Sultana

Sultana Khan

A few months ago, I was asked to “judge” a local dance competition. For now, we’ll set aside the fact that my dancing ability and therefore judging ability is approximately equal to that of a drunk, sexually-frustrated toddler. The event sounded fun, and a friend of mine was also on the judges panel, so I agreed and posted eagerly about the evening on a few of my social media pages. 

A few hours after I’d posted about the competition, a woman I’d met briefly and then maintained an online acquaintance with, messaged me. One of the local music acts on the event’s billing was an abuser. He’d used racial slurs in text and in person, about her and around her. As with many abusers who are entertainers or artists, the cyclical trauma of seeing his name attached to seemingly progressive spaces was difficult.