descartes’s notion of “cogito ergo sum” (Meditation II). However, we
spent most of the time discussing feminist, BIPOC, queer, and trans
interventions into the field. Early feminist epistemologists, such as Lorraine
Code and Sandra Harding, thought about ways to make epistemology work in less
biased ways, and their interventions made certain re-conceptualizations
possible. Traditional western epistemology constructed the very idea of
knowledge upon a universalized, knowing Subject. And, as you might expect, that
disembodied knowing Subject looked a lot like the men who presupposed him.
Code, in particular, directly challenged that notion by asking “Is the Sex of
the Knower Epistemically Significant?” That question went a long way to
challenge and undermine the assumption of a disembodied, male Subject. What if
the knower is a woman? Does that make a difference regarding truth? What if the
knower is Black? Is queer? Is trans? What difference would these subject
positions, these loci of enunciation, matter?
Sandra Harding (“Feminist Standpoint
Epistemology”) sets out the ways in which knowledge should begin with the lives
of marginalized individuals and could, thereby, create a closer approximation
of the truth. Lanita Jacobs-Huey (“Epistemological Deliberations”) argues that
black women’s hair opens a space to rethink politics of the body and
marginalized knoweldge. Uma Narayan (“The Project of Feminist Epistemology”)
points to the ways in which non-Western subjectivities complicate the knowing
subject, along with the dangers of occupying two different knowledge systems.
Susan Wendell “Feminism, Disability, and the Transcendence of the Body”) begins
with the disabled body and illustrates the ways in which the relationship
between body and mind is complicated by the body in chronic pain. Wendell’s
transcendence is not the same as Descartes’s. K. Q. Hall (“Queer Epistemology
and Epistemic Injustice”) discusses some of the ways in which an epistemology
that begins with queer bodies illustrates the ways in which the knowledge of
queer folx is discounted.
And, yet.
And, yet, recent scholarship has shifted
away from the very idea that knowledge is an individual proposition. I mean,
that’s been the model in the west for a long time, hasn’t it? Each of us, as
individuals, learn about the world. Imagine Mary Shelley’s Monster (Frankenstein),
newly brought to life, wandering around the countryside, making sense of the
world. As he stumbles around, he learns—on his own—the particulars of how the
world and people work. Well, that’s a fiction and not the reality of most
people’s lives. We live among other humans, and we learn and validate knowledge
as a community. It’s a stimulating idea.
Patricia Hill Collins (“Toward an
Afrocentric Epistemology”<https://www.woldww.net/classes/Principles_of_Inquiry/Collins-AfrocFemEpistemology+.htm>)—perhaps not quite deliberately—opens the door for a
non-individual epistemology. Recently, some scholars have argued that the
knowledge that we have is not produced by individuals but by communities.
Everything we know comes from the community (family, neighborhood, town,
country, biology, literary scholarship, LGBTQ activism). What does it mean to
displace the individual from the center?
Regarding linguistics, we also began with
some foundational thinkers and ideas, including Ferdinand de Saussure’s notion
of the separation of signifier and signified (Course in General Linguistics)
and Sapir and Whorf’s notion of linguistic relativity (Language, Thought,
Reality). An underlying idea was that the world existed outside of us, that
a collection of words exist (in any given language) that correspond to that
reality. We, as speakers of language, enter into that system of signs and,
significantly, those words shape the reality we understand the reality that we
see. Writers such as Robin Lakoff (Language and Woman’s Place) and Dale
Spender (Man-Made Language) illuminate some of the ways in which
language contains a bias and how that bias affects women’s lives. They argue
that language was made by men and benefited men. This “man-made language” had
to go. As above, women, BIPOC, queer, and trans writers look for “women’s
language,” “gay and lesbian language,” “bisexual language,” and “trans
language.” They look for the effects of white, cishet patriarchal language, for
authentic selves, and for modes of resistance.
Paul Baker’s (Polari) offers a
history of the “secret language of gay men” in England. Polari, with a long
history, was used by gay men to both signal inclusion in the community and to
remain secret in public. Don Kulik’s (“Gay and Lesbian Language”) catalogues
words and expressions used by gay men and lesbians in the US. Birch
Moonwomon-Baird (“Toward a Theory of Lesbian Speech”) conducts experiments to
determine what ways—if any—lesbian speech differs from non-lesbian speech. Buso
Makoni (“Black Female Scholarship Matters”) points to the ways in which
research and publication about language has been—and remains—white, US
centered.
And, yet. Recent scholarship was shifted
away from “authentic” languages and from top-down models of the control of
language. Instead, much recent work has partaken of “discourse analysis.”
Discourse—that ubiquitous noun that seems to float in the air. While
traditional linguistics focused on the sentence (how is it formed, how is it
parsed, etc.), discourse includes everything “beyond the sentence.” For example,
William Leap (“Queer Linguistics As Critical Discourse”) looks at the ways in
which the discourse about queer folx disrupts our normative notions of gender.
And Lex Konnelly (“Nuance and Normativity in Trans Linguistic Research”)
examines the ways in which trans individuals must linguistically negotiate the
medical professions. They must utilize language carefully in order to be “read”
by doctors and to receive the kinds of affirming care they need.
It’s a brave new world. Women, feminist,
BIPOC, queer, and trans thinkers and writers have really transformed the
theoretical landscape.
Part the Second
Apart from teaching, I also worked on a new
book, a sequel (as it were) to last year’s Queering SF: Readings. For
this new project, I focused on queer SF comics for a book I hope to call
Queering SF Comics: Readings. And, much like with prepping for a class,
prepping for a book entails a lot of reading. But how exciting is it to read
piles of comics for a book project? Very.
The current manuscript contains 45
chapters. In order to write the 45 chapters, I read more than 60 comics—all
published since 2010. Not 60 individual issues of a comic (which run
approximately 24 pages each). No, 60+ full series and/or graphic novels.
Granted, some series consisted of as few as 6 issues. In fact, though, most of
the others were considerably longer—up to as many as 800 pages (thanks, Paper
Girls).
Some of the works that I eliminated from
the final manuscript include Steven Universe (2014-2020), a massive
comic with an important place in the history of queer comics, but it has
already drawn a considerable amount of attention; QU33R (2014) is a
large and lovely anthology, though too little of it was clearly SF or fantasy; Embodied
(2021) is “an intersectional feminist comics poetry anthology, though, again,
it is not consistently SF or fantasy. Highly recommended, though. La
Borinqueña (2016-2020) is a multipart series that is a nice addition to the
superhero trope, but offers only minor queer characters. Pinoy Monster Boyfriend
Anthology (2017) is an independently produced book which also did not
consistently meet the criteria. I also eliminated both Star Wars: Doctor
Aphra (2017-2022) and Shuri: The Search for Black Panther (2019).
For one, I already include a number of Marvel and DC comics. For another, they
are prominent titles, by prominent writers, connected to large franchises. I
suspect they will get attention elsewhere.
In the end I included two from Marvel (Angela:
Asgard’s Assassin and América Chávez: Made in the USA) and two from
DC Comics (Primer and I Am Not Starfire). Three of those works
fit into the larger Marvel and DC universes, and, as such, I find them to be a
bit constrained. Primer is a YA comic and develops a new superhero and
so has a bit more leeway.
Beyond the two major publishers, a number
of second-tier publishers are producing fantastic work. Those publishers
include Black Mask (The Wilds and Kim & Kim), IDW (The
Infinite Loop), Image Comics (ODY-C, SfSx, Crowded, Kaptara,
and Paper Girls), Dark Horse Comics (Killer Queens and
Barbalien: Red Planet), and BOOM! Comics (Joyride and Alienated).
Several non-comic publishers have also
gotten into the game. Feminist Press published Apsara Engine, while
Scholastic published Girl from the Sea. Two subsidiaries, Amulet Books (Pixels
of You) and Little Bee (Always Human) also published YA graphic
novels.
Webcomics continue to flourish. Some (Decrypting
Rita and Inhibit) were webcomics that were published in book form.
The online form of Decrypting Rita make amazing use of online
capabilities. The comic scrolls as one continuous strip. The printed book takes
an elongated form, though it cannot do the webcomic justice. Other comics
remained online (Galanthus, Love Circuits, and Crossed
Wires).
The self-published comic series and graphic
novels include Slice of Life, Contact High, Inhibit, Don’t
Go without Me, and Decrypting Rita. FTL, Y’ll! bears special
mention. It was funded through a Kickstarter campaign. While works funded
through Kickstarter were once dismissed, they are becoming more common and more
accepted. Perhaps most importantly, they have become a way to pay writers and
artists an above-market rate.
I find much to love about these comics. For
one, they are giving space to qfeminist, BIPOC, and queer creators. Whereas
larger publishers long rejected their work, these smaller publishing outlets
provide a much-needed venue. For another, they give space to queer and queer of
color characters. They are no longer relegated to the funny sidekick who,
ultimately, has to sacrifice or to die to allow the protagonist to carry on.
No, they are front and center. They are varied in backgrounds, storylines, and
outcomes. For another still, they give voice to queer storylines. In some cases
(for example, Marvel’s Angela and Far Sector), the comic features
a queer character, but that fact barely figures into the story. Not true in
most of these stories. Finally, what I love the most about them, are the ways
in which they are fundamentally changing the comic industry. They are throwing
down the gauntlet. They are upping the stakes. They are making it impossible
for large publishers—for all publishers—to ignore formerly marginalized
characters and stories.
Part the Third
Just how do these two things cohere? To be
clear, they don’t really need to do so. Nevertheless, I think they do.
(1) Consider epistemology. Feminist, BIPOC,
and queer scholars have argued that different kinds of knowledge, different
kinds of truths are produced via different Subjects. They have argued that the
truth, that our understanding of the world have been too narrowly imagined.
What happens, then, when queer and BIPOC creators offer their stories? What
portions of the world do we now see? What formerly marginalized perspectives
now take center stage? For example, the writers of SfSx (Safe Sex),
offer a storyline shaped by the experiences and knowledge of sex workers. They
see things differently. Similarly, the writers of Barbalien offer a take
on the AIDS crisis, Otherness, and community in (an analog of) San Francisco.
The individual discovers the importance and the wisdom of the community. It is
a powerful paean.
(2) Consider linguistics. Feminist, BIPOC,
and queer scholars have argued that the words we use and the words used about
us make a difference. The teaching comic A Quick and Easy Guide to They/Them
Pronouns offers a tutorial about the history and significance of using
appropriate pronouns. The comic is only tangentially science fiction, though it
does try to imagine a future in which pronouns are no longer an issue but
standard practice. What would that world look like? In Galanthus, the
very young human Farah finds herself on a ship crewed by a range of aliens.
Perhaps because the aliens are all so different from one another, they are
always aware of pronouns. For them, asking for and respecting pronouns is
simply a way of life. On the other hand, in The Pride, the group of
queer superheroes interact with kids on the street. White Trash addresses a
young man’s believe that White Trash cannot be a “faggot” because he kicked the
bad guys’ ass. A lot to unpack there. But the words used matter.
(3) Consider the superhero trope. Imagine
the global politics of 1939. Fascism on the rise. Massive immigration. A
looming world war. Technological developments that pose an existential risk.
(Hmm. Wait, that sounds familiar!) Superman emerges, the one who can restore
democracy, the one who can end the war and save us all. That figure has
persisted ever since, and, unless you’ve been living in an isolated cave with
no wifi, you would know that the superhero figure thrives in 2022. I can’t even
count the number of superhero comics and movies that have been released in the
past decade. (And the day I was writing this, Donald Trump publicly announced
that “America needs a superhero.”)
The queer SF comics also—unsurprisingly—feature
a lot of superheroes. Sometimes that superhero fits the historical model, but
sometimes, they break it. And they break it in interesting ways. In The
Pride, the team of all-queer superheroes must learn to think and work as a
community. Individual actions threaten the team—and by extension the world. In
the future world of Inhibit, superheroes are a common thing. But young
Victor (some interesting ties to Victor Frankenstein here!) is a failed
superhero. He’s warehoused in a school for failures, but those “failures”
include a lot of queer kids who just see things differently. What does it mean
for a queer kid to “fail” at superhero? In Strong Female Protagonist, we
find another reluctant superhero. Alison rejects the very premise. She argues
that superheroes fix nothing. Instead, she argues for larger systemic change.
Which is precisely what our feminist, BIPOC, and queer epistemologists and
linguists have been suggesting.
So, not really “reading for pleasure,”
whatever that means. It was all reading for work, but what a pleasure.
Ritch Calvin (he/him) has published essays in Extrapolation, Femspec,
Science Fiction Film and Television, Science Fiction
Studies, New York Review of Science Fiction, and SFRA
Review. His bibliography of the works of Octavia E. Butler
appeared in Utopian Studies in 2008. His first edited collection, on
Gilmore Girls, appeared in 2007. In 2014, he edited (with Doug Davis,
Karen Hellekson, and Craig Jacobsen) a volume of essays entitled SF
101: An Introduction to Teaching and Studying Science Fiction. In
2016, he published Feminist Epistemology and Feminist Science Fiction:
Four Modes (Palgrave). He has published two volumes with Aqueduct: The Merril Theory of Lit'ry Criticism (edited, 2016) and Queering SF: Readings (2022). He is currently working on volume on short
science fiction film (with Paweł Frelik) and a book on C. J. Cherryh.
He was a juror for the 2014 Philip K. Dick Award and for the 2018
James Tiptree Award (Otherwise). He lives on Long Island. One of his chickens has now decided that she lives inside the house.
