The Difficulty of Reality

Dear Wrestling,

Did you know that your eyes do this thing called saccades and that one thing it kind of means is that you never really see what you think you're seeing? Also your peripheral vision lacks color--your brain fills it in, sure, but the physical structure of your eye isn't doing that.

Basically our brains lie to us all the time about what we're seeing and feeling and experiencing, just to try to get through a freaking day.

I did my degree in Religious Studies, primarily in Buddhism and Eastern Religions. A few times in classes, it came up that this incredibly hard work of trying to become aware and present and awake? It might be bad for us. My mentor was quick to be honest: this might not be the best path for me or you. It might hurt more than it helps, and I can't know which it will be--you can't either.

I had some traumas when I was a little kid. Pretty bad ones, which I then did not quite remember until I was well into my twenties. That's a defense mechanism, and it worked outrageously well: I was a happy, active, smart little kid. I had a great childhood--the normal bullies and doubts and things, but overall I look back and it's all bike rides and long summer days and drinking out of the hose in Brandon Kincaid's yard...

This is a long way around to say, it's probably a good thing that it's nearly impossible to imagine what people in Syria are going through. It's probably, for us and our loved ones at least, a good thing.

It's not a prerequisite of helping that we become traumatized ourselves--or that we add to the trauma we're already carrying.

I've struggled to articulate why I feel so grateful to be able to help with Sami for Syria. It feels hideous on the face of it--am I grateful that these people are hurting? What am I, trying to put a white savior complex to work?

And no, of course not! But the situation is one of the worst in the world. It's hell on earth. To be able to give a little, and know that I'm paying for a bandage, or a splint--that's incredible. That is the keenest relief. Studies on PTSD and trauma are still pretty new, but one of the things we know is that being able to exert any control, however small, makes an enormous difference in one's chances of developing PTSD.

We're not, thank all good things, we're not helpless. It's not the politics, it's not grounding the warplanes or rebuilding homes (yet) but it can be the actual difference between life and death.

"I just think as our capacity as human beings, we’re limited to truly understand that suffering, unless we’ve experienced it ourselves. I guess my message would really just be, if you’re grateful that this isn’t happening to you and you’re in a position to help… well, now there’s this fund that is a direct line where your money, your donation, however big, however small, is a direct way to help people who are in a really bad situation that I would imagine you never want to find yourself in. 

So, to me, it’s as simple as that. If you think this is a horrible situation, which I think almost, universally, everyone can agree that this is awful that civilians of Syria have to deal with this, and if you ask, I’m sure nine out of 10 people, if asked, “Hey, don’t you wish you could help?” I’m sure people would say, “Yes!” This is a direct way for you to help that’s been set up for you. Not only by me and this fundraising campaign, but by SAMS who’s doing all the legwork and grunt work, of actually making this stuff happen. We’ve set up a very easy and very direct way for anybody to help."


Dear, dear wrestling, I love you. Donate a little, sleep some, and have a good G1.

Autumn

SZDD

Dear Wrestling,

I've been joking today about suffering from Sami Zayn Deficiency Disorder, but it's one of those jokes with a seed of truth in the center.

I was so angry at Sami there for a few weeks. I'm not anymore. I'm not happy about what happened, of course, but knowing that he's been injured this whole time--well, I was begging for a good reason that he agreed to it, right? One busted shoulder is plenty good reason, let alone two.

So, that's the first thing: that fury evaporated the moment I heard about his injuries.

It's been months since he's been on Smackdown, but you know, I still associate Tuesdays with him? That's the day of the week I miss him worst--that's not precisely accurate, it's the day I think about him most. That mostly takes the form of hoping he's well, remembering that his improv show is coming up and hoping he has fun, and that my friend Marie has fun at the show, being grateful he's able to be creative while recovering...just wishing him the best.

I've barely watched WWE the past couple weeks. I catch Kevin's parts, of course--and I've heard he really likes working with Braun Strowman, so I'm guessing/hoping he's happy. But partly there's been a good bit of New Japan to watch, and I have a new schedule working both Monday and Tuesday evening, and when I tried to watch Raw today, to catch up, it was just...bland. Nothing about it was enough to make me really watch. I skimmed through, caught Kevin wearing his man's hoodie, caught Seth telling one of the Three Jokes About Scots that are apparently allowed (sheepshagger, romance novel cover, and Scrooge McDuck), and nothing there was enough.

It will come as absolutely no surprise to you that I adore fairy tales. I find them terribly useful for learning how to live and how to treat people.

One of my very favorites I learned as a kid, and it's a version of Cinderella with a bit of Lear thrown in. When the father goes to his three daughters and asks how much they love him, in order to determine his will, this Cinderella tells him, "I love you like meat loves salt." The other sisters denounce this as the worst nonsense and insult, and she's evicted to the woods. A spooky woman helps her, and makes her a dress of Spanish moss.

The crux of the story is when Cinderella is working as a cook in secret in her poor blind father's house, and she prepares a meal for him with no salt. He complains and complains, and she brings out the salt cellar and whispers in his ear, "I love you like meat loves salt."

WWE, for me, right now, needs salt.

Love,
Autumn

Los Angelitos de El Generico

Dear Wrestling,

Hi. I'm sorry it's been so long. I think I need to recommit to this blog's gimmick, which is that I am writing directly to Wrestling as supernatural entity--it definitely is that.

So. I've been having a rough time off and on--I mean, the country has, and that's part of it. I'm kind of bouncing between feeling terrible about children in cages and then my PTSD picks me up by the scruff of the neck and shakes me, and not like playing, like, "Hi I'm a terrier and you're a rat and I was *made* to destroy you.".

And then I go running back to you, as much as I can for as long as I can.

But what I really want to talk about, because I could use the break, frankly, is Mith's latest (last???) essay.

Go read it.

Please, what follows doesn't make sense without it.

********************

OK.

So I'm thinking about my Los Angelitos.

It's in Scotland, between Glasgow and Edinburgh--not far from Stirling, actually. It's in a lovely green valley. The building itself is nestled among aspens and pines. In the fall, on the rare sunny day, the sun warms the fallen needles and the children carry that scent with them for the rest of their lives. There are beautiful snow white goats in the field, and an enormous snow white dog who lives with the goats. She is not a pet, but she is kind and she takes very good care of the goats. She had to have surgery on her right shoulder, and when Generico massages that sore place she leans into him and nearly takes him off his feet.

The building itself is oddly Mexican in appearance--smooth adobe walls painted magenta and cerulean and lime. It's like a bright jewel dropped on the countryside. The front porch would fit in on any Southern house though: painted wood, banisters, with a few donated rocking chairs at the far end.

My own beloved, sorrowed North Carolina is like enough to Scotland that her people settled here in droves--similar landscape, but better weather, great! Right?

Well.

Especially right now, NC is not the most welcoming place. It tries, it really does--for instance, we've got more folks in sanctuary in places of worship, safely, than any other state. When I worked in a bookstore, we had someone come in seeing about donations for Muslim refugees. It was late enough in the year that our small budget for donations was spent, but my manager and I and several others took some time and bought some notebooks and Korans and Arabic-English dictionaries and geometric coloring books and all kinds of things, because folks here try, but the government is quite the opposite.

Scotland has done much, much better. It's one of the most welcoming places in Europe for refugees. There are language classes at community centers, towns have welcomed half or more of their own populations in families needing help.

So just out from this beautiful, quiet, small city in Scotland is an orphanage--but it's not really an orphanage. It's more of a halfway home for families with young kids--and in the circumstances, by families we mean older and younger siblings. Grandmothers and grandchildren. Single parents and babies.

One of the best parts of this particular refuge is the music. The local musician community has reached out, and there's the most wonderful musical exchange happening now. Local folks are learning new tunes, the kids are getting free music lessons/music therapy, the grownups are getting instruments to replace those they had to leave behind...

It's not home. It's too wet, the hills and trees are weird, the sun just never comes out...It doesn't make up for any number of hardships, some too terrible to bear. There are still nightmares and a foreign language to deal with and bureaucracy and the occasional nasty neighbor.

But it is a beginning. And there is laughter. Little did we know, all this time when he had no English and not much Spanish, Generico does have just a little Arabic--he's not fluent! Not in anything! But he has the same few words in Arabic that he has in English and Spanish. Enough to make the children laugh and to comfort the older folks.

Enough.

He chases the goats and the chickens with the children and he looks very serious when the adults try to teach him to play guitar or fiddle--he never learns, but it's okay. He knows it means thank you, and they know his attempts mean you're welcome.

When the goats and chickens are up for the night, there's a bonfire in the field. Stories get told around it--stories in Arabic, in English, Scots, once or twice in Gaelic. True stories, some that happened to the people there and some that didn't. It is the kind of place to make one believe in hope, and so even when the stories are hard and full of pain and betrayal, the children look to the masked man and know that pain and sorrow can be lived through, and that better days can come again.





Thanks, Wrestling. I love you.

Autumn

Not Getting Heat, But Getting Paid

Dear Sami,

How long did I last that time? Almost a week? Yeah, I suck.

Transcript of Simon Grimm from the Tight and Fights podcast:

"Also, I'm just going to take a minute to say this even though it's completely unrelated to anything: How awful was that segment on Monday with [hosts groan in agony]...[clip of Sami's Incomprehensible Choices segment]

"I'm not letting that one go, because I wanted to talk about it. Let me just...So...one of the big issues that happens in wrestling is, we're trying to get heat. This goes back to what I was saying about a lot of the archaic ideologies that we have in wrestling still. We want to get heat, we want you to boo our bad guys and we want you to cheer our good guys. We want you to get heat if you're a heel. Okay, the first problem with that segment is, it was intended to be funny. You're supposed to not like Sami Zayn for doing that, so right off the bat, it's a failure, because you're presenting it as comedy. Secondly, if your goal is to make people boo Sami, how is him marching out clearly three men in drag and claiming they're Bobby Lashley's sisters going--like, this isn't 1983!"

"You know a lot of people use the phrase killing the business nowadays? Um, you know, Kenny Omega kills the business because he wrestled a blowup doll in Japan, or the Young Bucks kill the business because they throw 30 super kicks. You know what kills the business? Kamala."

"Kamala kills the business because as recently as the mid 90's, we had a black man on national television dressed up as a faux African 'savage' hailing from the 'dark continent'. That is something that when you are not a wrestling fan, and you see, you go, "Wow, this is every horrible thing I ever heard about. This is lowbrow, unintelligent, garbage entertainment for the stupidest of the stupid, racist, homophobic, whatever, redneck guys. Those are the only people that watch this. When you do something like the Bobby Lashley sisters so to speak, you're not getting Sami Zayn any heat, 'cause even then the audience is aware that this is a creative decision. The audience doesn't think Sami Zayn came up with this." .

[Mike:] "It doesn't even line up with his character they've presented on screen."

[Danielle, fiercely:] "Not even a little!"

*************************

So what should we think? There are two option I can see: you were always faking being a good person, as a way to get...fans? Social credit? Women, maybe? Who knows? Given Big Larry, it's definitely a possibility.

Or, there was always a price tag attached to us. X amount of dollars, fans/reputation/previous 16 years worth of work happily thrown under the bus.

If working there is worth this because hearts are idiots and love what they love, please--I get that. My heart is definitely being a real dickbag right now--apathy toward you would be infinitely less painful.

Are we not people, though, that we deserve some tiny explanation of why you'd suddenly treat us this way? Your life is yours, I'd never want you to tell us everything. I'm not even asking all 280 characters on twitter: "Yep, money." "It's my job." "I can't disappoint my family." "I take almost all the cash and send it to save lives."

There are any number of reasons that would get me wholeheartedly on board.

In my philosophy classes, one of the refrains was, "Stick to the text." There were always a few to several kids who'd read Nietzsche, or more Plato, or whatever, and they wanted to bring that in to prove whatever point. But that's not playing fair, to the other students who haven't read that, or to the text itself--after all, how many theses are written about the 'contradictions' and changes in Plato alone?

So we stick to the text. We only go by what we can see and prove here. The text here, that is causing me so much pain, is:

Sami Zayn performed a racist and transphobic segment.

The guy he is at home agreed to do this.

There was a massive outcry, from all kinds of fans, including trans ones like me.

We have received no word from the guy at home.

We have received word from Sami Zayn that he doesn't give a shit about the harm he may have done.

We know he is paid more in a year to do this than I will be paid in any ten years of my life, and that he wasn't before he worked for this company--and that Big Larry aside, he never didn't anything close to this, then.

So, Sami, if you or that other guy would like to add something to the text, that would be terribly decent of you.


Thanking the Tao I'm a poor freak who'll never have the opportunity to fail people like this,

Autumn

Principles or Nah

Point B

Dear Sami,

The last letter I wrote you, I hung around outside arenas for around twelve hours, because I wanted to hand it to you in person. There was a lot of emotion in that letter for me, and I wanted that personal touch.

That letters follows, so that this journey can be seen in its entirety.

This time, though, I’m writing to let you know that you kinda broke my heart.

I’m a trans nonbinary person. I grew up in North Carolina and wasn’t able to even admit it to myself until my 30s. So when I saw your segment with Bobby Lashly’s sisters on Raw, it was crushing. I couldn’t even finish watching it live.

You’re even more private than most people who work for that company, and so while I have been a massive fan, and donated to SAMS every payday, etc., I don’t really know anything about you. You seemed pretty liberal. You like punk music.

I made assumptions, and that was a mistake. I assumed you were on my side in the fight against those who would dehumanize me and lie about me. I assumed you had my back, because you’ve said supportive things about Laura Jane Grace.

So even if you were bothered about that segment, I’ll never know. I’ll never know what justification was used, by you or them--”Oh don’t worry, Sami will get his comeuppance!” or simply, “You like getting paid, right?”

All I know, all I am allowed to know, is that you performed this. Maybe you’re just incredibly ignorant of the ways black men have been played for laughs in history, maybe you’re somehow unaware of the bathroom bill and (in spite of the fact that it has literally never, ever happened) the assertion that men in dresses will trick and assault people…

Does that possibly sound familiar, Mr. Zayn? No, you know what, Mr. Sebei, because let’s be real with each other. You chose, submitted, whatever, to contribute to propaganda that directly affects my life, so I think I’ll feel free to use that name this once.

My friends and I have been trying to comfort each other. One person, who has written many excellent essays about your history and who deserves so much better, can’t even directly speak about it. You have earned the love of some of the kindest, most devoted, intelligent fans I’ve ever seen in my life, and you have shaken that love to its core. And in spite of that, so many of them assure me that I should give you another chance.

That we can’t know what affects a choice like that.

That you’re just a human and humans are a mess.

That the fact that this directly supports the assertions of this administration shouldn’t be held against you.

Sure. Okay. I can accept that, and I can accept that I’ll never know more than what I saw on TV.

I have a very, very hard time with the idea that you may be living your life unaware of what you’ve done to people who love you. Forget me, I mean people who *love* you, who do art for you, and research, and writing--I’m far more concerned for them than me. I can take it, I just don't want to.

WWE will never admit that it’s done harm, and they’ll never let you either. You certainly didn’t mean to, but you gave me the gift of music back in my life.

So this is me returning the favor: please accept this gift of the full and certain knowledge that you have hurt the minority with the highest risk of suicide in the US. You have hurt people who have devoted dozens of hours to promoting you and loving you and getting others to love you, too.

Oh, Sami. I am so unbearably disappointed in you. It was bad enough when you called Daniel Bryan a housewife as if it were an insult--at least then you went on Talk is Jericho and walked it back a little. Even if you did that this time, I wouldn’t believe you. I’d just be waiting for the next time you throw your fans under the bus.

Maybe I'm wrong, and this isn't part of the propaganda that precedes the horror. Wouldn't that be nice? I've read On Tyranny too, though. Perhaps you should read it again.

I really, foolishly, hope there's a happy ending for us here,

Autumn


Point ADear Rami,

I’m zealous enough about my own to respect your privacy. That said, you’re the one who deserves the thanks for the art, not Sami or Generico.

I’m a new fan. I’ve been watching wrestling for about a year--and I’m a little older than you. I was very wrong about wrestling for a long time. I thought it was rich white people bilking poor white people out of their money and time. Related: my husband and I decided that our family motto should be stultabimus iterum: we will dumb again.

The New Day broke that all down for me, and then I fell in love with wrestling hard. Once I figured out that it was commedia del’arte style theatre with live stunts, I was hooked. I’ve been obsessed with stories my whole life, and I’ve never met a character more joyful or delightful than El Generico. The closest I can think of is Cyrano de Bergerac. The way you move, then and now, makes me gasp, it’s so beautiful. It feels like you have a string tied straight to my heart.

I found wrestling when I badly needed an escape, something to spark my imagination and help me dream again. And it’s given me so much more than I could have hoped for: friends, a community, one of the very happiest days of my life...The New Day broke the door down, but Sami Zayn and El Generico took me by the hand and *showed* me how wonderful wrestling can be--how deep and charming and meaningful. I could never thank you enough. You’ve given me so much joy and heartbreak and more laughter than I had the whole year previous to this one. I’ve watched dozens of hours of PWG, I’ve been to my first wrestling shows, I was taunted (delightfully!) by Colt Cabana--it’s all thanks to you.

I always say that when I find an artist I trust, I’ll follow them down any dark metaphorical alley they want to explore. You are one of those artists. Look, I’m a fat, weird, queer person: there’s always going to be wide swaths of wrestling that want nothing to do with me. But somehow your work makes me feel included and safe. You follow the news: I’m certain you know exactly how rare it is to feel safe in this world.

I can never thank you enough, but I have to try.

PS: I named my (orange) cat La Generica. Ginny for short. She is the best and most affectionate cat I’ve ever seen, so I think she’s well-named.

Specificities

Dear Wrestling in general, Sami in particular,

A lot of my friends are trying to convince me that anything like a good reason to do that segment exists. And I can think of some, sure--you secretly have a child that they're holding hostage for instance. Unlikely, but I could accept that as a compelling reason.

Ignorance comes up a lot--yours, the writers, whoever.

So. Let's get specific, shall we? I wouldn't want you to make the same mistake simply because no one did your homework for you, after all.

WAYS THAT SEGMENT NOT ONLY SUCKED BUT WAS ACTUALLY HARMFUL

1. Trans women get killed and harassed all the time.

2. Black women are often portrayed as more muscular, more animalistic, than white women, which also contributes to attacks on them.

3. Black women are also often incorrectly medicated and treated, on the assumption that they're 'tougher'.

4. There is a common lie that trans women are not women, they are men dressing as women in order to assault cis women and girls. This has literally never, ever happened.

5. The normal moral physics of wrestling would dictate that an asshole who contributed to these things (you) would get his ass kicked by a righteous face, because he acted like a hateful jerk. This did not happen, leaving it unsaid that the 'joke' itself was just fine.

6. There are trans women in this world, women like your friend (?) Laura Jane Grace, who have to contend with the idea that they aren't women, because of  'jokes' like this segment.

7. There are probably other issues here--my husband detects hints of the dehumanization of black families found in minstrelsy--but I don't feel at all qualified to discuss those. I refer you to your many fans of color for that.

You are a Muslim man working in a traditionally racist,  recently conservative, industry. I do not want to be unkind or unfair. That in mind, I would come at a dear friend who'd done this in much the same way. Not publically, of course, but the circumstances leave no other options.

On the Varied Use of Kisses

Dear Wrestling,

I've been meaning to tell you about this all week, because it's honestly the exact antidote/opposite to that bullshit on RAW. And bless his heart, Jake Manning wins me over more every time I see him. It doesn't hurt that he compliments my tee shirts...

So I'm missing parts of this story--specifically, the history between White Mike and Effy. Where I came into it was at PWX's rumble a month or two ago: they were both in the ring, and Effy started arguing with Mike, who seemed to be apologizing. He ended up kissing Effy, shouting, "That's right, I'm about that life!", who then slapped the hell out of him.

Mike, of course, had been teaming with Jake: accidents happened, Mike said sorry (HE SAID SORRY we chanted, so much), but Jake decided that he needed to teach Mike a lesson. We the crowd disagreed with this premise, and so Jake has decided that all fun at PWX needs to be destroyed, so next target, Effy.

(NB: If I knew which matches, or even just which promotions, to hunt down the rest of the story, I happily would--I certainly enjoy what I've seen) (Also I may well be wrong about any portion of this: if so, I'm very sorry and would love correction)

So this last Sunday, Jake and Effy had an absolutely delightful match. I highly recommend it, and hey, look at me, doing your homework for you! (It starts at 28:15, but also watch the whole show.) (Seriously, it's really really good.)

There's so much I love about this match--I'll be cackling to myself about page 37 for days--but the thing that has been helping this week, the thing that has been my refuge, is that sequence of angry, attacking kisses.

It was so unexpected, for me, from Jake in particular. At the same time, it was a totally logical place for the story to go, from what I know of it. The mix of love and anger and jealousy is perfect for a bit like this.

Obviously it's the contrast with Sami's Incomprehensible Choices on Monday, that's what has raised this moment from excellent to a source of actual comfort. Unsurprisingly, given that a proud gay man was involved, LGBTQ people weren't the punchline of this joke.

Instead, heteronormativity was literally pushed aside, here embodied by Amy Rose, bless her. Maybe even better, for someone who grew up in Charlotte, was the fact that the audience loved it. I jumped to my feet, and I don't think I was the only one.

The acceptance and love I've felt at PWX is genuinely incredible to me. As in, I almost can't believe it. I've written before about how seeing this reaction to Effy, in this area, is so meaningful to me. It means more than I could say in a thousand posts, and it's things like SIC on Monday that keep me needing that validation.

We're not there yet, god knows. I'm not out as trans at work because I live in a state where I could be fired for it with likely no consequences. Remember the Bathroom Bill? Yeah.

But growing up here, I never imagined in my wildest dreams that we'd be where we are by the time I was 40. Marriage equality, soldiers getting to be out, pride celebrations all over the country, me being able to be out, at all, to anyone--including myself, to be honest.

Each time something like this happens at PWX, it reaffirms for me how far we've come, regardless of the road ahead.

Even when one of my favorites is caught pushing a car backwards down that road...

Love you,
Autumn