Justice
Justice is, in my mind, one of the most powerful cards in the tarot as divinatory and spiritual tool (as opposed to the game tarrochi) and one of its most emblematic. Justice is all about one simple universal property: that actions have consequences. Or perhaps to be slightly more explicit: actions have balanced consequences. What happens to you is in direct proportion to what you’ve done (for good, or ill). It is expressed in the common thread of balance that unites the cards of both the Major and Minor Arcana, both between and among each other.
Arguably the most common pop-cultural representations of Justice often portrays her in her American form, sword pointed downward, and blindfolded: She is merciful, balanced, and impartial. But that isn’t really how we experience “justice” as it is expressed in the modern world, is it? As much as we want to believe modern justice is peaceful, it really isn’t, as we see time and time again with the use of overly militarized and excessive police forces against people legally and peacefully protesting social issues like racism or poverty. And as much as we want to believe that modern justice is fair and impartial, not seeing difference or holding bias, there is more than ample evidence to show that it is anything but fair or impartial. This we have seen in the grossly disproportionate rates of institutional violence instigated against BIPOC, especially Black men and Indigenous people, at all institutional levels of society — be it teachers in schools handing out punishments, or judges in courts handing out prison sentences.
Perhaps this is why I prefer Justice as she is depicted in the tarot, especially the Smith-Waite deck. She wears no blindfold: she sees all, and the fact that she looks right at you out of the card with a penetrating look can be more than a little unnerving or intimidating. She sees you, almost right into you, and knows the truth of your motivations and your intentions. Her sword is wielded but held out in front of her; she bids you to approach, but as you do so, know that any attempt at deception or manipulation will be met with a swift and decisive response. Her scales, a clear reference to the Zodiac sign Libra, remind us of her fairness and impartiality, but it is not blind fairness — it is fairness that recognizes the context of what she is looking at. It sees where the balance of a situation is askew, and understands that the best thing to do to achieve true justice would be to set the balance askew in the other direction. (Evoking the classical metaphor of equality versus equity.) Either way, Justice carries with it the promise that all will be set right in the end.
For people on the asexual or aromantic spectrum, and within the wider queer community, “justice” as it is often presented can be a problematic concept, especially for those existing at the intersection of other marginalizations, like gender, class, race or religion. This is because the concept of justice in our society is always associated with policing and the criminal justice system. It is also deeply invested in maintaining the status quo, which includes amatonormativity and allonormativity, cisheteronormativity, classism and white supremacy. And it is perhaps a major understatement to say that across the world (at least in my own city), the police have not had a good relationship with the BIPOC and queer community.
In my home city, the question of whether or not uniformed police had a place in the Pride parade — despite their long and documented history of violence and apathy towards the city’s BIPOC and LGBTQ+ community — was one that roiled the Pride community for many years. Meanwhile, police in the city of Hamilton stood idly by as fascist homophobes and white supremacists attacked participants in Pride, with one cop even allegedly saying that it wasn’t their problem. Or that they even deserved to have what happened to them, because they didn’t include the police in the parade.
Justice in the tarot then gives us, as asexuals and queer folks, the promise that all who have either enabled or perpetuated cruelty or injustice — such as aphobia, anti-asexual discrimination, as well as queerphobia, racism, and ablism — will be all made to account for their words and actions.
Justice also gives a warning that while an ultimate reckoning is coming for the powers that be, the oppressors, and those who promote and enable injustice, it is also coming for us as well. In our Twitter, Facebook and Tumblr-fuelled world of social media, it’s all too easy to latch on the words of others and perceive the meaning and intention behind them to be instantly malicious and hurtful, regardless of what the true intention behind them actually was. All too-often posts are taken out of context, or misinterpreted. Often at the heart of this is the percieved need to shun others out of a desire to protect the community from harm, borne out of very real pain and trauma suffered from bigotry and queerphobia. And we can’t ignore how this is further compounded by other factors like gender and race.
It obviously can’t be understated that there is a definite place for directly confronting clearly hateful behaviour, or making malicious people accountable for their actions and words. Anger also definitely has its place, and is a valid feeling to experience when confronted with bigotry and language or actions unambiguously intended to cause harm — especially when it comes from people of clearly higher privilege and power.
However, an issue in the queer and aspec communities that I’ve continued to notice are attacks made against people from within the community. Such attacks — which include gatekeeping and shunning— are made under the perception that someone’s behaviour is problematic, when in fact that perception may have likely been coloured by the experiences of the people making those accusations. This isn’t to say that all problematic behaviour is merely a projection of those who are being victimized. To reiterate, we are compelled to confront and call-out (or call-in) others when they speak unambigulous malice against aces and aros. And this also goes for racism, ableism, classism, sexism, and queerphobia in all of their forms.
But it cannot be ignored that there are cases where ace people level the charge of bigotry and aphobia at other aces over differences of experience or opinion — or worse, assume that they are aphobic allosexuals — and then use that charge to justify shunning them. These instances of overstating harm invite us to think carefully about where those accusations are coming from, and why they are made. This also calls us to think about the potential damage that these accusations can do, not just to the people being shunned, but to the community as a whole.
Justice tells us that when these overstatements of harm (and their subsequent backlash) happen, it can lead to a weakening of the community; an alienation of others with whom we should be working closer. It leads to further community fragmentation, and more insularity. We direct our energy to the ultimate result of inflicting more harm on our community, and more harm against our comrades and allies, when we should be directing that energy at the institutions that actively oppress us.
It is a direct consequence of unchecked and unprocessed zeal and anger, directed at those who are on the same side as us.
We can’t of course also forget the corollary of all of this: that when community building, grace, and humility are centred in the conversation, great things can happen. Community anger and outrage can be channelled into visibility and information campaigns that let ace people, especially intersectionally marginalized ace people, tell their stories. Signal boosting marginalized voices like this have the potential to be a source of major community bonding and momentum for change. Stressing the inclusion of marginalized ace voices also politically and socially strengthens the community, and — perhaps most importantly — helps to build a space for future generations of ace people to come out in a supportive and affirming environment. A powerful example of this were the grassroots campaigns that started all around the United States in 2021 to get Ace Week recognized at the state level; Marshall Blount, the dynamic and energetic African-American Ace activist, spearheaded one such campaign, which succeeded in Massachusetts. His work is a potent symbol of the power and voice that BIPOC and male aces contribute to the greater ace community. Blount’s presence is also emblematic of why it is so critical for the ace community — which often visibly skews, young, white and female — to embrace marginalized voices and experiences that run contrary to the common ace narrative.
Justice tells us that when we undertake the difficult task of building community and unity, in an age where we are seemingly more disunified and communally isolated from one another, wonderous things can indeed be achieved; not just for us in the present, but for those who will come after us in the future.
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