On Being Canceled

we imagine that when we die we will transcend this world and enter the next. yet the ghost remains, trapped, unable to leave. we hear him slamming doors, rattling chains.

I've spent a lot of time here, in this black box, trying to talk about being canceled. How do I talk about being unable to speak?

Being canceled is like being closeted: we cannot know him. We cannot see him. We cannot hear him. We can only imagine him and, perhaps, remember him.

Is being closeted an identity? Can an identity exist that is invisible? The closeted man is not real. He is a figment of the imagination. He has no agency, no body. He has no shape, no shadow.

In the moment of being outed the closeted man ceases to exist.

In the moment of being canceled I ceased to exist.

I saw myself attacked by a mob and I identified with the mob. I felt a vicarious thrill, a vengeful bloodlust. I wanted this man punished.

A closet door opens: chaos bursts forth. I am dragged into the light, bleary eyed, stumbling: I have been outed. It is plain as day: I have been exposed.

First you are found out and then you are cast out. You are thrown into prison or sent into exile or you are killed. You are kept hidden and you are kept silent. The entire world is now your closet and you have no space of your own to retreat to.

Being canceled is like being a ghost, an angry spirit, haunting. Like a body that has been desecrated and disposed of without solemnity or dignity or grace. We imagine that when we die we will transcend this world and enter the next. Yet the ghost remains, trapped, unable to leave. We hear him slamming doors, rattling chains.

There are broom closets and water closets and closets for clothes but the true closet is a dreamworld, a floating world, a world of night, full moon, and stars. It is a room for unresolved and ambiguous things: odds and ends and bits of stuff, keepsakes and mementos, unopened boxes, monsters and skeletons.

Being canceled is like being in a dream. The dreamer wakes up and only then does he realize he was dreaming. The waking man remembers the dreaming man, remembers being him, being in his world. But it's all so bizarre it makes him laugh. He can't make sense of it now.

In January, 2018, my friend and publisher Raighne Hogan called me a predator, promised to punish me, and refused to explain why. He had lost his mind. Yet his statement was taken seriously. People liked and retweeted. I'd been whispered about for a long time, someone said. Strangers opined. Reporters ran the tweet in their headlines. I'd been exposed, clearly. But as a predator? No, I was simply exposed.

Being canceled is like being raped. A double burden: I am abused and unable to speak of it. I am revealed as weak. My friends and family are revealed as weak. No one was able to protect me. There is nothing that can be done about it. No one will be held accountable. A violative act severed my sexuality from my person. My life was ruined.

To be fair, though, I was asking for it. I flirted with being canceled for years. I wanted to come close to it, to feel the heat of danger but emerge unscathed. When it came time, however, some sort of dream logic took over. I bowed my head submissively. I allowed myself to be led to the chopping block. Like Raighne, I found myself swept up in the zeitgeist. I'd lost my mind.