I should have kept my big mouth shut.

I am attending the New York Comic Con and was on a panel about gays in comic books (characters, not creators, although half of the panel was in fact gay.) Everything was going fine. We all chatted about the subject for forty five minutes and then we threw it open to the audience for questions. And that’s where it went off the rails.

The second person to speak then proceeded to do one of the things that I always tell people not to do: rather than ask a question, he began a rambling speech about the Romamni and the way they are portrayed in comics, and eventually got around to saying that he hoped we would strive to give the Romani a fair shake in our books.

Now if I had half a brain, what I would have said was:

“Well, as I recall, Quicksilver is Romani. And everyone hated him until X-Factor #87, and after that issue came out, everyone loved him. So I’m certainly doing my part.” And everyone would have applauded and we could have moved on to the next question.

But no.

Now trying to turn a discussion of LGBTQ concerns into a discussion of Romani concerns seemed dubious at best considering that the Romani law despises homosexuality. But that is a debate for another time.

The larger problem was that suddenly my mind flashed back to 1993, when I was in Romania, in Bucharest, for the filming of a movie there. I was being guided around and then I saw something. And I wrote about it back then, and I will reprint the pertinent section here:

We go into the department store, take the escalator to the third floor. As we pass the second, I can’t believe what I see.

A child, a girl, somewhere between five and eight years old, is following her mother, calling after her. Her skin is dark. She might have been beautiful, if given a chance.

She is on her knees. Walking on her knees.

Sort of.

Her legs don’t bend back. They are bent forward, at the knees.

Her body is teetering at about an 80 degree angle, like a Gumby or a collapsing marionette. She half-pulls, half-shuffles along, sliding on her calves.

My guide sees what I’ve spotted. His face is impassive.

“What the hell is wrong with her?” I whisper. Grasping at the only explanation I can, I say, “Chernobyl?”

“Gypsies,” he replies.

I don’t understand, and tell him so.

“You see a lot of gypsy children like that,” he explains. “When they’re a few months old, sometimes their parents break their knees or their elbows, or put out an eye. They figure it will help them make more money when they beg.”

I nod.

We are looking at chairs, but I’m picturing a child who looks like my eight-year-old daughter, walking on reversed knees, calves scraping along the floor making sounds like sandpaper. We are buying the chairs, but I’m picturing a baby who looks like the smiling one waiting for me at home, howling as a mallet or a sledge hammer or maybe a jagged rock shatters her joints.

We get the chairs, and go out a different exit. There’s another gypsy child, begging. A boy. His legs go the wrong way. I’m in a Stephen King novel and can’t close it. I take his picture from behind, unable to face him.

I buy a case of Coke for the cast, get back into the van, and almost break down.

I return to the set but am unable to remain. I can’t get into filming make believe. A number of off-duty cast members are going into town. I go with them.

We see no more Roger Corman-esque children. But there is one boy, begging, who is being yanked to his feet by his father, yelling at the boy and clearly prepared to cuff him because however much money he might have taken in to that point, it obviously wasn’t enough.

Clabe Hartley, who portrays our main villain, is watching. Clabe has a stone-cold dangerous stare. Clearly he’s considering whether or not to make a move. Clabe’s in terrific shape, versed in various fighting techniques; he could take the guy apart. The problem is that Clabe would wind up in jail, and the child would wind up in traction or on a slab when his father got through taking out his humiliation on the boy.

I’m not sure whether the father is aware Clabe is observing him. Perhaps he is, because abruptly he settles for yanking the boy to his feet and dragging him away. Clabe paces him for half a block, moving like a panther, still weighing options, before slowing and turning away.

There’s nothing he can do.

Nothing anyone can do.

All of that went through my brain and cold anger ripped through my head. I growled, “You really want to do this?” and suddenly the crowd got very quiet.

I related what I had seen twenty-plus years ago. As I spoke I became more and more furious, remembering it so vividly.

The guy tried to talk back, and I didn’t want to hear it. I said we were done talking about it. He kept trying to pursue it. And I blew my stack. Twenty years of remembering what I had seen bubbled over and I shouted at him that we were moving on to the next question.

People were visibly stunned. I had never gone off on a fan in thirty years of being a professional, and believe me, plenty had tried to provoke me. The panel then moved on and at the end I apologized to the audience for losing my temper.

It wasn’t enough, of course. The internet erupted. “Peter David goes off on racist rant!” Everyone expressed disapproval, scowled because I’d been upset.

I guess my question is:

Why are people angry that I got upset about the crippling of children?

Was I right to shout at the guy? Of course not. I don’t believe for a moment that he endorses the behavior. That’s why I apologized.

But am I sorry that the thought of what poor Romani are doing in Bucharest still upsets me to this day? Causes me to have such an angry, visceral reaction? Not for a second. The question shouldn’t be, Why did I get angry? The question should be, Why didn’t others get angry?

Do I believe Romani should be persecuted? Of course not. The way I’ve written Romani characters should make that obvious.

But this is the 21st century, and in the 21st century, you’re not allowed to form an opinion based upon things you’ve been told by people who live there, and things you’ve seen with your own eyes, and photographs you’ve taken. Apparently the only thing that matters is the sensitivities of activists, and if you take issue with actions that the people they represent have taken, then clearly there is something wrong with you.

Screw it. If people want to declare that I hate the Romani, fine. I’ll log that right in with Peter David hates Catholics (even though my wife and youngest daughter are Catholic, the latter about to celebrate her confirmation) and Peter David is anti-Semitic (even though I’m Jewish) and Peter David hates gays (that one’s my favorite because it broke during the exact same month that I got a GLAAD Media Award.)

And maybe in this case it might have some positive effect. Maybe it will prompt people to actually do some research and get into Bucharest and save these children from abusive parents who see them solely as a means of begging. Maybe something positive will come from it.

You tell me.

PAD

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