Tag Archives: Violence

The Inevitable Racist Grandma Syndrome: Cultural Shifts in Fiction and Reality

Archival note: Apparently I started this post 7 months ago, laid it aside in anticipation of further review, and then wandered off. Said further review has now been applied.

Yvonne wants me to blog more, so here we are. Specifically, she thought I should do a write up on something that came up during a conversation on how some of our shared characters would deal with the ravages of old age. More specifically, how if allowed to survive long enough, Susan Frohman would inevitably become an old racist grandma. To wit, the Inevitable Racist Grandma Syndrome, which reads as follows:


Barring gross cultural regression, any individual, regardless of how progressive or radical they were in their teens and twenties, will eventually become an old racist grandma purely by virtue of not keeping up with shifting definitions of ‘progressive’ or ‘radical’ behavior. Death does not make one immune, as ones pre-mortem actions and writings are in danger of being judged or evaluated by later-developed standards

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This post comes with an apology to our beta reader. He has actually been done beta reading for some time now, which until now was not reflected in these posts. In fact, the beta reader’s input has already been assimilated into the text, and Yvonne has taken her red* pen to the second revision pass. Not sure how many passes remain;  a few sections have already been flagged for significant rewrites, and we’ll need to play the editing by ear for those.

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Office Hours: Tuesday at the Office (Part Three)

Tuesday, 6FEB2018, 1517 Local Time (0117 AZT)

The coffee bar would be lovely, if it weren’t for all the fucking people in it. It’s a warm, welcoming space, lots of hardwood in the construction, plenty of natural light, but it’s too small for all the people in it, at least as far as I’m concerned. Never understood the affection for populated, noisy spaces. Charlotte tried to explain it to me, the energy of a public space, the combination of ten or twenty individual lives into what she saw as the perfect background noise for just about anything. I’d try to explain that the noise was nothing but noise, and it didn’t combine into anything but an ugly jumble of half-audible sentences and incomplete thoughts. It was always one of those subjects where we both agreed to sit on our side of the couch and be convinced that we were the sane one…

Sorry, got sidetracked. The coffee bar. The small, narrow, civilian-packed coffee bar. If a shootout started in here, some poor bastard might be going home without a head. Just one more step to take care of before we start things proper. Staff is already killing the various boilers and burners, security is hiding around the corners of the exits, diverting away new clients and doing quick spot checks on the ones leaving, and Susan and Minette are both in position.

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