I'm supposed to keep my cancellation a guilty secret.
Fuck that. Let's talk.
Dear agent of my cancellation,
I met you circa 2014, at the Brooklyn Society for Ethical Culture, where I was leading a monthly Gift Circle—an attempt to cultivate community through generosity.
You suggested that I give a platform talk about the Circle. In late 2014, I did. From the audience, you expressed appreciation for what I’d said.
Geranium and I left Brooklyn for Beacon in spring 2015. A couple years later, we ran into you and your wife, one weekend, on Main Street. You were considering relocating; we chatted briefly about your interest, and our experience.
After you moved to Beacon, you and I met up for coffee. We talked about the local writing landscape, then illuminated by Beacon’s wildly popular literary salon, Get Lit.
In spring 2018, you invited me to your housewarming party. I accepted, and had a good time. That summer, I attended a literary game night you hosted at Quinn’s. I traded a prize I didn’t want for a prosthetic tentacle. I bought a copy of your memoir.
Fast forward to January 2022—the month after Lyndon McLeod’s murders and death.
I was grappling with my own grief, plus the gulf between the Lyndon I’d known and the caricature metastasizing on the Internet.
Yes, he was a murderer and a fucking asshole—he was also a friend who’d catalyzed great shifts in my life, and shown me warmth and kindness.
I hated watching the media feed him into their eyeball-grabbing machines—and watching others who’d loved him disown him.
Neither approach promotes composting.
I chose not to erase the digital traces of my association with Lyndon. I left intact, on my website, the interview I’d done with him in December 2019; reviews of the first two volumes of his novel, Sanction; a blog post in which I referred to his work; and a fake letter he’d written, posing as a Black reader of Sanction.
Nor did I remove the episode of my podcast, Chocolate Church—published the day before he killed and died—that featured the first half of our 2019 interview. Rather, I followed it up, two weeks later, with a mini-sode called “Mourning a Murderer.”
In mid-January, I learned that—having discovered my link to Lyndon—you’d questioned my character in a private Facebook group, then removed your post before anyone could object, or rise to my defense.
By that time, Get Lit had dissolved, and you’d filled the void with a new series, Lit Lit, also wildly popular. At your events—held the first Friday of every month—any writer could sign up to read for five minutes.
At the March installment—partly in defiance of your disapproval—I read a revised version of “Mourning a Murderer.”
My voice cracked as I read. I had to fight to keep from crying. Afterwards, multiple fellow writers thanked me for my contribution. You thanked me too, as I left the stage.
The next month, when Lit Lit fell on April Fool’s Day, I shared a fake excerpt from my memoir, in which a fundamentalist Mormon woman lets me hitch a ride with her, then tries to recruit me as a sister wife.
In June, I signed up to read again—then canceled, after falling and injuring myself the evening before. You responded with warm wishes for a speedy recovery, when I texted to let you know.
In the next year, my enthusiasm for Lit Lit diminished. Sharing my work no longer thrilled me; as a listener, I found myself wishing the lineup would wind down, so I could leave. Most months, I didn’t go.
In June 2023, at a friend’s urging, I did go, telling myself I ought to get out more. Once there, I figured I might as well sign up to read in July. So I did. Then I took a seat in the back, and waited for the readings to begin.
Before introducing the first writer, you thanked people for attending a recent Lit Lit mixer. I felt a pang. I wished I’d known that was happening! I definitely would have gone.
I realized I hadn’t heard about it because I wasn’t on the Lit Lit email list. Even though I’d opted in multiple times.
I made it through the first half of the program—then decided, for the first time, to skip the rest. I’d stay for the full slate of readers next month, I thought, when I was reading myself.
I left at the intermission in part because I was struggling with intense distraction.
Earlier that day, I’d received blowback, in the post-Zendik Facebook group, for inviting its members to a Zoom event called “Composting Lyndon,” which I was seeing as an opportunity for those who’d known him to turn our collective pile.
One member said Lyndon deserved to be forgotten. Another—projecting her own experience onto me—said I’d been “played,” and needed to admit that.
Though I did receive one positive RSVP by email, no one shared in the group their interest in attending, or explicitly expressed support.
The event was scheduled for Tuesday, June 27, 2023.
The Saturday before that, I hosted a dinner party for three other ex-Zendiks. To whom I admitted that Lyndon had told me in January 2019 that he was serious about killing, and that I’d kept his disclosure to myself partly because I hadn’t wanted to lose contact.
I used the word “obsession”; I descended into self-flagellation.
I realized that I was not composting Lyndon, but my relationship with him.
I acknowledged that I’d behaved, at times, in ways I no longer stood behind. I saw that I could respond to the shitstorm in the Facebook group with the curiosity I’d wished my comrades had shown me.
When I met up with you, at a coffee shop, on Saturday, July 1, to discuss your concerns about my reading at Lit Lit the next Friday, I was still in a tender place. I showed up ready to dig deep. Get honest. Do what I needed to do to mend our friendship. I brought an open heart.
You brought pages and pages of handwritten notes, to which you furiously added as we talked.
Apparently, you’d listened to the entire two hours of my interview with Lyndon, and read everything I’d written in relation to him—then prepared for an inquisition, not a heart-to-heart.
You accused me of violating Lit Lit’s “code of conduct.”
I’d never read this code. I hadn’t known it existed. I hadn’t heard it mentioned at a Lit Lit event, or seen it on the Lit Lit website.
You went on to equate his oft-quoted Tweet, “The weak better buckle up,” with fascism. You objected to my having praised his writing, and failed to erase the digital traces of our association.
By then, I had begun to erase things—including my entire podcast, Chocolate Church (whose hosting fees I no longer wished to pay), and the full-length version of my interview with Lyndon (a memory hog whose megabytes I wished to repurpose).
I’d also removed the fake letter from “Reader X,” having acknowledged that I hadn’t appreciated the tantrum Lyndon had thrown while we were discussing my posting it.
I’d left intact two reviews (of Sanction volumes one and two) and a blog post in which I referred to the book.
I confessed—in tears—that I regretted not pushing back, in our interview, on his dismissal of Black Lives Matter. I shared my fresh understanding of the ways I’d diminished myself in his presence.
I dissolved into the story that you had the right to try me. And that I should plead guilty. Because I’d fucked up.
Then you moved on, to a subject that took me by surprise—shit Geranium had said on social media that you considered anti-Semitic. You’d had me in your home, you said. You felt like I’d betrayed you.
Further, I’d interviewed Geranium for my podcast—which, you said, implied endorsement of his politics.
I clarified that on my podcast we’d talked transportation and infrastructure—not politics. And, since I neither scrolled on Twitter or Facebook nor tracked Geranium’s feeds, I knew only that his activity on both platforms had provoked the anger of a few mutual friends.
I confessed that in conversation with him I’d stopped pushing back on cringey statements, because it didn’t seem to do any good. I proceeded to beat myself up for this, and blame myself for the pain you’d felt while reading his posts and Tweets.
That is, I descended, once again, into self-flagellation—this time, pleading guilty to Geranium’s alleged transgressions.
Before ending the meeting, you said it would probably be okay for me to read at Lit Lit the following Friday. You’d reflect on what I’d said, and get back in touch.
As I walked out of the coffee shop, I finally registered, in my body, the mismatch between your coldness and my warmth. Realized that you’d been playing prosecutor.
The thing was, you didn’t have to. You could have told me, straight up, that you didn’t want me to read at Lit Lit. Because you didn’t feel good about it. I would have accepted that. You got to decide who took the stage at your party.
A couple days after the meeting, you sent me an email saying that part of my interview with Lyndon was still available on Spotify (it wasn’t) and requesting clarification of something I’d said in a blog post.
By this time, I’d retired the whip.
I’d discerned that since I couldn’t control what Geranium said on social media I couldn’t take responsibility for it. (And that his most recent Tweet, regarding the origins of the term “Semitism,” was so tortured in its phrasing that I couldn’t tell if I objected to it or not.)
On July 3, I posted, to Twitter and Facebook, “I shouldn't have to say this, but.... I am not my husband. His views are his. They are not mine. If you are wondering whether I agree with something he's said, please ask. Do not assume. Thank you.”
I’d also discerned that, by continuing to answer your questions, I was accepting the role you’d cast me in: defendant attempting to prove innocence.
I didn’t like that role.
I preferred to step out of the courtroom.
Especially since I still hadn’t seen the “code of conduct,” or learned what you thought I’d done to violate it.
I suspected you were actually accusing me of thought crime.
I asked: “What provision of the code of conduct did I violate? Which of my actions violated it?”
I also asked what you were thinking I might do to compromise others' experience of Lit Lit, or what you thought I'd already done to compromise it.
You did not answer my questions.
You said, “I think that you and Lit Lit unfortunately don't share the same vision, and therefore you shouldn't read there.”
You attached the “code of conduct.”
It read, in part:
“At Lit Lit, we seek to create a safe environment for everyone who reads, participates, or attends.
“To that end, we do not allow readings with hate speech….”
“We also do not allow readers who…[positively portray] individuals…calling for violence for its own sake…[or] antisemites….”
“All determinations with respect to this policy will be made by Lit Lit curator [your name].”
“Lit Lit exists for the benefit of the community, and for the sake of readers and writers in Beacon. We will not allow anyone to use this platform to divide us.”
How, I wondered, might my reading at Lit Lit create an unsafe environment?
Were you thinking that an audience member, after hearing me read, say, an excerpt from my novel in progress, might google me, find my reviews of Sanction, and feel retroactively threatened?
Were you planning on googling every other reader, to make sure they’d never positively portrayed anyone whose beliefs or actions you didn’t like?
Were you going to let every participant know that Lit Lit’s “code of conduct” covered not only their behavior at events, but everything they’d ever done on the Internet?
Who belonged to “the community”? Who didn’t? Why didn’t I qualify as one of Beacon’s “readers and writers”?
Who were “we”? Was there a “we”? How could there be, if you alone were deciding who belonged?
I didn’t contest your determination. I decided that I wanted to show up where I was enthusiastically welcomed, not grudgingly tolerated. That I would find, or create, in other venues, the kind of literary community that served me.
Still—it hurt. For months, I felt scarlet-lettered.
And then, in November 2023, I saw a flyer for an event called the Nopen Mic. Anyone could attend; only women and the genderqueer could perform.
I showed up. I read an excerpt from my novel in progress. I enjoyed the other performances—by musicians, comedians, and writers. I did not consider leaving early. The organizer did not google me. As far as I know, I did not threaten anyone, or cause division. I simply had fun.
If the organizer had googled me, she would not have found anything dated earlier than 2022 linking me to Lyndon.
Shortly after you excluded me from Lit Lit, I removed my two Sanction reviews, having acknowledged they weren’t honest (I’d poured on the praise, withheld criticism). I also removed the related blog post, as I didn’t want someone who barely knew me to encounter it out of context.
I have not disowned Lyndon. Rather, I’ve continued to compost my relationship with him, from a place of greater awareness. Thank you for your role in catalyzing this process.
On Leap Day I moved to Earthaven—where I now host, on the first Friday of every month, the Open Mouth, a mic-less open mic.
I welcome all forms of expression.
I do not google performers, or vet them for ideological purity.
I make space, as host, for every twist of the fertile tangle. For buckets of honey, coated in slime.
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To be clear, I'm not judging you and do not endorse how this person handled their concerns. They didn't approach you as a friend. However, I remember seeing something written by your husband years ago that caused me to have concerns and wondered if you shared his views. It was a short, and common fascist dog whistle. And as someone who is adamantly antifascist and actively fights fascism - After reading through your husband's twitter in more detail today, his antisemitic and fascist views are clear. As often with people with views like that I think he skates the line, so as to have plausible deniability if called out. It's a common tactic. Fascists infiltrate a lot of communities in that way.
So, since you share/shared a life with him it's valid to have concerns over whether you are a safe person. I would have approached that convo more out of concern for a friend rather than an attack.
That being said, your husband has views that I vehemently oppose.