I have long struggled with my addiction to Twitter. I gave it up for Lent, then was right back on the thing as soon as it was "allowed" again. I spend approximately two minutes (not exaggerating) a day on Facebook and multiple hours--spread throughout the day--on the bird-platform. I've talked about it before, so I don't need to rehash old statements. The long and the short of it (#shakespeareiseverywhere) is that I prefer that social media to the Book of Faces.
One of the reasons that I like Twitter so much is that it gives me a chance to read from a lot of unexpected sources and get insights into what a lot of people are talking about. I've purged my follow list a couple of times, trying each time to focus more on what I really want out of the platform: Information regarding agents, writers, and goings-on in the world of my interests (teaching and publication and comic books and video games and Shakespeare and…and…). I do a poor- to fair job parsing down the accounts, then tend to accumulate more and more until I need to winnow again. It seems that time is upon me again. What's happening is kind of inside baseball (to use a phrase I know exists but doesn't make any sense to me), but the basic thrust is this: Comic book and book publishing are getting their turns in the sunlight, and it isn't a pretty sight. I don't buy a lot of comics these days--I don't buy a lot of anything, thanks to Ms. Rona--so I don't know exactly who's doing what and how they're abusing their power. However, this site helps put a finger on the reckoning that's going on. It isn't just comic books, either: The reason that I even found the aforelinked website is because a writer named Myke Cole and his friend (and fellow writer) Sam Sykes both are dealing with allegations of misconduct and abuse. I say allegations, but Myke Cole, during the heat of the #MeToo movement, wrote about it in February 2018--and it seems like he hadn't changed his attitudes or behaviors. I don't know the details of the newest stuff, but both he and Sam Sykes have been called out as perpetrators of sexual harassment. I own one book each from the two men, though I've never read them. (I'm a fan of ebooks in principle, though I tend to prefer non-fiction on my ereader, and since both of the purchases were electronic, well…) Their main interest to me was watching them banter across the internet in some decidedly hilarious interactions. Cole had a lot of worthwhile things to say about the recent protests, about how white supremacy usurps and twists historical concepts to serve their purposes, and the need for police defunding and abolition. Sykes had a number of insightful threads about the creative and writing process, and he was a great amplifier for artists whose work he liked. As far as I knew, they were just normal creatives on Twitter with books for sale. I guess I was right: They were "normal". And that's the problem. It's not hard (like, really not hard at all) to recognize that all people deserve to be treated as human, that their consent and preferences be taken into account when interacting with them, and that they should never be made to feel uncomfortable or unsafe. Women in particular (and by that, of course, I include transwomen--because they're women, obvs--and non-binary people who rely on female designations for whatever reason) are human beings with equal rights, boundaries, and personal agency. Yet women in particular end up becoming targets of sexual harassment (and worse) far too often. Men, too, are put into compromised positions by others in power. It is an abhorrent reality that too many people face. The #MeToo movement helped show us how pervasive sexual misconduct (to put a too-polite word on the behavior) is within American society. Misogyny in any form ought to be anathema to, well, everyone. It has no place in our world. …except that it's here. It doesn't deserve to be here. It's like the divine right of kings: At best a relic of an antiquated age that needs no renaissance, at worst a tool that some may seek to remain in power for whatever personal gain they hope to achieve. (And lest you think that there aren't a lot of people who wish for a king in America, you perhaps haven't been paying attention to the loudest and most ardent followers of President Trump.) Misogyny (and its less-frequently seen sibling, misandry) shouldn't be in the world, yet it is. And we have to do something about it. No cancer is cured without intervention; no malady of humankind will go away without confrontation. There are lots of complexities in this issue, but the part that is most salient, I think, is a recognition of power. As cis-het White males who've been published, both Cole and Sykes are in positions that create a power imbalance. Power imbalances are inherent in our system--parent/child, teacher/student, politician/voter (in theory), employer/employee--and the differences in power positions is the area in which abuses are most likely to occur. The idea that an abuser can do heinous things and get away with it is one of the ways that these power imbalances become more and more entrenched. In the case of two published and visible (comparatively) writers, there's an additional power dynamic that a non-writer may not immediately see: Envy. I can't speak for other creative enterprises (though I imagine it's pretty similar), but in the writing community, aspiring writers are the most vocal and eager component of a fanbase. Book signings are often scenes of long lines of would-be writers hoping to get a bit of the signee's luck to rub off on them. The reason is pretty simple: It is extremely hard to break into writing. It's even harder to make a career out of it. And it's next to impossible to gain a wide readership. The competition is omnipresent and fierce. Going to a writer's conference is going into a place where the air has been replaced with desperation. Aspirants are desperate to learn something that will get them on the other side of the panel--to have "made it" and to be the one dispensing advice rather than writing it down. Published authors are desperate to keep their success going--to shill their books to the attendees and hope that the can earn out sometime in the near future. Editors are desperate to find someone whose work will provide a stable residual income for them; agents are desperate to strike a partnership with someone whose writing they love. Despite the fact that everyone is desperate, there are different degrees here. Power is strongest in the editors. They tend to be the ones acquiring the new talent, going to bat for the new books and new authors. This means that the editors have additional leverage over people who are desperate, and that increased power can far too often translate into heinous abuses. (A non-writing example would have to be Harvey Weinstein, who doesn't need any more thought spared to him.) Though neither Cole nor Sykes is an editor, they're both guys who "made it". They're one step closer to the dream. That means that people who might not normally accept an off-color or sexually suggestive remark will give a partial laugh and half-smile when it comes from an author that they like, or an agent they're thinking of querying. Richard Paul Evens learned the hard way that giving an unsolicited hug to fans can cross a line he didn't realize was there--and he did it, as the article says, probably "thousands of times". Were there thousands of victims? No. But there were some, and they were victimized because of the power imbalance. (Another example of this, though its effects are more diffuse: J.K. Rowling, despite having a lot of progressive concepts and values in her books, is a TERF, and she's recently come under fire for comments that dismiss transwomen. In this case, her power is less personal--she has an immense influence in the writing world, despite the fact that she isn't writing nearly as much as she has in the past--and it has turned into a flashpoint for a number of fans. So while you couldn't say that a specific person is harmed by Rowling's statements in the same way that the victims of Cole's or Sykes' behavior have been, there's still a kind of abuse that's happening here.) The results of these allegations have come rapidly. Cole has removed himself from Twitter for the foreseeable future; Sykes is insisting that victims continue to speak out. Everyone responds to this situation in slightly different ways. In my case, I remain in an uncomfortable crux that I've been in for many years now: What to do with the fact that human beings are behind so many of the things that I love. This isn't to dismiss the negative things that come from the embedded misogyny and racism that has built the world I live in. Being human means making mistakes, of course, but that doesn't mean that success should be deprived you because of those mistakes--but neither does it mean that second (or third or tenth) chances should be afforded, either. In some cases, it's a matter of reception. Milton and Shakespeare are near and dear to my heart and they're also emblematic of the Dead White Male that dominates the English departments. Eve in Paradise Lost moves between shockingly original and disappointingly dismissed. Kate in The Taming of the Shrew is a portrait of Stockholm Syndrome and one of the great tragedies in the canon, despite being a comedy. How can I maintain my feminist credentials, as it were, when embracing these two anti-women writers? Neither Milton nor Shakespeare can be "cancelled"--their presence in the world of letters is settled, at least during my lifetime. Their works are crucial to our modern identities, regardless of whether or not we recognize it. And I can't very well stop buying Milton or Shakespeare--they aren't getting royalties, and voting with my wallet will do nothing to their reputation. If economics is the barometer, the Bard and the prophet-bard are safe from reprisal. But what about Rowling, Cole, Sykes, or any other number of "problematic" authors who've done/said something that shows a sinister side to them that I can't agree with? My dollars will support Orson Scott Card if I buy his book, which means that I continue to empower a known- and proud homophobe. Is buying another round of butterbeer at Universal Studios only prolonging how long Rowling will be visible, pertinent, and capable of spreading her misconceptions about women? Now that I've purchased their books, is my continued non-reading of Cole and Sykes a way of boycotting them? And how is that different than the fact that I haven't gotten around to reading their books in the first place? These kinds of questions have been on my mind, as I said before, for years. And while I may have given examples that don't resonate with you. Maybe there are other views that these people espouse that you fundamentally disagree with--like Cole's calls to abolish the police. So you're okay with seeing his career end (will it, though?) or go on an unexpected and prolonged hiatus. You now will no longer buy books from a guy you weren't planning on buying from anyway. Have you done something to him? A creative's life is one of perpetual rejection (most of it's hidden, as authors don't stalk bookstores and feel personally offended when every patron who walked past her book on the aisle leaves without even picking up the book), so are you doing anything by boycotting his books? People talk about voting with their wallets all of the time--I used the phrase myself in the course of this essay--but I don't think it's quite as clear cut as we'd like to assume. After all, you may be able to buy a book from Rowling or Card or Sykes or Cole, but you could just as easily buy a book from Okorafor or Kuang or Chu or Kowal. All of these authors write in the same science fiction/fantasy genre, so why not pick one of these "less problematic" writers? Except you can't go to Hogwarts with Kuang and Okorfor's version of Ender is a Black girl named Binti, and does Kowal have as much fantasy violence in her books? In other words, you normally can't read one person's book and get the same story from a different author. So if Hogwarts means something important to me, something crucial, then I can't just go anywhere else. See? It's complicated… Or maybe it isn't. What's the difference between writers anyway? If you don't like one person's story, buy someone else's. Write your own books (which only makes sense to anyone who's never tried to write a book before). Don't do research into the humans who make your art. Don't expect them to abide by your own morals. Only buy from those who share your morals. Only retread what you've seen before, keeping your diet safe and vanilla, hypoallergenic and without surprises. Refrain from interpreting, interpolating, or interrogating the books you read--it's just fiction, it's just a story. No need to put anything else into it. I don't know how to square this circle. I bring it up from time to time in an attempt to get my feelings figured out, but it always slips free. I don't want to support people who've done harmful things. I don't want to give a pass to creators whose content I like simply because I like what they've made. I also have to acknowledge that someone has a problem with everything that I like for a whole host of reasons, so I have to understand what my own lines in the sand are…and what that says about me. Lastly, what this whole sordid tale exposes to me is the reality that I, too, have made mistakes. Never have I knowingly acted in a way that was intended to be inappropriate or harassing, sexually or otherwise. But that doesn't mean that I haven't been the reason someone felt unsafe or that I had ulterior motives in what I said or did. I know that there have been times--I can think of a couple--where brave women told me that what I was doing was making them uncomfortable. I immediately apologized and changed my behavior and that was the end of it. How many times have I inadvertently "shot mine arrow o'er the house, / And hurt my brother" (Hamlet 5.2) or sister? Lots of questions, I fear. And, as it happens so often for me, precious few answers. My Winterim class' study of Harry Potter involved heading down to Los Angeles and visiting the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Universal Studios Hollywood. I wanted to document a few of my memories here--albeit quickly. Thanks for your indulgence. Day 1 We met at the school at seven in the morning, loaded up twenty kids and six chaperones into four vans, and headed south. I'd broken the trip into four segments, arranging it in such a way that I could lead a discussion in each car with each group of kids. We discussed a couple of portions of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. The conversations were pretty similar--done on purpose, as I wanted to give them all the 'same' lesson, inasmuch as was possible--but they were good. I liked them, at least. We arrived at our Air BnB in good time--very few delays, even within the thorny California traffic--unpacked the cars, and made some spaghetti dinner. The students entertained themselves with Disney Plus' The Simpsons and chatted and relaxed. We even got to bed at a decent time, with only needing three forceful reminders from me to be quiet when it was time to go to bed (which was only required the one time). Day 2 After arising and breakfasting, we went down to Sunset Beach, which was essentially empty. The students played in the sand and surf--very cold surf, as it was only in the mid-sixties--until it was time to have another class. We discussed Lupin from Prisoner of Azkaban, as well as exploring some of the fears that we have (in relation to the Dementors and the Patronus Charm). Though having the beach pretty much to ourselves was nice, the sun and the lack of facilities forced us south to Huntington Beach where we had another hour or so of class, plus some wandering around time. It was here that we, again, lost a student in the bathroom. (By 'again', I'm referencing the time when, in Cambridge, England, a student went to the loo without anyone knowing and, as a result, was left there for an hour and a half before we realized what had happened and found her. Yeah. Good times.) The kid had gone into a bathroom to change without telling anyone that he needed extra time. So Gayle and I found him just as he exited the stall, oblivious to the fact that the group had moved on. After that, I assigned four kids to be the Head Boy and Girls of their respective houses, tasking them with the responsibility to do a head count so that we could avoid that happening again. Once finished with the beach, we returned to the cars and drove home. There, we continued the classwork that we still needed to do, then piled back into the cars to go to Downtown Disney, which was only about ten minutes from the house. The problem was, the parking at Downtown Disney was exorbitant. In the end, we decided that we would drop off the students and a couple of chaperones, then drive the vans back to the house. From there, we ordered an Uber, which got us back to the park for, maybe, six bucks. We tried to enjoy the Downtown Disney vibe, but one of the students brought a harmonica, which prevented him from getting in (they didn't want him busking, I think). Rather than sitting and waiting for us to come take care of it, he wandered away--as if that makes any sense--which required additional work on our part. I wasn't particularly happy with that decision of his. Still, we eventually all made it through security. The kids were let loose--on the precept of the buddy system--to look at what was there. (Part of our Winterim is to study marketing; what better place to see it done than at the park of the masters of all marketing, Disney?) Gayle and I enjoyed a churro together--it's one of her favorite treats--and looked at some of the merchandise. I noticed that, last time I was there, I had been on the lookout for something that I actually wanted to buy. I ended up getting a metal model kit for Cinderella's castle, mostly because I like castles. (It sits on my bookshelf now--though I almost never remember that it's a Disney landmark.) Suffice to say that Disney is not a key component of my childhood. I mean, it's fun--Disneyland is great and I like going there--but there's little about the Mouse that makes me truly excited. Being in Downtown Disney that night, without having been in the park at all, made me feel even less inclined to pay any amount to anyone for anything (churros excepted). Without the brainwashing of being in the park, my interest in the merchandise was basically non-existent. We hired another Uber to get us back to our vans, then returned to Downtown Disney to pick up the students. Once home, we had a nice dinner. For the most part, my wife cooked the food with a student or two to help while I organized the shower schedule and kept students rotating through. (With only two bathrooms in the house, it required a lot of discipline to ensure that everyone had time to bathe.) After dinner, we had one of the houses--yes, I broke up the twenty students into the four Hogwarts houses--help on the cleanup. Day 3 This was an early day, as we wanted to make sure that our tickets worked and we could get into the park. To that end, we left the house in Anaheim at 8am. Los Angeles traffic conspired against us, and we didn't get to the theme park until 9:30am. Then we struggled with figuring out parking--we wanted to park at the Metro station nearby and just walk to the park, but there were signs prohibiting that. While that probably wouldn't have mattered, I happened to pull into a stall that was within eyesight of an attendant. Since there wasn't any other option, I decided to fork over the $28 to park in the parking lot. Still, despite these hiccups, we were able to get everyone through security, get some pictures, and head into the park. We decided to meet at the Three Broomsticks for lunch, then everyone went whichever way they wanted. Gayle and I decided to start at the Wizarding World, since that was our entire purpose in being there. We had our robes on and everything--why wouldn't we head straight there? Because it's January, the weather was quite cool--and, indeed, by the end of the day, was feeling downright cold--but it also meant that the park was not well attended. Gayle and I stood in line for the Flight of the Hippogriff ride, which took seven or eight minutes to get to the front of. (Probably a bit too long of a wait for a ride that short, but that's okay.) Then we and a couple of students went into the reason we were there: Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey. We walked at a steady pace through the Hogwarts queue, enjoying the recreations of the different statues described in the books and seen in the movies, looking at sundry props and listening to the talking portraits. Maybe five minutes later, we were on the ride. Gayle and I have been on the ride before--we went to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Universal Studios Orlando a few years ago--but that didn't change how exciting it was to be on it again. I've grown a lot as a person and as a reader since then, and I have a different relationship with Rowling's world now. Getting to "be there" to such an immersive extent was really enjoyable. Slightly shaken about, we then wandered through Hogsmeade and enjoyed the different shops' sundry charms (while suffering the mild panic attacks set on by the prices of everything). We swung out of Hogsmeade long enough to watch the Kung Fu Panda attraction, which was like watching a video game in a rumbly seat…we didn't go back. By then, it was almost time for lunch, so Gayle and I hung out at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade until it was time to eat. Because of how the trip was supposed to go, we had to figure out a way for the students to be able to enjoy the food there without them all cracking open their wallets. In the end, we bought four Great Feasts (large meals with ribs, chicken, corn, potatoes, and vegetables) and thus fed the kids. When we were done, we headed onto the Universal Studios tour, which took a solid hour or so. It was really cool to see some of these sets for films I'd seen--and a bunch for movies I'd never even heard of. The entire experience was enjoyable--especially when we saw some of the dinosaurs from Jurassic Park. Since the Jurassic World ride was closed that day (and the next, as it happened), this helped scratch the dinosaur itch. With that done, Gayle and I explored the lower lot of the park, descending the escalators until we got to the Jurassic World attraction. We arrived just as the velociraptor, Blue, came out for pictures. We watched as it made its angry noises, clacked its mighty jaws, and terrorized some of the smaller guests. Gayle and I got in line and got a few pictures with the creature. We then went on the Mummy ride and the Transformers ride, both of which are close to the Jurassic World section. That essentially finished off our first day in the park. Of course, we still had a commute to contend with. The distance from our house to the park was just over 30 miles, but it still took almost two hours to get back, since the traffic was so bad. Fortunately, we made it with little damage, though I'll admit that the car was pretty quiet--almost everyone was dozing after having gone through such a long day. We got home, made some tacos, fed everyone, did our shower routine, and called a lights out. Most kids, I'd guess, were asleep within a few minutes. Day 4 Originally, we thought that this day would be like day 2: classes on the beach, maybe something fun in the evening. However, through a good deal on the tickets, we actually had a total of three days' access to the park. So, since we couldn't afford lunch for all three days--it wasn't in the budget--we decided to hold class in the morning. Students could then eat the lunch provided by the school or, if they wanted, wait until we arrived at the park. The commute, being in the middle of the day, was much shorter. We dropped off the students (buddy system!) at the Universal City Walk drop off point, then I parked the car in the metro station as before. With my other drivers, we headed to the shuttle that took us up the hill and into the park. Meeting up with Gayle, she and I made sure the students were set before heading into the park ourselves. We decided to take in the shows, watching the Special Effects show and the Water World stunt show before returning to Hogsmeade and browsing the shops. We had to find some souvenirs for our kids, so we passed some pleasant time that way. We also ate lunch at Three Broomsticks again, this time ordering a butterbeer to go along with the shepherd's pie. We went on the Forbidden Journey again (why wouldn't we?), then took in a couple of the rides we'd missed from before--the Simpsons and the Despicable Me rides (which were the same and not particularly noteworthy; the Simpsons ride, strangely enough, was always the one with the longest queue--sometimes as long as 45 minutes--which I can't understand; it's not that good of a ride). We ended our evening by watching the Animal Actors show, which we enjoyed. By then it was getting late and quite cold, so I used a Starbucks gift card a student had given me for Christmas to buy us some hot chocolate. The return trip was long and fairly uneventful, though we did see the remnants of one of the wrecks--a compact car had gone under a pickup truck, with the truck's bumper all the way to the windshield of the car--and we got home safely. We had breakfast for dinner, and as the evening was winding down, one of the students said she was going to jump into the icy cold pool. After all, we'd brought our swimming suits: Why not use them? It was a moment of decision for me: I could indulge them, let them do the dumb thing, and roll my eyes at them; I could forbid them, dropping the disciplinary hammer on them; or I could join in. I decided to do the last one, in part because my purpose in the trip was to find ways to give them memorable, important experiences. What better way than to leap into the icy pool with them? There were probably eight or so of us lined around the pool. I told my coteacher to count us off, then, at three, we all leaped in. The temperature outside was, I would guess, in the high forties--the water was not so warm, methinks. I immediately set out for the side of the pool, shrieking that I'd made a huge mistake. To my surprise, my coteacher--who was not in her swimming suit--was in the water, too: She had jumped in when she'd shouted three, having taken off her shoes and set aside her phone. Other than that, she was in her clothes that she'd been wearing all day. We climbed out--I set about trying to hug Gayle with my wet body--and spent a good portion of time shivering. After an hour or so of getting the showers taken care of, we turned in for the night. Day 5 As part of our final day in the park, we arranged to get--as much as possible--the students in the park for the maximum amount of time. We left early, though we still arrived a half our after the park opened. Dropping the kids off, Gayle and I went to park in the Metro station, only to have the kiosk refuse to register our cars. We decided that it was the sort of thing that we'd have to figure out later, so we went ahead and took the shuttle to the park. Since the Jurassic World attraction was now open, Gayle, my coteacher, her parents, and I went straight there. The queue waiting time said ten minutes, but we essentially walked on, our plastic ponchos covering our Hogwarts robes. We got fairly wet the first time through, but I demanded on going again. And again. Three times in a row--each one as easy to get on as the first. The second experience was the most unexpected: At the end of the ride, the T. rex lunges out of a dark recess, roars at the tourists, then the boat goes down a steep hill, landing with a splash. Well, something must have happened with the boats at the dock, because though Rexy came out and roared at us, we didn't move forward. The dinosaur did her thing, then ducked her head and retreated, no longer interested in us. We sat, waiting to go down. At last, we moved forward and it plunged us down the hill. We immediately turned to the Mummy ride, which we were able to walk onto straight from the queue. That's always a fun ride, I think, though they have changed it a lot since I last was on it: In the past, they had more Brendan Fraiser doing his thing…this one did not. And this is, I think, one of the real problems that both Universal Studios and California Adventure have to deal with: They aren't timeless/classic properties. Sure, Transformers and superheroes are popular now, but ten years down the road? No one will really care--much like no one cares about Brendan Fraiser's version of The Mummy. Yes, some properties really stick around, but most don't. Disneyland itself is the attraction--the whole place is its own classic, nostalgic, timeless area. Some things change, obviously, but its core identity remains. Not so with these other parks. The sun was out, and though the day was warm, we were still wet; we sat at a table to dry off and try to figure out what was going on with the parking situation. After some time, my coteacher said she'd figure it out and that Gayle and I should go enjoy the park. So we went on the Transformers ride. However, a woman in the row in front of us vomited, so we weren't really interested in sticking around. Heading back to the upper lot, we headed to Hogsmeade (easily our favorite part of the park, regardless of whether or not we were there for a Harry Potter Winterim) where we got lunch--fish and chips, plus a hot butterbeer (which I very much liked)--and breezed through the shops. As it was the last day, it was time to start making our souvenir decisions. We didn't want to burden ourselves with too much stuff, though, so we only looked. The Flight of the Hippogriff was walk-on, so we did that. Then, we decided since we were in Hogsmeade, we would go through the Forbidden Journey at our own pace, enjoying the queue much more than we had the other times. We went slowly, letting groups pass us as we stared at the detail poured into the design. We spotted the sword of Gryffindor in Dumbledore's office (and we listened to both of his lectures); we spent time watching the four founders of Hogwarts verbally spar from their paintings; standing in the Defense Against the Dark Arts class, we got to watch Ron accidentally start a thunderstorm, then make it snow. Honestly, a big portion of the fun of that ride is the queue, which is a testament to Rowling's imagination and the ride makers' commitment to creating an exceptional experience. With that ride done, we were feeling pretty satisfied. There wasn't a whole lot else to do--we'd gone on every attraction (save the Walking Dead one, which I wasn't in the mood for)--and time was quickly slipping away from us. We bought ourselves one last butterbeer and pumpkin juice (say what you will, but I love both of those drinks; and they're expensive enough to make it feel like you're drinking gold, good heavens). I saw that the line to Ollivander's Wand experience was short. On a whim, I said we should go in again. It was walk-in speed, so we were soon corralled into the first part of the shop. Boxes of wands--thousands of them--spread upwards to the ceiling on their crooked shelves. We waited only a moment before the hidden door swung open and we were ushered into the actual wand-selection room. I was secretly hoping that Gayle or I might be picked--as I looked around, there weren't any children and we were the only two in Hogwarts robes (I in my Ravenclaw, she in her Gryffindor). The wand-matcher began her speech--the same one we'd seen on an earlier day--and prowled the room. Her eyes lighted on me. "Ravenclaw," she said, "do you have a wand?" "No," I said, though that's only partially true: I have a wand. However, I've never been selected for a wand. "And you, Gryffindor," she said, turning to Gayle. "Do you have a wand?" "No." "Come forward, both of you." Gayle and I did as asked, smiling with excitement. The wand-matcher spoke about how wands work, giving a very similar speech to what Ollivander says in the book and movie. She picked one box--one "made" of ivy (they're all plastic, of course)--and pulled out the wand. She handed it to me and asked me to cast the Unlocking Charm. I waved the wand, said, "Alohamora!" and, instead of opening up some drawers, a pile of wands almost fell from a shelf. "Good rebound, but clearly not the right wand," said she. Turning to Gayle, she presented one of oak and asked my wife to light up the room. Gayle pointed her wand to the ceiling and said, "Lumos!" A lightning storm began. "Not the right one, no, I'm afraid not…" The wand-matcher paused, then looked at the two of us. She picked up the two wands and switched them between us. A light illuminated us, a burst of air blasted, and angelic singing filled the air. "Those are both dragon heartstring cores--and they come from the same dragon. That means their cores are twins. We call them brother wands," said the wand-matcher. She then went on to explain what the different types of wood meant and some other similar things. We thanked her as an assistant helped box them up. We were then ushered out and given a quick explanation about the wands. "Wizards must pay for their wands, so it's $55 per wand. If you choose not to buy them, please return them to me." It didn't take much deliberation to decide to keep the wands. Not only had they "chosen" us, but they were the kinds of wands that allowed us to interact with some of the shops in the park (by using the wands in certain locations, "magical" responses were possible, including making paper flit about, music boxes sing, and a dragon to be awakened behind a locked door). We paid for those wands, as well as an extra one for our middle son's souvenir. We cast spells, purchased final merchandise, and finished our time at Universal Studios Hollywood. Day 6
We left the Air BnB early, having cleaned up and packed up with surprising efficiency. Our trip home was uneventful, save that there was quite a bit of snow and wind once we made it back to Utah. Still, we all arrived home safely and in good time, which was nice. I'm glad to be home, even if the weather disagrees with me and the politics here is weird…not that that has anything to do with my past week, but…y'know…it's always there. Final Thoughts Multiple times whilst in Hogsmeade--usually during our meals--it was important for me to try to sit back and soak in what was happening. With all the stresses, improvisations, and tweaks, the trip was a difficult trick to pull off. That's how they always are, of course, but it was more difficult than in the past. (There were reasons for that, none of which interesting enough to go into here.) So it was important for me to try to really relish these fleeting moments of being in these places that mean so much to me. Yes, I recognize that the Wizarding World of Harry Potter wasn't created so that I could have moments of peace: It's a moneymaking venture (and it earned a lot of our money, let me tell you). And that's the tricky part: The cash desire has led to a value that's beyond what's within the park. The memories that the trip generated will be fond ones; I'll reflect on this time with warmth for many years to come. All possible because of money--and the lust for it--that has given me something slightly more ineffable. It's an uncomfortable alliance between the base desire of greed and the human value of ascribing and embracing worth. In the end, though, I have to accept it on its own terms, and be grateful for the time that I have. I hope that this will be something that really sticks with me, something that remains throughout the rest of my life as being a worthwhile effort and a wonderful memory. More than anything, it helps to underscore the importance of forcing meaning onto moments: Like the empty plastic cups of butterbeer, the temptation is for the moment to pay for itself only, to not allow it greater import and worth in our lives. It takes conscious effort to appreciate things as they are, when they are. Here's hoping I can internalize that lesson. I have a love/hate relationship toward Brandon Sanderson's work. I'm not a huge fan of his prose--I find it rather uninspiring, which I know is his entire point: He's said that he purposefully goes for prosaic descriptions. Still, after reading something like Patrick Rothfuss' or Alan Moore's writings, where part of the power is the wordsmithing, I feel like that this deliberate choice is a genuine weakness of his style*. I know that this isn't his intent--and I say that mostly because I feel like, having listened to hundreds of hours of his podcast, lectures, and even personally sitting down and chatting with him for a couple of hours over lunch a few years back--but the effect for me is almost one of…I don't know, dumbing down his writing to make it more accessible. That sounds like a good thing, of course: What writer doesn't want to write accessibly? But there are a lot of deep thoughts and moments of dilemma and distress in his books--as there are in other works of fiction. Comparing a paragraph of, say Victor Hugo to Sanderson's work is almost laughable: Both are authors with incredible stories, pacing, interconnection, and thought. One, however, inspires in the very way he writes, while the other keeps it simple and plain.
This isn't a particularly large criticism, especially as it is mostly an explanation of taste: I prefer to have a little more flavor in the prose I read. Some don't. Fortunately, Rothfuss and Moore have their books out for me to read, as does Hugo, so there will always be an alternative for me. However, I won't get Rothfuss-level words with Sanderson-style worlds, which is really too bad. Okay, and, if I'm being really honest, I'm…jealous isn't the right word, as the generosity and willingness to help others along is really strong in Sanderson. But envious, maybe? I think seeing a local author have meteoric success makes me wonder what I'm doing wrong, and that's a question that's been rattling around in my head for so long that my synapses are almost numb at the thought. Also, I've often had an allergy for the popular. If I come across something on my own terms, and I like it, I tend to go all of the way with it. If it's something that everyone seems to be in love with, I often will push back as a matter of principle. This is why I've never watched Dr. Who and, though I like Sherlock, I probably won't finish that series. I treated Harry Potter that way for a long time, taking years to warm up to it. So while my tendencies aren't easily predictable, they do follow a general trend. As far as Sanderson goes, I have a hipster mentality to him a bit: I read Elantris back when it was the only thing he had written and before his enormous success. So maybe I resent people who only like him now that he's done the Wheel of Time series and written double-digit titles, which makes the fandom push me away from his stuff. The thing about all of that is, that's a very trite and superficial reason not to read a person's work. He writes in a genre that I love, he writes well, and he makes exciting and expansive worlds for readers to get lost in. My feelings of minor resentment (though that's too strong a word) probably don't make a lot of sense in that case. So that's the "hate" part--another too-strong word--on Sanderson. As for the love, well, I really like the worlds he creates. Having read most (some? The guy produces so many stories that it's hard to know what I've missed) of his major works, and revisiting the novel that started his career, Elantris, I can see some similar strands running through a lot of his oeuvre. For example, he loves to have really good hearted men doing a lot of clever planning to get what they eventually want. Raoden is that, as is Kelsier in the Mistborn books, and Wax and Wayne in Alloy of Law and its sequels. Lightsong in Warbreaker has that personality, and I see it in Kaladin in the Stormlight Archives. Not only that, but they're all quite witty and bubbly (though Kaladin is a bit more of a brooder), with a strong desire to help others…at least, by the end of the story they are. He also likes smart, forceful women who are also witty and capable of acting around the gender roles that his multitudinous societies embrace--though most of them are fairly patriarchal in most ways. In Elantris, Sarene is the prototypical Sanderson female protagonist: Beautiful, smart, capable, a bit uncouth, and willing to shake things up to make a difference in her world. Vin from the Mistborn series fits a similar role, as does Shallan in the Stormlight Archives. In the case of Elantris, part of what I really enjoyed in my rereading of the book was seeing how well Sanderson sets up the utter chaos of the final fifty pages. People who were thought to have been discarded end up having important roles to fill, while tiny details are brought out in unexpected ways. And though this is a major spoiler for the ending, I feel like the last sentence of the book is absolutely spot on. Early in the book, Hrathen shows up in Arelon in order to save them: In the end, he accomplishes his goal. Admittedly, the death of Hrathen lacks a lot of emotional clout because we were supposed to kind of hate the guy throughout the story, so though he changes his mind and helps Raoden and Sarene, I don't think people really feel like they've lost someone important--not the way Kelsier's death at the end of Mistborn: The Final Empire affects people. It's also nice to read a Sanderson novel and then be done with it. In almost every other thing he's done (I think Warbreaker is the only other standalone novel), there are multiple volumes to go through. That's part of the reason I picked Elantris for my Winterim, as it's a self-contained novel that, though it hints toward a greater world, is finished by the time the ending arrives. By comparison, His Stormlight Archive is only three tomes deep and running over 3,600 pages. For a bit of context, the entire seven book Harry Potter series has about 4,100 pages. And the quantity of words per page definitely tips toward Sanderson, who, if I remember correctly, once said that his worldbuilding alone for the Archive ran over 100,000 words. In terms of worldbuilding, the only one who did it better would have to be Tolkien, and I think there's no way to top that guy unless a writer was also a linguist and tried to emulate Tolkien. In fact, I get the sense that Sanderson is trying to do that, but on his own terms: Rather than having one world deeply interconnected and drawn together through linguistic consistencies, he has created multiple worlds that interconnect through his Cosmere--his word for the shared universe in which all of his major writings transpire. The amount of background work for things like Middle Earth and the Cosmere are acts of immense imagination and I'm always impressed when I think about the amount of sustained attention such approaches would take. I have a fairly complicated world mapped out for the book Theomancy, and it probably is about 10,000 words deep…maybe. And though that isn't my most intricate, it's near the top. All of this is to say that, though this may not have been a strong review of Elantris itself, I do appreciate Brandon Sanderson's work and I look forward to finding time to read more of it. After all, there's plenty to go through. --- * I'm not saying his writing is bad, by the way. I know that Sanderson has done this consciously, and there's almost always a method in his madness. In my family, we read comics. Okay, we don't really read them--well, I do, and my oldest is a fan of them--but it isn't a major pastime. Okay, so there's some reading but not a lot of comic books. But one thing we are? Comic book fans.
The distinction is an important one, I think, especially since the comic book industry as an actual market force is pretty slim. (This report, from June 2017, explains that there really aren't a lot of single issue sales going on. And, admittedly, comic books have always been a niche market. But comics don't just sell books…) Though there is some top-tier talent at both of the major houses, DC and Marvel, there is also a saturation issue to deal with. The question of "Where do I start?" with any comic book series is an almost impossible one. Bats in the Belfry For my money, DC's take on the multi-universe, constant rebooting the entire line M.O. is a joke. It's too complex, it's too unreliable, and I've never been a fan of the Infinite Crisis, Flashpoint, New 52, or, most recently, Rebirth events and continuity-tweaking events. Self-contained stories are more enjoyable than company-wide connections and events, in large part because there's too much to keep track of in order to get the full story. This particular criticism is leveled at both houses, but I bring it up here because I'm thinking of the Azzarello run on Wonder Woman in the New 52 continuity. While the story itself was a bit of rubbish (and I was very disappointed that they took some of the elements that Azzarello introduced and put them into the movie), it was enjoyable on its own level because it focused on one thing, one character, and the trades made the story easy to keep going. The continuity of the art, also, was a boon, as it made the story feel more cohesive. But picking up any single comic that isn't a part of a specific storyline? It's a crapshoot if you can understand what's going on or not. On the other hand, I understand the logic of why things become entwined more and more often. After all, in a world where Shazam and Black Adam and Superman all reside means that these three basically-identical metahumans are bound to bump into each other. And when you get into the nitty-gritty, street-level stuff, that tendency is even greater. I mean, the superhero subculture is likely pretty small, and DC does that feeling of people-in-a-niche-business-meet-up-with-others-like-them well. That being said, the constant interweaving of solo-titles and group work gets tiresome, and the complexity of the DCU makes my head hurt. Of course, there are exceptions to this--and Marvel isn't exempt from the criticism--but I feel its effects more when I think of jumping into DC. Another issue (haha pun) that I have with DC currently is their endless obsession with Watchmen. Now, I love that comic--it's a great example of a series that tells a story in a way that only comics can tell it, the story is phenomenal, and though Alan Moore hates that he ever wrote it, I'm always impressed with it. In fact, nothing makes me simultaneously more inspired to write, and hopelessly convinced that I ought not to ever write a word again than remembering that Watchmen exists. Though I think Maus is a more important comic, I don't disagree with TIME for putting Watchmen on one of its lists of 100 best novels. And DC knows that Watchmen is good. It knows that Dr. Manhattan's bright blue butt will move units. It knows that putting the blood-streaked smiley face on a comic book cover is going to bring a lot of attention to whatever that comic is doing. And, with the Rebirth event, it's clear that the world portrayed in Watchmen is actually a part of the world in which Wonder Woman, Batman, and Superman also reside. It's…a dumb idea. I mean, even if it's executed flawlessly, the problem is the same one as what DC had to deal with when they released the Before Watchmen prequel comics: They were playing in a world that didn't need more exploration. It's much like how Harry Potter and the Cursed Child felt hollow*: The story that's being told doesn't fit into a story that has been finished. In my humble opinion, I'm less inclined to touch anything relating to Dr. Manhattan being involved in Earth 2--or whatever their "main" Earth is now--than otherwise. Invoking Watchmen to get fans buzzing is good PR but horrible storytelling. Where I go with their work remains to be seen. I haven't subscribed to comics regularly since…I don't know, 2010 or so. That means that I'm not the kind of reader who buys the singles on a regular basis anyway. I prefer to wait for the trades to come out, so the entire story is put together in something resembling a logical way. That's part of the reason that I read so many comic book novels as a kid: The whole story was there, even if it was split up among three books. And the fact that I can't get fully behind the House that Batman (or Superman) built is a sad one, since I've always thought that DC brought some excellent characters to the table. Except, of course… The Spider's Web …Spider-Man. The webhead has been my constant companion since the sixth grade, and though I'm a Ravenclaw about 90% of the time, when it comes to loyalty, I'm pure Hufflepuff.** I'll never not be a Spidey-Fan. And I haven't purchased a Spider-Man comic since…um…I canceled my subscription. I was around for the end of the "One More Day" arc. Then Marvel did the same thing that bugs me so much about DC and did a massive continuity shift, erasing the marriage of Peter Parker and Mary Jane through an act of demonic will. Like, the Marvel version of Satan, a character called Mephisto, does a Control Z on Spider-Man revealing his identity to the world as part of the Civil War mega-event. Spidey's upset because his world is going to trash--essentially proving he was right to never reveal his secret identity for however many decades--and Aunt May's dying (again) and all these issues…so Spider-Man/Peter Parker decides to do a deal with the devil to get things back on course. The cost is his marriage. As the "Brand New Day" series launched with the newly unmarried--and never was married? I wasn't clear on that, and stopped reading before it was fully revealed--Spider-Man returning to his time on the streets, my own family started having some financial pinches and I decided to let the subscription lapse. Sure, individual comics aren't expensive in and of themselves, but getting three of them a month becomes pretty pricey pretty quickly. So I haven't read a lot of Spider-Man comics since they ruined his marriage (which bugs me on lots of levels that I'm not going into right now), and though I'm really interested in Spider-Gwen, there aren't any other Marvel comic characters that I want to read about. Daredevil had an interesting run I read when I was a kid, and I dabbled with the X-Men when the cartoon was popular--and, of all the properties in Marvel that I like, X-Men is probably number two--but I never really gelled with anyone else there. I was all Marvel, all the time…unless it didn't have Spider-Man. Then I didn't care. It's an interesting thing for me to consider myself a fan of comic book characters and less about comic books, though the current abundance (or, if you're feeling pessimistic, glut) of superhero movies is pretty satisfying. I saw almost all of the big ones of 2017 (except Atomic Blonde, which I didn't know was a comic book movie), and I'm looking forward to much of 2018's cinematic offerings. Though I'm a Marvel fanboy (I guess) because they own Spider-Man, I'm more interested in seeing continued exploration of themes that superhero films are best at exploring, regardless of who owns the characters. Oh, and if you're wondering who would win in a fight, Batman or Spider-Man, let me break it down really quickly: Spider-Man can bench press 10 tons, plus he can sense danger coming in the form of his spider-sense. There's nothing that Batman could do*** against the wall-crawler. Bat versus spider? Spider all the way. --- * The Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them might turn out okay. Without Hogwarts, I don't know why we would have a story set in the Wizarding World. What's different here is Fantastic Beasts is already in-canon, and it's focused on a separate (though similar) issue than what the original series devoted 4,100 pages to. That being said, I'm neither excited nor angry about the next film. Except Johnny Depp. That guy's a creep. Ew. ** If you don't get what that sentence is saying, then I'm sorry. We can still be friends, but I'll be quietly disappointed with you. *** And don't come at me with the "If Batman could prepare for the fight…" garbage. Batman's smart--and it's likely that Peter Parker is smarter. Batman's a good engineer; so is Spider-Man. Look, if Bruce gets time to make a spider-sense jamming device, then Peter gets time to make an anti-spider-sense jamming device. And he can. If you still don't believe me, check out this video. It is just and true. Amen. I am aware of the internet's tendency to amplify the voices of dissidents and cultural malcontents. Not only do I have a Twitter account--ground zero for a lot of that vitriol--and see this kind of behavior in real time, but I also follow people who, because they're more visible, get a lot more attention for their opinions. Some of that's warranted--they're critics, so their job is to consume some media and give a review of what they thought about the property--but most of the time it's some serious hatred because the person liked (or didn't) a movie or game that the poster didn't (or did).
I'm hardly the first one to note that it's a stupid thing for people to do. I'm also not the first to point out that people blitzing Metacritic and Rotten Tomatoes and IMDb in order to drag down the rating of the film--it's usually films where I see this happening--because of their personal disillusionment about a piece of entertainment. To anyone with semi-functioning logic, it would be apparent that if you don't like a film, then, having seen it, you tell anyone who solicits your opinion that you didn't like it. Then you stop. If I have a lousy salad at Zupas, then I don't make it my personal mission to see the closest storefront get so many negative reviews online that it has to close its doors. I had a bad experience. If someone asks, I say what happened. I move on with life. But there are fanboys (and they're overwhelmingly males who do this) who seem to think that films were made for their exclusive consumption and appreciation, that they--as enjoyers of the product--are the owners of the product. That they are the sole purpose for the product's existence. That their opinion on it matters enough to enforce upon people. I can't quite wrap my head around this mode of thinking. In case it wasn't clear, I'm thinking particularly of The Last Jedi, the eighth canonical film in the Star Wars universe and the third film to be released since Disney acquired the franchise's rights. Now, I like Star Wars films just fine. They're fun--most of the time--and have some interesting ways of telling stories. I don't find them worship-worthy, and an objective look at the first two trilogies shows that, out of six films, maybe two of them were pretty good. That isn't a very high batting average. In fact, I already talked about my puzzlement over Star Wars itself, and that confusion has only been increased by the fanbase's response to the perceived political agenda of The Last Jedi. Now, I haven't seen the movie yet, so I can't speak to that particular argument. On paper, though, it's clear that there's a greater focus on diversity of the cast, increasing the roles of women in the franchise, and broadening the scope of the galaxy far, far away. All of these goals are worthwhile. If nothing else, it helps underscore the vastness of the galaxy by having so much on-screen diversity. All for the better in my mind. That seems like a good and wholesome direction to go. But there seems to be a lot of conflating of personal taste with more objective measures of a film's worth. I liked Batman v. Superman, as far as it goes. That doesn't change the fact that its version of Superman is boring and its version of Batman is unintelligible, or that the story has needless complications and a climactic battle that doesn't really fit in with everything else the story was trying to accomplish. Batman v. Superman is not a particularly good film, even if I enjoyed it for what it was. And the same argument can be said about Wonder Woman: It is a great film, with plenty of non-critical flaws, that I personally liked a great deal. But me liking it isn't what makes it a great movie. So within this fandom set of Star Wars junkies--which is an enormous canon of films, comics, video games, and cartoons, where people of color abound (sometimes literally: Check out Ahsoka Tano, who is literally orange) in many different ways--there seems to be a set of people whose love of the series marches more in line with the fascism of the Empire or the First Order than with the freedom-loving rebels who provide the moral weight of the overarching plot and are, oh yeah, the heroes of the story. It's a baffling bit of mental gymnastics. For me, it would be like a bunch of fans grousing about the ending of the last Harry Potter film because the Slytherin par excellence (Voldemort) lost. Well, his is the moral philosophy that's dehumanizing (ironic, considering what the guy looks like by the end of the series) and clearly parallels the Third Reich and its horrors (which, by the way, even the word "stormtroopers" invokes Hitler and Nazism, so the idea that the Empire is anything other than Space Nazis is simply wrong). While there's certainly a fair critique in using Nazis as short-hand for "the bad guys", there's a reason that they're used as short-hand for "the bad guys". As I'm writing this, my computer screen is showing me pictures of my trip to Berlin, reminding me of that incredible trip but also returning to mind how bad the Second World War was. And, of all the problems with people hating Star Wars for being anti-fascist (I guess is the baseline critique here), this is the one that matters the most: We have generated a tolerance to the terrors of World War II--and we've completely forgotten the war that was tearing Europe apart one hundred years ago, which is its own failing--so that we want to look at the 1940s as an idyllic time, except for the war, of course, which was terrible. What I mean is, our attempt to recreate the realities of World War II into a comprehensive and clear narrative of good versus evil has done some damage to how we respond to the genuine evil that came out of Germany and Japan in that time. This isn't a history post, so let me say this: No one--not a single country--walked away from World War II without demonstrating to history of their own barbarous monstrosity. None. But that doesn't mean that everything done was of equal moral corruption. When it comes to our popular culture, we have relied on historical short-hand for so long that we have started using the reality of our history that "none of us is perfect" as an excuse for renewed veneration of that which is definitely evil, as if there is moral equivalency between the camps in America and the camps in China. Camps are wrong--experimentation, rape, starvation, forced labor, and execution* are far, far worse than what happened in America. Through some disgusting moral jujitsu, some people have found comfort in on-screen validation of fascism and its attendant ills of racism, sexism, authoritarianism, and white supremacy. What's worse, is they now feel as though their stories deserve equal exposure--but that's wrong on two levels: One, there isn't anything about equality within fascism: It consumes all it can, and that which it can't subsume, it destroys. There isn't parity doctrine with fascism--it's not how it works. The second problem with this idea is that fascism is something that "needs" to be rendered sympathetically. There are things that are wrong and there are plenty of syllogisms that can prove that: Fascism is one of them. We don't need fascism to be sympathetic in our stories--we need it to be shown destroyed, dismissed, and dismantled. Sure, a worthwhile story will give us complexity within the system--the sympathetic character who's tied up in the fascist system--and that's fine. Remembering that "Nazis are people too" is something that can be done well without implying that "Nazism is okay too". But to assume that we need a "both sides" approach to our films is, frankly, stupid. Oh, and I guess there's a third problem about those complaining about the way that Star Wars is now interested in pushing against prevailing prejudices--and, I imagine, this will also be brought up when Black Panther comes out--is that they're interested less in hearing more voices and instead in hearing their own voices echoed at them. There's definitely a sense of zero-sum calculations in some circles, as if a movie that celebrates diversity means that there can no longer be movies about homogeneity. That's the kind of thinking that I dislike--probably because it's within the wheelhouse of things that I do like. Maybe we can all do better trying to understand other points of view--except crap like fascism. That stuff sucks. |
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