James F. McGrath

The Doctor Who episode The Krotons features what to viewers in our time will appear to be quite primitive and poorly-constructed robots as the key villains. If one can get past the appearance – perhaps by keeping in mind that the Krotons are supposed to be not robots but organic crystal-based life forms that are intellectually and technologically advanced, then one may be able to see beyond the low-budget costumes and appreciate the episode for what it is: a powerful statement about the use of education by colonial powers and more generally in order to reinforce rather than break down class divisions.

In preparing to blog about this episode, I came across a PhD dissertation from Australian National University, freely available online, about Doctor Who. The author is Lindy A. Orthia and the title of her dissertation is “Enlightenment was the choice: Doctor Who and the Democratisation of Science.”

On p.158 she writes:

The Krotons (1968-9) is a more straightforward case along Hodgsonian lines. The oppressors in this story are the crystalline Krotons, who require ‘mental energy’ to repair damage to themselves and their craft. The Krotons have enslaved the humanoid Gonds, and educate them in order to feed on their enhanced brainwaves, inviting the smartest students to join their ship, wherein the students are secretly ‘eaten’. The Krotons control the Gonds’ education through learning machines, but are careful to omit knowledge that the Gonds might use against them, for example the fact that the Krotons’ tellurium bodies can be destroyed with sulphuric acid. This equates to a Chomskyesque metaphor for capitalism’s use of the education system to perpetuate class oppression: the populace are kept selectively ignorant and therefore powerless because the education system’s sole purpose is to identify the most ‘intelligent’, who are plucked away to serve the ruling class. Like An Unearthly Child, The Krotons is a critique of the hoarding and manipulation of science to maintain power. The Doctor’s solution to the problem is to fill the Gonds’ intellectual deficit with chemistry, effecting a successful revolt and the Krotons’ death through the democratisation of scientific knowledge about sulphuric acid.

When I watched and listened to the episode over the past few days, it struck me even more how the episode pertains to the subject of colonialism and a postcolonial setting. The Krotons have landed on a world not their own, and are interested in the original inhabitants only for their own purposes – in this case, using their mental capacity as a sort of “fuel” to get their spacecraft working again. They refer to the state in which they found the Gonds as “savages” and have elevated them through (selective) education – on the one hand, withholding knowledge that could be used against the Krotons, and having the teaching machines not only impart knowledge but also docility, while on the other hand, not actually being interested in the education of these people as an end in itself, but viewing the conquered as a commodity the education of which is only useful inasmuch as it serves the ends of the conquerors.

Those who have lived in a colonial setting have often struggled with the issue of whether embracing the education colonizers offer, or avoiding it, is the best way to go about protesting and resisting. This issue comes up specifically in relation to postcolonialism and science fiction in the introduction to the volume So Long Been Dreaming: Postcolonial Science Fiction & Fantasy which I reviewed a while back for the Journal of Postcolonial Theory and Theology). In response to a question about Audre Lorde’s comment that “Massa’s tools will never dismantle massa’s house” it is suggested that tools can be universal. In “The Krotons” it is indeed a theme that science is universal, and even though the Krotons may have brought it to the Gonds, the Gonds can take it and experiment and seek knowledge for themselves.

One can obviously also use the story as a parable of one all-too-common approach to religion which seeks to hijack the minds of people with great potential for creative and insightful thinking, by restricting the sorts of educational materials and information to which they are exposed.

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The (Im)Possible Witness of a Suicidal Life

Eugene McMullan

***

The film opens with a 15-year-old First Nations youth walking along the train tracks in sub-zero temperatures until he sits down at last, closing his eyes. He will not re-open them. Just then we hear the loud whistle of an approaching train.

Cold Journey tells the story of Buckley, whose remains are discovered by the adults Johnny and Big Moses. They compare his body to that of a trapped Coyote. Johnny had been the youth’s bosom companion and occasional mentor. Johnny will narrate Buckley’s story in voiceover. What would be reported as a death due to accidental exposure had actually been so much more than that. Buckley’s situation as a colonized youth had been so desperate that like a wounded animal in a trap he had had only two choices: either chew off a leg, or curl up and die. Johnny concludes that Buckley had chosen (as if instinctively) the latter.

An Indian, we learn, does not freeze to death in the cold. Buckley, however, was not an Indian. He was an “apple,” red on the outside and white on the inside. As Uncle Joe says, to be an Indian requires living at home with your family, among your people, and learning their ways everyday from birth. Buckley, however, had been forced to attend residential school, where he was deprived of his language. He was also cut off from his culture and history, not to mention his people’s knowledge of the land. At one point Buckley’s mother ridicules him for his inability to speak Cree. Later Buckley’s family literally pushes away from him in a canoe in their quest to find unpolluted lakes to sustain their way of life. As Buckley stands alone on the shore, his departing father sadly advises him to assimilate.

The situation of queer youth today is not precisely that of the residential-school era youth depicted in the film. And yet it is so much more than has typically been reported in the media. Here I will explore some of the contributions that postcolonial, queer and feminist theoretical approaches can make to an analysis of queer suicide, with special attention to recent work on happiness by Sara Ahmed.

Media accounts of suicide tend to explain it as an effect of bullying. This is both helpful and limiting. It is helpful in moving us away from a view of suicide as ipso facto evidence of a psychological problem (sickness) or in the even older view, as a moral failing (sin). Psychological problems may in fact be present in some or many of the cases. In reference to the colonized it would seem to go with the territory, as Frantz Fanon, Kelly Oliver and others have argued. The better explanation where bullying is involved, however, is that the sense of desperation caused by the harassment itself, irrespective of the victim’s mental health (read: “resilience”), was so great that suicide seemed (or may have really been) the only way out. This account lifts the burden of stigma, and exonerates the youth of any moral culpability, which is right both in terms of compassionate practice—how is blaming a suicidal youth going to help?—and in terms of the larger analysis. From a queer, postcolonial and feminist perspective, it really isn’t their fault.

The problem is not, however, limited to queer youth. Queer persons of any age are more likely than non-queers to consider, attempt or complete a suicide. But we don’t see that. The issue of queer youth suicide has become the primary lens through which both queer suicide and queer suffering are made visible. Media depictions of queer adults these days, unlike in the “past” we are beginning to call “the AIDS years,” focus on the happiness of married or nearly-married same-gender couples. Images of suffering are less common, and often revolve around reduced access to the rights, recognition, and privileges reserved to heterosexual couples. We also hear a limited number of reports on the suffering of queers in other countries that are deemed less enlightened than the U.S. and Canada. Work by Jasbir Puar and Judith Butler may help us understand the role these images of suffering play in the justification of empire. North America, with “only” a lingering problem of juvenile bullying, is in a sense exonerated and the imperial project blessed. At the same time all queers are cast as children (a typical function of colonizing discourse), with consequential losses for everyone.

Missing in the queer suicide/bullying narrative are the precisely the voices of the queer youth who are no longer alive to speak. But “voice” implies or assumes not just life, but a mature character [I will follow Mark Jordan’s suggestion at the American Academy of Religion that “character” be substituted for “identity.”]. It helps if you’ve been there, and lived to tell the tale (or frame the analysis). Thus the surviving narrator in Cold Journey was needed to relate Buckley’s story. The seemingly impossible witness of the Muselmann (figure of the zombie-like other of the concentration camps, discussed in Giorgio Agamben) needs the conjoined witness of one who was almost a Muselmann, or was only temporarily a Muselmann, but survives. As if buoyed by a coffin, the Ishmaelite witness floats away from the disaster without having necessarily or definitively triumphed. The “mature” character that gives testimony, I would argue, must in some sense remain at sea.

Bullying in the familiar media narrative is caused by a lack of awareness. By this account normative youth and the adults responsible for them just do not understand that teasing, name-calling, and other inappropriate behaviors may cause a vulnerable youth to commit suicide. This reductive approach to the causes of bullying is mirrored by a reductive approach to supposed “cures.” The It Gets Better videos, for example, propose to bolster youth by telling them not to kill themselves because life will improve as you grow older. The bullying you endure now is as nothing compared to the happiness that will be yours in the near future (the happiness of same-gender marriage and/or a career in the U.S. military, for example).

But happiness narratives, as Sara Ahmed shows, function to legitimate empire, providing ideological cover for the imposed abjections of colonization. In the historical case that still obtains for most of the world’s queer youth, the parental love that just wants you to be happy judges your imagined present and/or future queer life as unhappy, thus causing you to be unhappy. If you would only submit cheerfully to colonization, you would share in the colonizer’s heterosexual happiness, as if by participation or some version of a trickle-down economic theory. But to paraphrase Homi Bhabha, you will always be not quite, not right. The promised rewards of assimilation are elusive, and you will become the colonizer’s fruit.

She also discusses the situation of adult queers, for whom recognition is conditioned on manifesting signs of happiness that are recognizable to the heterosexual majority. But this recognition at the same time confers happiness. You are asked to prove that you are happy in order to receive the recognition that will make you happy. As an aside, the historical Christian majority in North America has often functioned in a similar way, rewarding those who manifest signs of being among the saved or elect with a recognition that confers (actual, material and social) salvation.

Queer youth and adults, as Ahmed explains, are unhappy because queer presence felt as such is taken to be (and actually is) the cause of unhappiness for the colonizer. The queer whose unsettling mimicry subverts the master narrative threatens to upend the colonial apple-cart. We are dealing with competing and irreconcilable accounts of happiness, in which the happiness of the colonizer must in the end be distinguished from that of the colonized.

But what would constitute the happiness of the colonized? Perhaps it is too soon to say. Ahmed’s point is that queers are and in some sense should be unhappy, since the prevailing accounts of happiness refer to the colonizer’s happiness, which produces and depends upon colonial abjection. Be unhappy, be melancholy, be a killjoy, she seems to say, though she also reads Nancy’s concept of happenstance as a happiness-alternative, a queer-sort-of happiness perhaps.

Judith Butler has an essay on doing justice to the life of a person who committed suicide. There and elsewhere she asks why it should be the case that some lives are more liveable than others. Reading Butler, Ahmed asks us to reflect on the bearable life, “a life that can hold up, which can keep its shape or direction, in the face of what it is asked to endure.” (97) If happiness is a ploy, or if happiness remains an unfulfilled promise for so many of us, then perhaps it is enough to set our sights on the less lofty project of bearing up beneath the burden of colonial abjection. I am not convinced at this point that it is important for a life to remain, as Ahmed suggests, unchanged in its “shape” and “direction.” Perhaps it is just as well that we, some or all of us, are in some sense “damaged goods,” subject to the continual impingement of contingencies, including those that we experience as violating us, and forcing us to change.

Nevertheless, I find Ahmed’s critique of imperial happiness persuasive. Applying her insights to the issue of queer suicide, I would propose an embrace of abjection per the figure of “the suicidal life” (Butler). While many traditional approaches to suicide take a therapeutic or interventionist approach that assumes we should all be liberated from a suicidal life, it may be more realistic and useful to incorporate the suicidal temptation or tendency in the elucidation of what it may mean to bear, however uncertainly, precisely with that which does threaten to annihilate us. I depart here slightly from Ahmed’s reflections on the bearable life, as I want to describe a life that may be held in all of its vulnerability, whether or not it is able to maintain its shape and direction.

The suicidal life then, is one in which it does (not) get better, and there is no reason (not) to kill yourself. In this shadow-land, you are free to break down, change, lose yourself, and make love to your demons, even if that puts your future survival in jeopardy. You are the Muselmann; in the next or same instance you are the survivor who speaks of and “for” the Muselmann. You will not sur-vive once and for all, brandishing your scars like trophies. You will always be at risk.

When Mohamed Bouazizi set himself on fire, initiating the Arab Spring, he could not have anticipated the powerful, far-reaching and historical effects of his action. He may have had the more limited conscious goal of calling attention to the particular injustices he had suffered. His situation was more than he could accept. He should have had more access to the conditions of a liveable life. To have the added, final humiliation of being harassed by those in power when he only wanted to sell produce from his cart was almost too much to bear. Strictly speaking his life was not unbearable. He chose to commit suicide in order to bear witness.

Not all suicides are chosen in such a bold, conscious way. Letting go and succumbing to the cold, as Buckley did in Cold Journey, may involve a more ambiguous decision or series of little decisions, conscious and unconscious. Other youths, queer youths, may have boldly chosen suicide, like Bouazizi, in order to bear witness. They have made their point.

But if the suicidal life involves being vulnerable and in some sense prone to suicide, it does not follow that we must ever actually go through with it. Perhaps the project of bearing witness itself may be enough to keep us technically alive to a more “natural” end of days. The image that comes to mind is from Elton John’s tribute to Marilyn Monroe. If we are just “candles in the wind,” it need not follow that a cold blast should extinguish any of us before our time, before we have consumed our wax and simply expired. Perish the wind! If things might not get better, still they might; if we do not yet have a version of happiness worth pursuing, still we might find one; if we do not always find a reason to live, still there is in most instances no compelling reason not to live.

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Eugene McMullan recently completed a Ph.D. in History at the Graduate Theological Union, where his dissertation was entitled “Queer Witness: Religion and the History of the LGBT Movement in San Francisco, 1948-1981.” He is also the founder and lead organizer of Catholics for Marriage Equality in California. His spouse is a Filipino Canadian.

Hannah Hofheinz

 A Perfectly Queer Tactic

* * *

It was November 15th, 2011 and a journalist had just asked if I would be willing to be interviewed. I stood with my friend in the large crowd of gathered occupiers, united to march in solidarity with Occupy Wall Street post-eviction, and I replied no. “No, but I will find someone else willing,” I quickly qualified. The journalist wanted someone who was active with (at least) Occupy Harvard and Occupy Boston. I scanned the crowd, but it was too dense to see. I needed to walk, and I did not want to lose my friend. Turning to her, I asked, “hold hands with me?”

Just at that moment, a black body brushed past.  Ski mask, sweatshirt, pants, shoes, his movements suggested youth. A hypothesis quickly confirmed by the pitch of his laugh. “Hold my hand?” he mocked with the acid of teen sarcasm. Our eyes met. Was there a flicker of desire? I said, “Yes, please. Do you want to hold hands?” With no delay, he extended his arm; he uncoiled his fist; we touched. Yes. My eyes smiled, my lips did not, and he remained shrouded.  The three of us – me, my theologian friend, and this young black bloc anarchist – snaked our way through the crowd holding hands. For those very few minutes, we were intimately joined together; we were the crowd.

* * *

There was a strange interchange reported by the American Civil Liberties Union a couple months ago. This past December, the Boston Police Department filed an administrative subpoena for identifying information connected with the Twitter account @p0isAn0N.  What catalyzed police attention of @p0isAn0N’s account was simply and only “the compiling of publicly available information from the internet, something anyone could have done, which is not illegal and does not constitute a threat.” Twitter, following its stated policies, informed the user, who sought to challenge the constitutionality of the subpoena in court. The following interchange occurred during the second hearing while the court was considering whether or not it would allow the challenge. The topic at hand was anonymity, the importance of first amendment protected anonymous speech for democracy, and the practicalities of performing anonymous speech in the 21st century. As reported, the conversation went something like this:

@p0isAn0N’s attorney, Laura Rótolo, argued that online anonymous speech is essential in the 21st century. We need to be able to criticize the government anonymously. Indeed, anonymity is vital to the very possibility of free political speech.

The District Attorney responded that there are no first amendment grounds for a subpoena challenge because it is not what @p0isAn0N said, but who s/he is that the government is after. An administrative subpoena is a legal and intentionally opaque investigative tool that is above reproach or challenge.

But, Rótolo argued, for the state to unmask someone the state must prove that it has a compelling interest in her or his identity. Since there was not concern or investigation of illegal behavior in this case, there is no compelling state interest.

@p0isAn0N voluntarily communicated via Twitter, the DA countered. In doing so s/he relinquished his/her anonymity by put identifying information into public space by contracting with a service provider. This information is fair game for the state to retrieve.

Judge Spina jumped in: But how is one to speak anonymously in the 21st century, if not online through providers such as Twitter?

By going to Dewey Square and passing out flyers, answered the DA.

The Judge continued: But s/he would be seen by people doing so. In what sense is this anonymous? How could it be anonymous?

By putting on a ski mask, rejoined the DA.

* * *

A ski mask? Let’s sit for a minute with the interchange at the hearing. Let me be clear: I am not concerned with the facts underlying this scenario or with background information. My interest rests only in the critical questions that this snapshot of an interchange provokes in and of itself. As a slice of time, standing on its own, I believe that this interchange raises important questions about materiality, anonymity and state power in the United States today.

A different way of telling the story might begin something like this: police notice that there are widely read words of dissent. A Twitter handle, a virtual pseudonymous mask, has been broadcasting critical and subversive messages to a large community that is likewise engaging in critical and subversive conversation. For all intents and purposes, these are words independent from an identifiable, embodied person, and the words are hostile to established authorities. These words challenge accepted ways of thinking about government, police, society, economy, and more; they seek to incite deep change.  

From behind their own virtual masks, others start to broadcast their own words in response. Conversation, dialogue, and organizing begin. Some participants know who each other are, others do not. The energy and effect of this dissenting discourse grows. People start to congregate, plans come together, and protests are staged. Note that all of these are not only legal, but are protected activities in the United States: assembly, speech, and protest. Why would this be of interest to the police? It oughtn’t be, unless there is reasonable suspicion of something illegal, but it was.

From profiling through historical records, threats are often assessed by means of associating words with the identity and past of the speaker. But, in this case, the instigating words belong only to a mask, a mask that speaks. The words exist simply in an ephemeral, virtual space. If the person behind the mask is one of the congregated protestors, there is no way to know. If the person behind the mask is someone with a history of civil disobedience, there is no way to know. If the person behind the mask has light skin or dark, female parts or male, a hijab or a Masonic ring, clean clothes or dirty, there is no way to know. The clues that the pseudonym speaks might or might not relate to the actual physical embodiment. Not without extraordinary efforts, such as a subpoena to unmask who s/he is, can one know. But does one need to know? Do the police need to know?

Or, more sharply, does pseudonymity warrant police action? Anonymous speech counterbalances the concerted efforts of those in power or with authority to harness and manage speech. Free speech is dangerous to power, to governments, and to institutions. Speech names and thereby makes things visible and knowable; this in turn, makes things protest-able. The very act of speech does things, thereby changing possibilities and dynamics. This is why it is so important to think carefully about who can speak, when, where, and why; this is why the ideal of free speech is simultaneously essential to democracy and so very difficult to actually find. Indeed, even as words are uttered, they easily can be rendered inverted, meaningless, or erased through association with the speaking body.

Modern state power organizes and positions bodies in determinate and determined ways. People are categorized by the roles, subject-positions, and/or identities that are discursively written onto their bodies. Whatever you choose as your preferred language to talk about this (and there are many well-developed options), a few basic operations are at stake. Rules tag our bodies with laden designations: citizen, foreigner, black, white, rich, poor, and so on, and these rules combine according to complex algorithms whose primary purposes are the solidification and perpetuation of power. 

What we take as the visual or performative cues designating whom a person is function to reify what are constructed and highly consequential designations. Think of the common classroom interchange: “Of course it is reasonable to categorize people as ‘black’ or ‘white’ – there are people with dark skin and people with light skin.” Oh really? But why do we organize each other in this way? Does it actually accurately describe the variations in skin tone that humans manifest in the US? Whence the designation; what does it really mean; what effects does it have? When we make this distinction are we simply noting skin color or are we more deeply inscribing certain expectations and rules about the identity of that person and what is licit for her?

Explicitly or implicitly, the designations are vested with ontological significance. They tell us essential information about who the person is; they characterize the sort of person she is; they locate her in history and society. None of this is natural. None of this is neutral. It serves a definite purpose and it has definite effects. It needs to be subverted.

Amongst their effects, these designations contextualize any words or actions spoken by the person. Indeed, the power to speak ultimately depends on how the speaker is designated, and where these designations position her within the matrices of social relations. Every day, media coverage witnesses that the same – even factual – statement articulated by different people is heard differently. It communicates different meaning. A young woman with long dreaded hair proclaiming the need for student debt relief will be heard differently than the young white man wearing a collared shirt. And those two will be heard differently than the middle-aged factory worker.

Again, this dynamic is not accidental, nor is it happenstance. To counteract it – to open up other possibilities and to make free speech possible – demands subversive creativity. Pseudonyms serve this function. They create speakers who exist beyond the conclusive efficacy of discursive designation. Pseudonyms muddle and confuse identification by intentionally shielding access to the materiality of visual or performative cues. Full anonymity goes a step further by erasing pretences of its real (or imagined) material bases altogether. When pseudonymously or anonymously spoken, the words must be engaged on an untethered basis. They must be wrestled with outside of the matrices of identity and expectation.

This represents a threat to the powers that be. Uncontrolled speech holds the power to illuminate – and perhaps even to create – fissures in hegemonic imaginaries. This matters when your goal is to resist and ultimately transform deeply broken societal and political systems. This also matters when your goal is to monitor or counter any efforts to resist or transform state power. The state has a vested interest in neutralizing this threat. Thus, the state has a vested interest in reconnecting pseudonymous speech to its material bases in order to return pseudonymous speech to the realm of discursive designation where the state has more effective mechanisms of control.

Interestingly, the DA argued that @p0isAn0N’s anonymity would have been better performed through the bodily performance of handing out flyers in person while wearing a ski mask. I read this as an explicit argument to return @p0isAn0N’s pseudonymous speech to material presence – even masked presence. Sure, it might not be possible to designate the masked body in terms of skin tone or name. The designation of the speaker as potentially Black Bloc, however, just as effectively provides the material basis by which to associate and thereby control the dissident speech.

For as long as it is allowed to remain unidentified, @p0isAn0N’s pseudonymous speech slips beyond the reach of this form of state power. Because of this, it opens possibilities for resistance and organizing that would not be otherwise. It is essential that those who would stand against injustice continue to fight for this possibility of de-materialized speech. Today, this most often occurs technologically through forums such as Twitter. Free speech depends upon it, and we must not underestimate the importance of ensuring its continued and protected possibility.

But this is not the end of the story. There is a both/and to be wrestled with. Materiality matters as a site of domination, yes, but it also needs to be embraced as a site of transformative prefiguration. Here, I return to the first story.

Occupy – in its encampments and in its geist – is about living, thinking, and interrelating bodies. Since September 2011, bodies not only have come together but, more radically, have stayed together. In doing so, occupiers have performatively refused to respect prescriptions or proscriptions on licit patterns of relationality. Homeless, student, employed, cisgender, transgender, young and old, we have committed our bodies and minds to each other. We have touched and held each other both in defiance and in support. We have closed our eyes to sleep next to each other. We have reclaimed public space for all sorts of bodies to appear and to be together. This, as Judith Butler stated, is a perfectly queer tactic.  

Occupy rewrote social, economic, and political maps through an insistent and dynamic repositioning of bodies. Occupiers subverted the brokenness of our society by intimately connecting their bodies without regard to the designations that organize and control. Analogously to the creative subversion of pseudonymity that untethers speech, occupy encampments untethered relational desire and action from the chains of designations. Who society says you are matters not at all next to the relationships you form and activities you engage in with other occupiers and with people and the environment at large. This, like pseudonymous speech, is a powerful form of creative subversion that effectively and incisively counters state power by undoing the identities that harm us.

Queer communities have long understood the importance of these subversions, as well as the strength of the backlash they can provoke. Untethering performances of intimate relationality from licit patterns, whether through drag, anonymous sex, or public encampment, can open a fleeting, prefiguratively transformed space where we can imagine and experience alternatives. When my fingers felt the fingers of the masked fellow, the intimacy was palpable. Desire crackled and its enactment transformed me. In this instance it was not dematerialization that opened subversive possibility, but a surprising touch. Materiality engendered possibility and transformative potential. The two of us connected in a way that I did not imagine prior and that I have difficulty imagining happening again. But for those very few moments, another world was possible and we were abiding in it.  

People exceed the designations that have been drawn on, through, and between our bodies. Finding ways to escape these guarded territories, however, is a challenge. Indeed, even momentary subversions require bodily resistance and a transformation of our interrelations. Anonymity, pseudonymity and masks can ambiguate determined possibilities, but only if anonymity can stave off its own reification into determined identity. One way to do this is to refuse access or to contradict the cues that are most often used to determine and enforce identities, such as by severing the connections between speech and speaker through pseudonymity or anonymity. Another way is to queer our patterns of relationality and, in doing so, to live together momentarily in a prefigurative space of transformed possibilities. 

For me, the demand here is both/and. We need to struggle to ensure the possibility of de-materialized speech, but we also need to embrace the unique possibilities for transformation that occur in and through material relationality. These two stories offer glimpses into this dynamic. What is at stake in state’s need to materialize @p0isAn0N? What happens when we join together beyond identities in queer intimacies?

References

sosadmin. “Online Denizens: The Government Says You Are Better Off Passing Out Flyers in a Ski Mask Than Tweeting Controversial Material.” Privacy SOS, Feb., 19 2012.
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