How to Erase a Human Being

Maylin Tu
Maylin Tu
Nov 1 · 4 min read

“Erase me, obsessively

How do you erase a human being? I’m not really sure. But I think Writers Blok figured out a way to block my Google review so it doesn’t show up in search results (I don’t know this for sure, it’s just a hunch). In a weird way, I feel like they’re still erasing me, still bullying me—first by kicking me out, then by trying to suppress my story by any means possible. It’s almost like I never existed at all. There’s nothing to see here. Not even a trace of hoodie.

My Google review that you can’t see.
My Google review that you can’t see.
Seems legit.

It’s one of those things that almost sounds too crazy to be true. But honestly, at this point, so many things have happened that fit that description. I mean, I got kicked out of a co-working space over a joke about strippers and then told that apparently, I was kicked out for not being happy. So…I guess anything’s possible.

Being erased hurts. There’s no way around it. But I wonder if erasure is only the logical conclusion of choosing to go against the dominant narrative — in this case, that Writers Blok is a safe, inclusive, nurturing space for all writers. Go against the dominant narrative, pay the price. Five star reviews only.

There’s the goody two shoes part of me that feels absolutely indignant about this — I didn’t do anything wrong! I was only telling the truth, Mom! I didn’t say a bad word! Jimmy did.

On the other hand, I’m starting to feel like I’m part of some crazy espionage story. If this is “Killing Eve,” do I get to be Eve? Sold. (I haven’t seen the show yet, don’t @ me.) I just want a really cool codename like “Iambic Pentameter” or “Spondee.” Operation Tu Hot Tu Handle. Actually, that’s terrible, forget I said anything.

So I thought we could play a super fun secret spy game.

Where’s Maylin? I’ve scattered clues for you throughout this piece. Breadcrumbs. Find them all and you get to erase me completely. You’ve got this. How hard can it be? How many half-Asian, half-white women who look like me could possibly be lurking in the shadows of social media? No point in doing any job half-way—if you’re going to erase me, erase all of me. Eternal-Sunshine-of-the-Spotless-Mind me out of the picture.

[I have this weird tendency to write with one hand under my chin. Weird, right?]

So question: If Writers Blok is going out of their way (theoretically) to block my Google review, then are they really over it yet? If they ban me from their facebook page, are they over it, y/n?

[Clearly I missed my calling as “Woman smiling while writing at picnic table”]

Another question: If you erase someone, do you not also lose a little bit of yourself in the process? That’s what I’d like to believe — that we are all somehow irreplaceable, that we are all deeply interconnected. Maybe the community that emerged at Writers Blok was more tenacious than anyone anticipated. I’m like a tumor. If you try to cut me out, you also have to cut out a lot of other tissue too. I’m sorry, this is a horrible metaphor, but you get the idea. You can’t eat your pizza and have it too. You can’t remove an arm without affecting the entire body.

[That’s my face peaking out from behind the speaker’s shoulder. Subtle, Maylin. Real subtle.]

Maybe being erased hurts so much because we weren’t made to be erased, but the opposite. Maybe we were made to take up as much space as possible. Society erases us too, by insisting that our pain, our trauma look a certain way, feel a certain way, heal a certain way. I don’t know about you, but my trauma doesn’t give a shit about what I think it should do. It just is. I can shame myself all I want for still feeling traumatized and it doesn’t make one bit of difference. Not even a skosh.

[I’m the one with the terrible handwriting and zero moderation when it comes to caffeine.]

One of my favorite definitions of abuse (because who doesn’t have one of those) is anything that keeps us from flourishing, via the brilliant Jamila Dawson. I realize this seems like an insanely broad definition, but it’s helped me clarify so many situations: Am I growing here? Is there space for me? Do I feel erased?

I once had a boss who would literally erase my work every time he felt insecure or threatened. He would unpublish a blog post I had written or delete a meme on Instagram. Even though it infuriated me, it took me a long time to see it for what it was—a form of emotional abuse. Instead of hurting you, I will hurt your work. I will make myself feel powerful by destroying what you have created. Later, this same boss plagiarized me, putting his name and face on my writing. Finally, the process was complete. I only threatened him by existing.

I guess you could say that I’ve had experience being erased. Sexual harassment is a form of erasure. So is gaslighting. So is abuse.

[See that speck of brown in the corner? That’s — psych! Just kidding, that’s not me. Carry on.]

I wonder if people like me are subtly taught to be grateful to be acknowledged at all, thankful to get to exist in any given space. I’m just so happy to be here. So grateful. Why yes, I WILL take the leftover grilled tilapia that you left on your plate, thank you, I was FAMISHED.

But so much of writing is fighting erasure. We write to exist, we write against death, against despair—to prove to ourselves that we deserve to be here too, that we cannot be erased.

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