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.
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