A series of events over the weekend led to a resolution I hope to stick to. I could call it a re-resolution because ‘to be a feminist killjoy’ is certainly what I have tried to be, but have also failed at in many instances over the past years. But first, the events in chronological order:
On Friday evening, I was at the launch of Sara Ahmed’s book What’s the use? On the uses of use. In a short, rousing speech that ended with her reading the last three pages of the book, Sara reminded us of the importance of the work that still needs doing. For the uninitiated, Sara Ahmed is a scholar, writer and author, and most importantly to me, the person who is synonymous with the phrase ‘feminist killjoy’. I wanted to get my copy of an earlier book Living a Feminist Life signed — this one has the killjoy survival guide and the killjoy manifesto. Between my name and hers in the book are now the words ‘in feminist killjoy solidarity’. So that was it, start of the weekend.
From the launch and still thinking about it, I joined friends for dinner. This had been organised to formally introduce the visiting significant other of one of us to the rest of us living together. There had been a few hellos and hugs since he had arrived but this was the mandatory ‘sit down, get to know each other’ scenario. A basic profile of this guest of honour would read thus: in his twenties, upper caste, relatively well to-do, English-speaking, suffered through Engineering and studied through a Masters degree abroad, settled in Chennai and currently visiting partner in the UK.
As we settled into our table, we caught up on where we were coming from. Another co-killjoy got excited about the launch I had just been to and wanted to know all about it. The significant other wanted to know who Sara Ahmed is. We told him. Then very causally he asked us what our political leanings were. Mind you, we had gotten no food or drinks in at this point, and it was still at the initial ice-breaking stages. Co-killjoy and I had no qualms going into the details of our leanings, solidarities, critiques. One person at the table followed up with her disillusionment of the ruling party, how her hopes had been quashed.
We turned to him, expecting him to answer the question that he had so passionately posed. “I’m neutral,” he said. “I don’t like take a stand on political issues even when I hear of them nor do I have any leanings.” The ice that I was supposed to be breaking was freezing over by the end of the sentence. I said nothing, not wanting to upset the dynamic, not wanting to be ‘that person’, not wanting to kill the joy at the table. The pizza was good — I can tell because I really focussed on the flavour.
Come Saturday, I didn’t feel the chest-thumping pride or the need to gloat that I saw in many thousands of others. I woke up feeling ashamed. And then in the face of the fist-bumping on WhatsApp and elsewhere, angry. And then guilt for not doing enough to fight against a system that produces many ‘neutral’ people for each person that is not. I felt shame, anger and guilt knowing that I had failed the previous night, and fail consistently at being a feminist killjoy.
Neutrality is oppressive, the silence of the neutral deafening, the strength of that silence mighty. Neutrality is the oppression, feminism is the fight against it, and this weekend has brought me back here, with more rigour. I don’t owe anyone happiness, I will not forget histories that are not over, I will snap any bonds to speak truth to power, I will interfere every single time I encounter ‘neutrality’, I am proud to be a feminist killjoy, even if I am a bad one. I’ll start with my family WhatsApp group because it’s never just a forward, never just a joke.
archanaa seker
seker.archanaa@gmail.com
The writer is a city-based activist,in-your-face feminist and a media glutton