I didn't feel guilty about being a killjoy until...

It's been a hell of a week.

I consider myself a positive, upbeat kind of person. I believe in the power of manifestation, looking on the bright side, and finding joy in the little things. Despite all the reputation that playing the role of the Killjoy gets in literature, classrooms, and social situations more broadly, I always figure out how to bring realization and laughter in most of my interactions. This week, however, seemed to be an exception.

I do not know if the story of what happened is at all relevant. I worry that in the past few months, everyone has had a version of a tale that summons the guilt that comes with bringing up difficult conversations. This past week, I was confronted with the image of being difficult.

Someone said something. It was not quite an insult, but if you listened closely, you could hear it, “Rage is not the answer. Calling people out is not the answer.” If you zoomed in, you could see it as clear as day: “Being a killjoy is not the answer.”

I was transported back to my undergraduate days. The image of my anthropology professor staring at me with astonishment as he asked, “Are you a pacifist?” He asked with a degree of incredulity that made me stumble. Pacifism was not something a sociologist was meant to encourage. Certainly, not a Latin-American sociologist. Most assuredly, not one who hoped to be an activist.

The problem with searching for “the answer” is that binaries start to look awfully tempting. Discussions turn from anti-racism, anti-fascism, anti-sexism to more palatable conversations of calling in vs. calling out. Instead of overt activism and resistance to oppression, serious consideration starts being given to the assimilationist version of “change” — which is to say, reform. We decrease our tolerance for ambiguity, tension, and disagreement in favor of canceling all those who do not fully subscribe to our specific understanding of what it means to police and shame those who have said and done things that are shameful.

I do not remember what was said after I heard, “Being a killjoy is not the answer.”

Inside myself, I debated on what to say.

• “That’s easy to say when you’re white.”

• “That’s a strangely ahistorical perspective.”

• “Your white academia is showing.”

• “Have you ever even seen a book on the history of revolutions?”

• “So, you truly believe that a revolution can happen while tolerating those who are intolerant to my existence?”

• “Are you a pacifist?”

I considered each of these, along with the possible reactions and responses my peers might have. I paused. Was I simply too revolutionary for this conversation? Was my thinking simply too broad, too all-encompassing, taking up too much space, to even be in this room? Was this room ready to hold all of me?

Was I ready to be the one who made it all about race, history, oppression? Was I ready to be a killjoy here, of all places?

Guilt appeared almost instantly.

No. I was not ready.

The guilt set in, made itself at home, and took a seat.

I’ve spent most of my life being a killjoy. In different capacities at different times, depending on the situation. I’ve been made fun of, ridiculed, had eyes roll and incited performative sighs from the crowd. Very rarely does it ever stick with me for too long.

But after this discussion ended and I left the room, I could still feel guilt inside me.

The day after, I still wondered why I didn’t say anything.

Two days later, I asked if I was failing at my main purpose here. In academia. In activism.

And still, today, a week later, I wonder where I could possibly send this guilt to. I don’t want it inside me anymore.

Being a killjoy at any given moment in time is a choice. It’s a choice you need to make, and it’s important to consider all the variables in play. Will you be in danger? Would it endanger your future? Will you be able to live with yourself after?

I had never felt guilt for being a killjoy as strongly as I did this week, being told that it was not the answer to the intolerance and hatred that’s running rampant right now. And though I did, initially, resist the declarations being made, I could not continue. The discussion had turned into an essentialist binary perspective attached to performative allyship. It is not rare that even in discussions about oppression, the oppressor is still the one that most often speaks and is most often heard.

Despite this, it is often the words of the oppressor that leads to us killjoys feeling the sting of shame and guilt afterward. After all, we are the ones with skin in the game. We are the ones who are making it all about race, gender, sexuality, history, oppression. We are the ones who bring up topics that “are not the answer.” We are the troublemakers.

I do not have words of encouragement for you.

I do not have strategies on how to deal with these feelings and accusations as they come up – and as things are now, they will keep coming up.

What I do know is that my body is a battleground, even more now than ever before, and I refuse to cede an inch to a performative ally whose only goal is to make me doubt my history and my role in this fight.

I do not know if being a killjoy is the answer, but I do know that every time someone out there embodies the spirit of the killjoy, it is another moment that we resist.

I know that every time someone out there is shamed for having done something shameful (like, for instance, voting for a fascist), it is another moment where we refuse to cede ownership of what is right.

I know that every time a killjoy polices sexism, racism, monosexism, classism, and every other -ism/-phobia out there, we are creating a safer space to exist.

I refuse to be told, I refuse to internalize, I refuse to accept that being a killjoy is not the answer when being a killjoy is all we have left.

And though we will not shame each other for making the choices we need to in order to survive the next few hours, days, months, or years – we will not allow those who actively represent and/or are the oppressor to tell us what the answer is to build a new world.

In solidarity & resistance,
Jace