Never Followed No Kind of Master's Voice
Dec 9, 2015 9:59:10 GMT -5
Post by Sunar Chugani on Dec 9, 2015 9:59:10 GMT -5
(tw: Islamaphobia, Racism)
Sunar had only joined twitter because some friends from DeviantArt were on it and asked him to join, as well. It had seemed like a good idea: Sharing WIPs and ideas and memes so that he didn't clutter up his DevArt gallery. He didn't have many followers, but that didn't bother him. He was only there to socialize, not to drum up more interest in his art. Oh, it was nice to have compliments (and even critiques!) but it wasn't necessary.
He used his real name, because it didn't occur to him to do anything else. Occasionally he took selfies. Once a picture he had drawn with a group of fairies in an airship went viral among his little group of artist friends. He was proud, at first. He had spent a great deal of time on that picture, and he liked how it had turned out. Several of the faeries wore saris and kediyu, and one wore an abaya.
When someone tweeted him calling him a SJW he shrugged it off.
After he retweeted articles about diversity in art and fiction more people tweeted at him. Some of them responded to selfies several months old, calling him a terrorist and slurs that made him cringe. But this was nothing new; he had only just turned two when 9/11 happened, and being brown with a foreign name was enough to be labeled that way. He had heard that lobbed at his father (although rarer his mother; most people knew that the saris she wore meant she was from India, and few enough Americans realized that there was a sizable Muslim population there.)
Terrorist was still less common than being accused of stealing all the jobs, or of working at call centers, or being asked why his English was so good.
So he shrugged that off, too, although he changed his display name. Not enough of a deterrent, it turned out; they knew what his handle was. He blocked some of them, but block evading was a skill set that they had already practiced on other victims.
And so one morning in December, after making an off the cuff tweet about being afraid of Trump, Sunar awoke to a torrent of tweets he couldn't ignore.
The volume was more overwhelming than he had ever anticipated when he had joined twitter. Someone had taken a screenshot of his tweet and put one of his selfies beside it, and that had set their much larger follower count on his tail. Someone had photoshopped one of his selfies over a picture of the twin towers burning, and it had been taken up by the rest of the mob. Their messages were all roughly the same: Terrorist, leave our country, should be rounded up. Some went further than that even, and seeing their avatars made Sunar's blood run cold. So many white adult men screaming at a teenager on the internet. Some of them had pictures of themselves in suits, and their bios talked about the power they wielded. Some of them had pictures of themselves fishing, or with dogs.
And more than he could count had pictures of themselves posed with guns.
He didn't tell anyone.
He didn't tell Devyn, because he didn't want to bring his already overly serious friend down. He didn't go to Dr. Neville, because so many people needed the school therapist more. Online harassment surely wasn't at the same level as the students whose families had disowned them over their powers. He didn't tell any of his other friends, because it was almost Christmas, which meant everyone should be cheerful. He didn't tell his trainer, because it wasn't important.
That was what he told himself; it wasn't important.
But he deleted his account.
Sunar had only joined twitter because some friends from DeviantArt were on it and asked him to join, as well. It had seemed like a good idea: Sharing WIPs and ideas and memes so that he didn't clutter up his DevArt gallery. He didn't have many followers, but that didn't bother him. He was only there to socialize, not to drum up more interest in his art. Oh, it was nice to have compliments (and even critiques!) but it wasn't necessary.
He used his real name, because it didn't occur to him to do anything else. Occasionally he took selfies. Once a picture he had drawn with a group of fairies in an airship went viral among his little group of artist friends. He was proud, at first. He had spent a great deal of time on that picture, and he liked how it had turned out. Several of the faeries wore saris and kediyu, and one wore an abaya.
When someone tweeted him calling him a SJW he shrugged it off.
After he retweeted articles about diversity in art and fiction more people tweeted at him. Some of them responded to selfies several months old, calling him a terrorist and slurs that made him cringe. But this was nothing new; he had only just turned two when 9/11 happened, and being brown with a foreign name was enough to be labeled that way. He had heard that lobbed at his father (although rarer his mother; most people knew that the saris she wore meant she was from India, and few enough Americans realized that there was a sizable Muslim population there.)
Terrorist was still less common than being accused of stealing all the jobs, or of working at call centers, or being asked why his English was so good.
So he shrugged that off, too, although he changed his display name. Not enough of a deterrent, it turned out; they knew what his handle was. He blocked some of them, but block evading was a skill set that they had already practiced on other victims.
And so one morning in December, after making an off the cuff tweet about being afraid of Trump, Sunar awoke to a torrent of tweets he couldn't ignore.
The volume was more overwhelming than he had ever anticipated when he had joined twitter. Someone had taken a screenshot of his tweet and put one of his selfies beside it, and that had set their much larger follower count on his tail. Someone had photoshopped one of his selfies over a picture of the twin towers burning, and it had been taken up by the rest of the mob. Their messages were all roughly the same: Terrorist, leave our country, should be rounded up. Some went further than that even, and seeing their avatars made Sunar's blood run cold. So many white adult men screaming at a teenager on the internet. Some of them had pictures of themselves in suits, and their bios talked about the power they wielded. Some of them had pictures of themselves fishing, or with dogs.
And more than he could count had pictures of themselves posed with guns.
He didn't tell anyone.
He didn't tell Devyn, because he didn't want to bring his already overly serious friend down. He didn't go to Dr. Neville, because so many people needed the school therapist more. Online harassment surely wasn't at the same level as the students whose families had disowned them over their powers. He didn't tell any of his other friends, because it was almost Christmas, which meant everyone should be cheerful. He didn't tell his trainer, because it wasn't important.
That was what he told himself; it wasn't important.
But he deleted his account.
