It’s been an emotional few days for me. I’ve been at Riot for over four years, and my departure is something I’m still grappling with. I’m upset and very sad.

I’m also fearful. Fearful that we may never see the change that Riot — and the gaming community at large (and while we’re at it, the world) — needs to undergo. Fearful of re-acquainting with the internet mob that I’m no stranger to. Fearful of what comes next in my life.

That fear has kept me silent since my departure. Well, mostly silent.

That’s not much of a statement, and for anybody who knows me, it’s grossly out of character. I have not been shy about my opinion; I have always worn it on my sleeve. With how much speculation there has been over the last few weeks, it’s especially clear that silence is not an option. So here we go.

In a lot of ways, Riot Games is the best workplace I could have ever asked for. I have been lucky to have a job doing what I love: communicating with people about something we are mutually passionate about. I am proud of how I have done that job, and I have been blown away by the number of coworkers who have offered to write my next recommendation letter and praised my performance in the last week (and before).

I have also been lucky to have a job which has great flexibility: I have used our PTO plan in order to take many early Fridays so I could travel to a political event (where most of my out-of-Riot time goes).

But it is clear to me that there is no place for me at Riot Games. For a long time, I thought I could carve one out. I fought tooth and nail for diversity at Riot Games, making many allies and losing a few friends. I am proud of the fact that — on my last lunch at Riot — I was joined by around a dozen women and only two men, a direct inversion of gender demographics at Riot. Ordeals like this make it clear where people stand, and I am proud to stand with women at Riot, in the face of bias, discrimination, and harassment.

The problem is that while the great parts about Riot define the experience for many people, for too many marginalized people they are either inaccessible or overshadowed by alienation. Not just women, either, but also racial minorities and the LGBT community.

I was definitely an outsider at Riot just by demographics. I spent most of my adult life in Portland, one of the least black cities in the United States, with a black population of 6.3%. The wing of the building I worked in at Riot was maybe 1–2% black, with a total of ~7 black people (when I started there it was 3).

Much of my time at Riot was spent being forced to be an outsider, something I detailed extensively here, and for some time I felt pretty intimidated into not speaking up. When the original Kotaku article dropped, I decided that speaking up had to be more important than fears of losing my job. And so I did.

But it all escalated on Labor Day. I tweeted about the importance of unions and how collective bargaining could be a critical tool in pressuring Riot leadership to more heavily prioritize issues of diversity. The next day I wrote an article about misogyny in gamer culture, retweeted somebody’s defense of gendered panels, and tweeted in support of my then colleague, Daniel Z Klein. Somewhere in there, I found time to call some people “manbabies” on reddit, which has apparently become the worst slur in the history of mankind in the last week.

(I would later edit the “manbabies” language out, at the request of Riot)

The next day, I was called into a room with my manager, my discipline lead, and a Talent partner, where my manager expressed frustration that I had engaged on the DZK issue despite being asked otherwise. after a few questions about what my goal had been with some of my recent social media presence, I was told that I should go home for the day and think about whether or not I wanted to remain at Riot. The next day, I was presented with with an ultimatum: that if I were going to keep my job, my social media presence had to be not just in line with our social media policy, but held to a higher standard given my role in communications.

I’ve never been one for agreeing to things I can’t guarantee.

I don’t know what I’ll do next. I don’t have a job lined up. But I do know what I believe in, and I know I’ll be able to be a better advocate for those beliefs outside of Riot than I ever could within.

I said before that I was fearful, and I am. But there’s no time for fear. I know that I have to keep speaking up because in the last few months, I’ve heard far too many people express their own fears, especially in the last week.

One of the more active and followed Rioters, Tiza, recently made his account private and worried about having to “scale back” his twitter presence.

Many female Rioters also messaged me admitting that they don’t feel safe speaking out, but one in particular stood out to me.

I just want all of my friends at Riot to know that now more than ever it’s important that they speak up. We are at an inflection point in our culture, and history is watching.

Do not be afraid. Recent revelations have brought many voices to the forefront, and there is power in numbers. Speak your truth. Speak the truth of those around you. Stand by one another.

It is our duty to fight for freedom.

It is our duty to win.

We must love and protect one another

We have nothing to lose but our chains.

We, not I. You are not alone.

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