Caren Gussoff writer. geek. bon vivant. dot com

Last week was International Blog Against Racism Week, and there were lots of great posts going up all over.
I started writing this last week as part of the IBARW, but then my week got away from me—in some good and related ways, including attending the final party of the 2009 Clarion West season, where there was the ceremony officially “crowning” this year’s Octavia E. Butler scholar (as awarded by the Carl Brandon Society). The scholarship pays tuition for a selected writer of color to attend Clarion or Clarion West, and comes with a beautiful necklace that is cast from a molding Octavia herself commissioned. I was the recipient last year, so seeing the ceremony this year was really emotional. I got to fasten the necklace around this year’s winner–Rochita Loenen-Ruiz. Chita, as she was known to her class, is a talented Philippine writer from the Netherlands (and just a really, really nice woman).

Anyway, better late than never. Here’s what I started writing last week:
I have a vested interest, of course, in all the posts and discussions going up this week as part of IBARW, especially within my home genre, speculative fiction. I became a spec fic writer because, first and foremost, I’m a geek.
I’m many other things, of course, but most pertinent to this discussion here is that I’m half Kalderash Romani. A Gypsy.

I’ve read the experiences of other women of color—in and out of genre—particularly those women of African American, Asian, or native people background—who intelligently discuss the ABSENCE of like women in any media, as characters—and that when they are present, they often are shaped and pressed to fit  very specific , stereotyped—and secondary—roles.

Yup. I see it. Get it. And I feel it too.

IF there’s a Gypsy in anything, they’re the “gypsy”: happy wanderer, romantic adventurer wise fortuneteller, ragged thief—wrapped in scarves, dangling earrings, dancing around the local county renaissance faire—comic relief or scapegoat in high fantasy novels—the source of horror movie premises with  their curses and their direct access to the gates of hell—baby stealing, caravan trains of godless, pagan, primitive criminals.

*waves* Yo.

I’ll turn around slowly. No head scarf. No earrings. Your wallet is still in your pocket, just where you left it. I have no idea what will happen to you tomorrow—I can barely stay on top of my laundry. I’ve tried the “curse” thing, and never been able to get it to work (“How’s that curse I cursed you with, Curs-ty?” –The Simpsons: Treehouse of Horor XII).

All in all, I’m not only law-abiding; I’m pretty bleeding heart when it comes to common courtesy and helping out my fellow man.

My experiences have encompassed none of the stereotypes attributed to Romani.  Now, I’m willing to put forth that some of these stereotypes are our own fault—we’ve got a history of violence, racism, and oppression that encouraged the culturizaton of  secrecy and separation—often encouraging these stereotypes as a way to keep  safe distance. This “safe distance” is a formal thing for many Romani, supported by a seemingly (to outsiders) complicated set of conventions that govern how to remain clean of outside influences while remaining clandestine in nature.  But even to those that follow tradition, the stereotypes are a source of pain.

So, who can speak for the Gypsies? Me? Not exactly. There are lots of us (in fact, we’re predicted to become the largest ethnic minority group in Europe) Romani, but what Romani means is different to everyone I’ve ever met or read about. The Romani encompass a very heterogeneous culture of folks who’ve grown up in different ways. The Romani people vary in language, religion, and values. Many have, like mine, married out, settled down, acculturated, and raised/are raising generations outside the Romani cultural “gates,” inside Western culture—and these folks are now taking visible roles in their communities.  This is another source of pain—there’s a pretty good-sized schism within the culture about whether acculturated, outspoken folks like me are a good thing or not (and in the view of many, Romani blood or no, I’m gadje, not Romany, because I’m of mixed blood—a didkai—and should even speak for any Romani at all).

It’s taken me a long time to understand that I don’t need anyone’s permission to exist, inside or outside the culture. Regardless of how I’m perceived, it’s part of who I am, how I act in the world, and what I think about. It’s also taken me a long time to understand what my role in all this can be. I can’t be the Gypsy mouthpiece—I can be a mouthpiece who happens to be Romani, who tells Romani stories from her Romani point of view, who creates Romani characters as rich and full as possible. All I can do is write one voice and hope that my existence serves as an open invitation for others to join in.

I’ve had the same, basic conversation multiple times lately, all prompted by longing glances at friend’s and co-worker’s new iPhone.
Here’s an approximation of how they went:
“Are you going to get one?” they asked, looking up at me briefly, before hunching back over the glossy, sexy little thing and poking their fingers to launch some new app.
I decidedly shook my head no. “I’m waiting for a good competitor,” I said, politely.
They smiled at that. “You should get one.”
“Nah,” I replied.
“They’re so great,” they said.
This exchange went on in almost every instance until I would realize I had to reveal my dirty secret, else we’d be stuck in this loop forever. I never wanted to say this out loud, for lots of reasons–that it makes me an anomaly among my arty-minded pals and colleagues and that I can’t ever just leave it at the reveal, but am instead compelled to launch into a five minute rant that always leaves ‘em glassy-eyed.
“I don’t really like Macs,” I’d say. Then, like a car backing over a neighborhood puppy, I bowled over their look of shock, and started in.
It wasn’t usually this erudite or organized, but if it had been, this is how it would have sounded:

I don’t really like Macs. I do, however, love my Mac-using friends.
Airbooks are beautiful. I have a Shuffle my pop bought me as a gift. I drool over the iPhones. But I won’t buy one.
I won’t buy a Mac product again. I was suckered in early on by the first generation iPods, and that experience alone soured me entirely on the brand–and then all their subsequent advertising and marketing moments have done nothing but cement the fact that I don’t want one.

1. It’s a waste. IMHO, there is little-to-nothing green about creating hardware that relatively savvy consumers are trapped by. The best way to void your Mac warranty is to crack it open to change the battery, much less install new memory or increase its speed. Even a geek lite should be insulted.
2. Six months after you buy a Mac, your chances that your model is no longer being supported is at least 50%.
3. It’s often, at the point in which your Mac device starts acting wonky, cheaper for you to just buy a whole new device rather than repair or upgrade your current hardware, which is still wicked expensive. With non-Mac products, I could, hypothetically, upgrade my memory, processor, battery, and whatnot for peanuts.
4. You have to make a freaking appointment with a Mac “genius” at a local shop in order to get straight answers about a product, which usually include the words, “You could just buy the new generation of ___ Mac.” Thank you, genius.
5. Macs look nice. So? Two weeks of being lugged around in my bag, getting used, would make *any* pretty baby look rode hard and put away wet.
6. The marketing ploy that you only have two choices: a PC or a Mac, and PCs are for tight-assed corporate types, while Macs are for smart, cool, young, lefty, hipsters. I’m neither of those things, and don’t really care, anyway, what advertising tells me I should own based on my level of awesomeness. My favorite machine is a web book that runs Ubuntu Linux, Open Office, GIMPs, and all open source software.
7. Irritation over the myth that Macs are better for producing art/they have better graphics programs/etc. OK, maybe 15 years ago. But really now, all those programs have versions supported by most OS’s, including Linux (to which I am partial. In fact, there are plenty of really decent open source/shareware graphics programs out there these days)
8. Lord AT&T and his reign of terror over iPhoneland. Enough said.
9. Too bad, of all the apps iPhone users can download, they can’t get one that makes the phone part work correctly, well, or consistently.
10. iTunes. That horrible DRM-containing, proprietary file format the songs come in. The fact that you almost have to sacrifice your firstborn, even now, to transfer your library from one iPod to another.
11. Yeah, OK, PCs are vulnerable to viral attacks. Get antiviral software. There’s even good, freeware/shareware ones out there. Plus, it’s just overblown–I’ve used Windows based PCs at work, in huge corporate networks, for years, and I have not once had a virus attack. Then again, I don’t open questionable files, surf blindly, or click pop-ups.

So, there. I’m out now, publically. And until the day that a clone appears, suitably priced and with carrier choices, I will tap out my sad texts on my so 3 years ago Razr keypad, have to use an actual laser level to hang shelves, and jot down where we parked on my hand.
And, of course, look with longing at your iPhone.

1. Thank you to all who read and voted in the Fantasy Magazine Micro-Fiction contest. My short piece, “The Ghost of Henry’s Past” won second place. There’s going to be a podcast of it sometime in the future, courtsey of PodCastle. Nice!
2. I have succumbed to being 36, constantly broke, and needing to geek the fuck out on new things by starting a garden on my patio. I now have 2 coffee cans and a long box filled with 2 breeds of lavender, basil, oregano, and mint, as well as one small cherry tomato plant (already fruiting).  I have dill and garlic coming up from seed/clove, bell pepper seeds drying for cultivating,  and two mega tomato plants coming in mail (gift from my dad, who wants to be kept in tomatoes).
I also started a freaking compost pile. I made a bin from an old, clean kitty litter container. Compost! But I am seriously super excited about the chemistry of it all, so I feel less like a weirdo, although I’ve been reading way too many articles about Freegans to count my weirdo-ness completely out.
3. Drunk text of the month: from my pal, Maggie, who informed me that she and Chris R. were discussing the size of my boobs in the company of Nick Mamatas, and decided that they were approximately the same size as his head. I found this text as awesome as I did alarming.

Wow, the weekend’s over already.
I’ve mostly avoided the internet. Barely checked email, did not twitter (twat?), no Facebook.  I did almost no writing, either.
Instead, I celebrated Frank’s birthday, ate salted caramel ice cream, hung out with Jamie, watched movies, hung out with my husnamd, read, ate pizza, hung out with my dad, knitted, read, walked around, started a volunteer job with the Puget Sound Blood Bank, and did some vital and painful deep cleaning.
By upbringing, I’m a bargain shopper and a hoarder. By nature, I am a purger. This causes an interesting internal, semi-annual struggle.
I am very talented at shopping. It is something I am very, very, very good at.
But for a long time, I’ve dreamt a pretty simple dream: only own things I like, use, and that fit me.
I mean, I’m not an ascetic. I so want to own more than a sarong and a rice bowl.
It should be pretty simple, right? Don’t buy or accumulate anything that I don’t like, will use, or that doesn’t fit.
But, this is not how my life has worked at all.
I buy or accumulate things I am unsure of, think I might need, or for some mysterious reason, find too great a deal to walk away from. Then these things never get used, and twice a year, those same things get bagged, tagged, and sent back out into the world. It’s stupid and wasteful. It stresses me right the fuck out.
But I did a mini search and destroy in the bedroom and chest of drawers. So far, I’ve tossed out/placed into thrift store pile/recycled:
• a makeup bag full of makeup, some dating back to when I retired from burlesque dancing…in 2004. Ugh
• a lawn sized garbage bag full of stretched out/faded/worn through/incorrect size, shape, color clothing, beyond even being downgraded to pajama status
• a drawer full of expired medicine–an entire drawer. Seriously
• a stack of books I will never read again (I buy a lot of used books and take out from the library. My home bookshelves are really misleadingly empty. I try and only keep books I love, refer to, are signed, special to me, or know I will read again)
• 3 good sized trash cans of paper–drafts, junk mail, who knows
• and at least 2 candles made more of dust and cat hair than paraffin. I think they were candles. Maybe they were soap. Ick

Now, I also indulged in today’s thrift store 50% off madness, but I did only buy a few things I actually needed: jeans, a tee shirt, a pair of very sensible ballet flats, some books…except for a very strange, very heavy, 70s copper pendant that has a creepy mermaid on one side and a creepier Viking ship on the other. But it’s really small. I swear.

*sigh*

And here comes Tuesday.

1. Jason Heller’s very creepy, clever new piece is up at Brain Harvest this morning. I’m a fan of this up and comer: not only does he run Denver’s A/V Club for the Onion, he consistently churns out surreal–but smart–pieces of spec fic.

2. My story, “As They Get Warmer, They Give a Little,” should be launching in M-BRANE #5, which, I am informed by the editor, will be live any day now. Same editor is also collecting stories for a queer SFF anthology, deadline in July, that you should send something to.

3. Swiped from Cat Rambo’s Facebook, who spotted it on BoingBoing:  Kid keeping a lending library of banned books in her locker. AWESOME. Kid, where ever you are, you’ve got my love and support.

This week’s story at Brain Harvest from Eric Del Carlo shows that a post-apocalyptic world isn’t the wonderland we all thought it would be.

So, happy Fibromyalgia Awareness Day.

Fibromyalgia is a disease that particularly sucks, although not nearly as much as other diseases that shorten life spans, degenerate, or paralyze their afflicted. Instead, it just makes you hurt a lot in unexplainable and frustrating ways, makes your brain foggy and unable to hold a single thought for too long, your digestive system wonky, enhances migraines, and screws royally with your sleep, among other things. It affects an estimated 2% of the general population, who often have to go to absurd lengths in order to get diagnosed and treated. Then, because it is an invisible illness, also often have to continually explain that they really are ill to friends and family who, rightfully so, say, “You look fine.”

Hug your local, fine-looking 2% today, gently.

1. I had a good writing week last week. Not because I actually got anything done, but because Abyss & Apex grabbed my first post-CW story, “Section III” for their 4th quarter issue. There was a jubilant underwear dance attached to that.
2. Secondly, people have been so freaking generous advertising Brain Harvest‘s fundraising drive. We owe a giant debt of gratitude to Tor.com and Io9, among many others, for helping us get the word out.
3. Still looking for honest day labor. Last year, I wrote a post that, at the time, felt completely accurate about the multitude of ways one could cobble together a bad-but-decent living while writing. I’m not sure it still is, or when it will be again. Both Chris and I have had a really hard time finding long term or full time work. I have an informational interview soon, though, with a great local company, so I am hoping that may sometime turn into something.
4. Piggybacking on #4, I’ve decided I need a skill. An actual skill. One that is transferrable, in demand, that sort of thing. So, WA state is still offering worker retraining and I am going to take advantage of it while I can. Starting this summer, I am going to take a weekend program for the quarter so I can get a phlebotomy certificate. I thought long and hard about doing programming instead, or possibly paralegal studies, but decided on entry level healthcare–and I’d much rather poke veins and deal with lab samples than anything else right now (it feels like science!). I’ve been seeing long, sobby posts online from phlebotomists who haven’t been able to find work either, but I’m going to try and do some additional work  to make myself extra-hirable–start volunteering at the blood bank asap, get as many certifications from the Red Cross as are appropriate, and whatnot. Maybe between writing, contracts, and phlebotomy, I can, oh, pay some bills–maybe even have some fun (holy crap!).
5. Tomorrow is my husband’s birthday, so I am taking him to see Star Trek. I am both very excited to see this, and completely dreading it. The trailers make it seem like a WB show in space. But, dude, it’s Star Trek. At one point, I would say, dude, it’s JJ Abrams…still a giganormous Lost fan, but now, you know, Fringe (*sigh*).
Anyway, I made Chris some presents and got him a small bottle of that man-cologne he loves so well.  I may try and do up an ice cream cake, too. I hope he likes it. He deserves like, oh, a hundred treats.

BONUS: A huge yipee for Mary Rosenblum for being nominated for a Sidewise Award (for great works of alternate history), BTW.

One  copy of A Pocketful of Stars: Nineteen Stories edited by Damon Knight, from the SPL Book Sale, for 50 cents…marked discarded from the library at the Goose Bay Correctional Center, Wasilla, Alaska.

Rock on.

1. Off to the Friends of the Seattle Public Library book sale (it’s 1/2 off day on already cheap used books. JOY) and then to my crit group filled with smarty-pants. 

2. Brain Harvest has its newest story up, a crawly piece by the uber-talented Jeremy Shipp.

3. Yes, I completely threw away 5000 words of the story I’ve been working on. Painful. But this is why I said what I did in my posting about slush (reiterated by the very talented and dashing D. Zumsteg, who, in unrelated news, is next week’s Brain Harvest pick). Now, hopefully, the little crazy Jewish lady who runs my subconscious* will get cracking on helping me right all the wrongs that spewed onto the page the first time.

*CW ’08 in-joke. Apologies.