Why My Twitter is Private

For years I’ve used the @ieatkillerbees tag in every corner of my internet presence. It’s all about brand consistency after all! However, a few months ago I took my @ieatkillerbees twitter account private and moved to a new account, @facsamile, for posting about tech. I want to talk about why I decided to do this and why you should still follow my original account.

Since 2016 I have been increasingly vocal on Twitter about politics. I have never been shy about being a revolutionary leftist and anti-capitalist, but over time it started to dominate my feed. The tech industry has what can politely be called a diverse set of ideological opinions. Starting around 2016 I decided I couldn’t be polite anymore and started calling out the reactionary behavior that I saw in tech. I also started following and boosting more voices in my non-tech communities. I knew the majority of the people following me on Twitter had done so to hear my thoughts on engineering and I wanted to carve out a space specifically for that.

But here is the thing. I named this new account @facsamile because it is a poor and grainy copy of who I am. It’s a professional mask, to talk about unoffensive topics that, while still important to me, are palatable to an audience that doesn’t share my politics. Over time I have used that platform to talk more about my activism work, but always in a positive and polite way. It will always creep into anything that I communicate, and if you are going to accept me as a professional engineer I want you to also accept me as a loud and unapologetic advocate for the marginalized.

But here’s the thing: even if you don’t share my politics, I challenge you to follow my main account. Especially if you don’t share my politics. Especially if you are offended by rough language, by images and talk about violence, especially if you believe protest needs to be respectful and peaceful.

We are in trouble. By we I mean every person who isn’t white, who isn’t cisgender and heterosexual. Fascism is rising in North America and Europe, and people like me are in the cross-hairs. We are fighting for our lives every single day out here. I put in my eight hours at work. I smile and I make small talk, all while there are people openly and loudly advocating against my very right to exist. And when my work day is done, I start my second job of trying to keep my community fed and healthy and safe. The work never stops. It is exhausting and demoralizing and we do not get time off.

Frankly, I’m terrified. I’m scared of what will happen to me, what will happen to all queer people, to Black and brown people, to immigrants, the disabled, and the poor. We are in fucking trouble.

I want you to see that. I want you to hear not just my fears but the fears of the people in these communities who are screaming for help from a population that just doesn’t seem to care. You need to see the anger, the frustration, and the desperation. You need to see us mourn our dead. You need to see queer parents like me who are terrified of the coming genocide. You need to see our anguish about the world our babies are inheriting.

For eight hours a day I smile and make myself care about company initiatives and team building. I want to enjoy a day’s work and then relax with my kids and my friends. I don’t want to fight and struggle and fear. I don’t want to organize a march for queer liberation and I certainly don’t want to write letters to my children in case one of the threats against us materializes and I don’t make it back. I want to die of old age, not for a cause.

We are too few to defend ourselves without help. I know that the majority of you who are silent about what is happening are not heartless. Why would you expose yourself to this horror when it’s not coming for you. I understand that, I swear I do. But I like to think that my years of giving to my tech community has meant something to you. Maybe I’ve been a mentor, maybe you’ve been inspired by a talk I gave on ethics or computing history, or maybe you learned something in a technical workshop I gave. I’m begging you to see the other half of me. The half that can’t smile and make small talk, the half that has to seem strong and brave even when I feel weak and terrified. I need you to stand up with us. I need you see.