Community

Last weekend I traveled up to the Boston area to attend Readercon (July 2014, if this blog run for long enough to matter).  For a longtime fan of genre fiction and a growing author like myself, these kinds of events are a great place to meet like-minded individuals and have those kinds of in depth genre-centric conversations that are really hard to find anywhere else.  Why is it then, that even amidst this group that are the best representation of "my people" I can find, do I always feel like an outsider?
    This feeling reminds me of an old student of mine who worked in Kladno (Czech Republic).  He told me that about thirty-five years before, he and his wife had moved to this little village out in the countryside.  They raised their children there, ate many of their meals at the local pub, and only really ventured out to climb some mountains or go on a canoe trip.  Even after all of this time he felt that the local population regarded him as, "that guy from the city."  At the time, it reminded me of that bit from Jaws, that goes something like, "If you weren't born here, you'll never be an islander."  I always appreciate when life experience substantiates artistic assertion.
    It would be disingenuous for me to say that my experience is the same.  For most of my adult life I have been a wanderer, changing job, location, and lifestyle every few years.  Even having revisited my hometown in New Jersey, my old community disappeared long ago as some left and the others grew together, no matter how sweet some of those people still are when we run into each other.  I have been fortunate to find wonderful people at each stop along my road and leaving them always feels like a selfish decision, because it is.  All of the moves have been dictated by me for what I felt I needed at the time to be true to myself and become the person I hope to be.  Every time I move, I become, "that guy from..."  It is to be expected. 
    Communities are built through shared experience.  Over the years, growing up, suffering, laughing, drinking, arguing, and celebrating together makes a small community into a family.  Even those people who are generally disliked in a community will be protected from an outsider simply as a result of long association.  It is more than just the fear of the outsider or of change.  It is the idea that when a part of your community is hurt or lost, a piece of you is likewise affected.
    In Prague, I knew many people who did not like to make friends with the people who had just completed a TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) program.  At first it seemed like a cold and heartless way to be, but I soon came to appreciate it.  There are hundreds of young people, every year, who take TEFL classes.  Many stick around for a couple of months or a year before going home again or on to another country.  When you are away from everything familiar, bonds form quickly with those who help you find your feet and the best spots to get a cheap beer (though, in Prague, they are legion).  It's a beautiful thing for those who pass through, but for those who stay, the little wounds to your heart add up over time. 
    Conventions for fans of genre are largely communities of spirit, not of place (they happen all over the country/world).  When I went to Philcon, I shared a room with a roomful (maybe 30) of Starblazers fans to listen to its history, as well as to meet the voice of Nova.  We all basked in our shared experience for that hour together.  At a different panel, I joined in a lively debate about Epic Fantasy.  At Capclave, I had a lengthy discussion with a lovely fellow geek while GRRM was having a drink with his buddies 20 feet away.  Elsewhere I learned a bit about the rules of Cosplay (at a panel, lets keep it clear).  All of these experiences are related to topics that interest me and are difficult to find elsewhere (in person).  Perhaps that is why the experience of feeling like an outsider at Cons can be surprising. 
    The more Cons I attend, the more I realize that they are populated by a community as well.  It should have been obvious from the outset, I suppose.  This past year, I've attended four (as well as a local writers' event or two) and many faces have started to become familiar.  Some of those faces make their livings from the Cons, for others, the Cons are the one place where they can truly be themselves.  Each Con seems to have its own character, some are more literate, some party harder, and some have the cool panelists; much like any community.  However, there does seem to be a strong core who provide a consistency to these events.
    For a while I wondered why these people didn't immediately come up to me and clasp me to their bosom, when I was so obviously one of them.  Then I realized, like in any community, they will not do all the work.  You have to spread your arms and return the embrace.  This is a community who has been meeting for years to share their passions.  Relationships have developed among the organizers and the attendees alike.  They are more open than other communities, everyone is invited to come and join in, but you can not just sit back and wait to be discovered.  When I come to think of it, there is a beauty in watching a hall full of introverts and outsiders, blossom into their true beings.  I know that I miss my old gaming group and the conversations we'd have over post-game beer and grub at the local Chilis (give us a break, it was nearby). 
    How can this inform my writing?  Well, community is a big part of what I write about.  Genre fiction often deals with outsiders.  As the self-inflicted perpetual outsider, I notice all of the little gestures that members of a community make to reach out to me (and others).  These are the beautiful little moments of transition and change that are so simple for an established member, but mean so much to the outsider.  Communities can be cruel and exclusionary, and that certainly shows up in my work, but I like to celebrate the generosity of spirit that is personified every time someone reaches out to the unknown (me).  Maybe it is my way to show that all of those little pieces I have taken from my friends along the road have not been discarded or wasted, but treasured, and that a little piece of me is always left behind in its place.