#Blurred National Identity

[firstoccupier]

The Unlikely War: A Canadian Invasion of the United States and the Rise of Pacific Resistance

In an alternate reality, tensions between the United States and Canada escalated dramatically, leading to an improbable military confrontation: the counterattack invasion of the United States by Canada, with unconventional support from Quebec, bolstered by its Francophone ties to France. They hit us back first. This thrilling scenario unfolds amidst a backdrop of unexpected hospitality, cultural…

[flagellant]

How To Be Native American: Five Tips To Acknowledging The Indian In You!

Wonder why you're writing this. Debate with yourself about the form and the function. By making a performance out of your criticism of the inherent performativity of being a white-passing Native, is that denying or adding to the power imbalance that actually white people already have over your life, your identity, your culture? Ponder blood quantum for the seventh time today and really just sit down and ask yourself, "Is this going to be the metaphor that justifies my existence within my culture to white strangers online?" Accept it probably won't be and write this inadvisably anyway. They weren't ever going to get it anyway, but for once, this isn't about them.

Do your research! Take your knowledge and academize it. If you can't cite your sources when you try and explain why this privilege is killing you, are you really a victim of genocide? Or are you just 1/16th Cherokee Princess? FUN FACT: So many people are "Pretendians" that anthropological scholars are trying to examine the psychology behind why! You know why, of course. They feel so alienated from their culture as settlers that they cling to whatever they can, like mud on a duck's bill, steadily reshaping Turtle Island in their image. Remember that by criticizing Pretendians you simply give people more reason to assume you're one. Pretend this is fine.

Read Braiding Sweetgrass again. It won't help, but the words are familiar enough by this point that you can start the grief process a full three chapters ahead of the words you're thinking in your head. Wonder if this is all you'll ever get to have: Stories of dead grandmothers and dead strawberries and dead nations, bones piled upon bones with none of the nitrogen fixing jack shit. Think about how you have never gotten to braid sweetgrass with someone who understands who and what you are. Reread the last few sentences because your tears have blurred the ink so badly at this point it's like trying to be fluent in a language no one will teach you.

Brush your hair out, because you have gingery ringlets rather than sleek, thick flint. Your name is Red Fox Jesus Man and you've only got a little bit of a complex about it. Think about how, when people claim you look like Jesus, they aren't talking about the Middle Eastern Jew, they're talking about the Italian. You aren't even a little bit fucking Italian. Microaggressions are a form of racial validation, right? Especially if they aren't intended to be, right?

Light a candle for your dead grandfather. None of his stories got passed down onto you or your mother or your father. Maybe none of your great-great-grandfather's stories got passed down to him either. This is a comfort, in a selfish, self-destructive way. If you don't know the names of the teachers in the Mission your people were sent to, that is a sort of pyrrhic victory. Not a meaningful one, but scraps will fill your stomach if you settle for enough of them.

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection 2024 | Day 19: Two-Person Love Triangle

Mysterious You | @verobatto Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 2,003 Main Tags/Warnings: Teacher!Dean, teacher!Castiel, modern setting, coming out Summary: Based in the movie 'Love Simon', professor Dean Winchester wants to find out who the mysterious and charming man Angel is. Will he be able to know him in person?

Books, Pies, and Roommates | @seidenapfel Rating: Explicit Word Count: 27,731 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Two Person Love Triangle, Idiots in Love, Professor Castiel (Supernatural), Professor Dean Winchester, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Bakery Shop Owner Gabriel (Supernatural), Friends to Lovers, blink and you miss a minor mention of Rowena MacLoad/Sam Winchester, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining Summary: Everything seemed easy when Castiel landed a job in Lawrence as a literature professor at KU. He even found a place to stay with his cousin in Topeka. But the daily commute quickly gets on his nerves and he begins looking for a room in town. When he finally lucks out on a house, it comes with a catch. His mysterious landlord/housemate works and lives in Topeka during the week, and will only be at home for the weekend while Castiel is back at his cousin’s to honor a promise he made. When Dean walks into his favorite pie shop, the new sales assistant takes his breath away. Steve is gorgeous, and part of the owner’s family. Dean doesn���t even mind that he picks up Gabriel’s stupid moniker for him. After all, Deano has one syllable more, and Dean will do anything to hear Steve’s voice just a little bit longer. Though, as breathtaking Steve might be, he isn't Angel. If only Dean's book-loving best friend weren't a mystery in himself — a guy who Dean has only met online, but who has slowly taken his heart away. And it seems that Dean isn't alone in his feelings. When the lines blur and fantasies merge three guys into one, disappointment and heartbreak seem to be inevitable.

Dear Western Red Cedar #2409 | @mittensmorgul Rating: Mature Word Count: 63,433 Main Tags/Warnings: Two Person Love Triangle, Park Ranger Dean Winchester, Librarian Castiel (Supernatural), Writer Dean Winchester, idiots to lovers Summary: For a decade, Dean had been living his dream life in Montana as a national park ranger. When Sam and Eileen followed him there a few years later, he had no idea how to tell them about his side gig as the author of a wildly popular series of novels loosely based on his own experiences. Well, minus the monster hunting. He never expected them to become bestsellers—or potentially a tv series, if his agent could only convince him to out his real identity. While Dean's also writing his latest bestseller on a deadline, a misunderstanding and his own social ineptitude leave him completely cut off, aside from his new pen pal who Dean only knows as Bluebird. Cas had spent the last two years desperate to hold Dean’s attention. Right when he felt they might be getting somewhere, Dean was called away on an emergency. Of course he had to go and lament about his troubles to a random tree, thanks to a distracting plaque inviting the public to participate in a new town project. To his surprise, he seems to hit it off— completely anonymously of course— with Western Red Cedar #2409. Through a ridiculous series of coincidences, it could be the best thing that ever happened to either of them.

[matsmi13]

Hello, Long time follower here. I haven't seen you posting captions or stories in a long time. WIll you publish some new stories soon? I miss you and your work. Would love to see new stuff from you, and if i can ask, could you do something with Charlie Puth or Michael Jaroh on inanimate and unwilling themes. That would be awesome. Take care and finer crossed to see more stuff from your talented mind :)

Ready to accompany me during my workouts ?

As a journalist for an local sports magazine, I had landed an exclusive interview with Michael Jaroh after his victory at the national gymnastics competition. The room was filled with excitement, fans were shouting his name, and camera flashes lit up every corner of the hall.

After congratulating Michael on his outstanding performance, we sat down in a press room. I had prepared a series of questions about his training, his motivations, and his future goals. "Michael, can you tell us about what motivates you every day to push your limits ?" I asked. Looked at me with surprising intensity, an enigmatic smile on his lips. "You know, it's hard for people to really understand how we feel. There's so much going on beneath the surface, aspects that no one can see or feel." Intrigued, I continued, "How could we understand that better ?" Michael shrugged, looking thoughtful. "Maybe one day you'll have the chance to find out for yourself". I took this as a vague answer, intended to add a little mystery to our conversation. However, I had no idea how serious this remark was.

A few weeks later, I received a invitation from Michael inviting me to join him at the gym to discuss his habits and techniques further. Curious and excited by the opportunity, I accepted without hesitation.

Arriving at the gym, I didn't immediately find Michael. The room was deserted. Gymnastics equipment, parallel bars, rings and floor mats were laid out in an orderly fashion, but there was no one in sight. I ventured deeper into the gym, going into the changing rooms and calling out to Michael, but only the echo of my own voice answered. Suddenly, a furtive movement caught my attention. Michael appeared behind me, silent as a shadow. Before I could say anything, I felt a prick in my neck. An icy chill invaded my body, and my vision instantly blurred. The last thing I heard was Michael's voice: "You wanted to understand, didn't you ? Now you will."

When I regained consciousness, everything had changed. The feel of my skin had disappeared, replaced by a soft, elastic synthetic material. I panicked as I realized what had happened to me. I had become a compression tight. It was a whirlwind of confusion and terror. My mind was desperately trying to comprehend this new reality. I could feel the texture of my fabric, each fiber reacting to the movement of the air. I was aware of my shape, my seams, and the pressure exerted on me as I rested on the bench.

Suddenly, I hear something coming closer to me. "Hello, my friend. Ready to accompany me during my workouts ? ". I wanted to scream, but I no longer had a voice. I could only hear and feel. Michael took me in his hands and I felt every touch of his fingers like a wave of electricity passing through my fibers. It was a sensation both strange and terrifying. He slipped me on without further ado, and I immediately felt the warmth of his body against my fabric. Every movement he made I felt intensely. His leg muscles contracted and relaxed, and I could feel the power and precision of each movement.

I was trapped in this inanimate form, feeling every stretch, every twist. Michael was training intensively, and every jump, every flip, every landing gave me an unprecedented sensory experience. My mind tried to adapt, but the pain and exhaustion were constant.

Psychologically, I was struggling to maintain my own identity. The thoughts of omnipresent. Yet, in time, my mind became accustomed to this new reality.

Over time, I discovered new instincts, reflexes I'd never imagined I had. I could feel the slightest change in temperature, the tension in Michael's muscles, even his heart rate.

When Michael sweated during his intense workouts, I could feel every drop of sweat penetrating my fibers. The first time this happened, it was a shock. The sensation was both unpleasant and strange, but as time went on, I realized that this was one of my new roles. My fabric absorbed sweat, holding it in place to keep Michael dry and comfortable. This absorbing function soon became a natural instinct. With every drop of sweat, I reacted automatically, my fibers expanding to absorb the moisture. I could feel his body temperature, the saltiness of his sweat, and even detect when he was pushing his physical limits.

At first, Michael seemed almost sympathetic. Every morning, as he put on his tight compression, he would slip me a word of encouragement. However, As the weeks went by, his attitude changed. Michael became increasingly distant and indifferent. One day, as he was getting ready for training, he didn't even speak to me. Instead, he put me on like any other item of clothing in his wardrobe. I could feel the distance growing. Michael was absorbed in his routines, his competitions, and I had simply become part of his equipment.

As the months passed, memories of my old life faded for both Michael and me. I realized that my new existence was no longer that of a human, but that of an inanimate garment. Michael had forgotten me, as one forgets a dream upon awakening. And I was now a silent spectator of his life, living each day through his movements, but never recognized or noticed. And although my life as a human was over, I found a strange consolation in the fact that, somehow, I had finally understood what it meant to be a top athlete.

[pinkeos]

The Tides Beckon || Freminet x Merman!Reader (Pt. 1)

Warning/s: Mentions of blood, Fremi almost died, not much dialogue, author's first language ain't english

Notes: WAKE UP BABE ITS MERMAY -my brain last night so i decided to write this one with my favorite fontaine boy. also there's more to this story so i'll write more ehe

Whenever the world grew louder alongside his thoughts, Freminet would often seek refuge in the ocean. While others feared the unknown depths of the waters, the diver knew the nation’s hydrology like the back of his hand. The deep waters and the creatures within became his sanctuary for when everything was just too much.

This didn't come naturally, however. Because there was a time where he, too, grew anxious of what could happen whenever he dived deeper than the last. This was when the beings above hadn't bestowed him a vision yet, when he had to rely on his trusty helmet to dive. Who knew what could happen, his diving suit could malfunction while he was swimming and it would be too late to ascend by the time he noticed it.

There was a specific moment, at night, when he scampered into the waters, drowned in his thoughts and wanting nothing more than to surround himself with the waves that pushed his worries away for even just a moment. It was a mistake to not check his gear beforehand, a mistake that could've easily cost him his life. He was younger then, much less experienced of a diver than he was now.

He tried to swim upwards when water began to flood into his diving helmet, however, fate had something else planned as a bunch of seaweed vines caught his ankle, preventing him from swimming any further. The boy, calm as he may always seem to be, began to panic. His hands started to tug and pull at the seaweed vines to free his foot.

It was dark out, he shouldn't have left and dived into the ocean by himself. He had sneaked away from the House, not informing anyone of his whereabouts, so the chances of someone miraculously arriving just in time to help him was zero to none.

Or that's what he thought. It was when his vision began to blur, his body growing weak as water prevented him from breathing. His body had gone limp, eyelashes drooping, his consciousness slipping slowly and surely.

It was then that a shadow began to swim closer to him. The full moon’s light beamed from the surface of the water, providing decent enough lighting to help him in his blurry vision to make out that this shadow was a person. What they were doing in the ocean in the middle of the night, he didn't know. But they were there to save him.

He couldn't remember clearly nor did his vision help when it came to reveal his savior’s identity. What he was quite sure of was their long hair swaying prettily in the water, their tail moving as they swam— wait, tail? Before he could comprehend what he had managed to see, he blacked out.

Those memories would forever haunt Freminet’s mind. Even in the present, where he sat on a large boulder by the shore, Pers in his hands as he watched the waves roll in and the white seafoam appear and disappear. After that fateful night, he began to rack his brain on what happened.

Little knew of how fond Freminet was with fairy tales, and how often he would imagine this world in his mind where he had companions that would bring color and life to this imagination of his. He has books and stories stored away in his room, away from prying eyes that he would read whenever he wanted to.

That's when he came across the myths and tales of mermaids. Creatures that were half human and half fish, with ethereal beauty and a voice capable of luring many with their angelic singing. They lived in the depths of the ocean, far away from the humans, they served the hydro dragon and his many incarnations. But for some reason unclear in the books, their kin had begun to dwindle over the centuries. It wasn't clearly stated where they came from, or if they even were true, but Freminet was quite sure the person he saw that night was a mermaid.

He hadn't spoken a word to Lyney or Lynette, he was afraid they wouldn't believe him. Heck, sometimes he thought he didn't believe himself. Perhaps it was just an illusion? But then how did he survive? Who saved him?

The soft wind that blew on his cheek managed to pull the boy out of his thoughts. He sighed, hugging his legs closer to his chest as he placed his chin on his knees. The ocean was peaceful today.

At least that was until a loud splash erupted from not too far away. Usually, the salty scent of the sea breeze overwhelmed any other scent when near the shore. But it was different today. 

Freminet could smell it. The familiar scent of blood. And it was so strong. The boy gulped, standing up and silently making his way off the boulder. The splash wasn't too far, possibly from the other side of the large rocks. 

Trained in stealth and being naturally good at keeping quiet, he had easily managed to sneak his way to the other side, peeking over a boulder to see what was going on. 

The boy suppressed a gasp, but his lips still parted in shock, eyes turning wide. A small splash sounded from when the tail came into contact with the surface of the water. A tail, similar to that of a fish, but long and connecting to an upper human body.

The scales were covered in blood, staining its color and the water with it. A groan ripped Freminet’s attention from the tail and towards the human part of the creature. If he wasn't already shocked with the tail, he was even more surprised at the sight of the pained face of a familiar member of the Marechaussee Phantom meeting his view.

It was the face of the young influential official that almost everyone in Fontaine knew of. How could they not when he worked directly with the Iudex?

Though his appearance was far from the usual, because he was a freaking mermaid right now.

Freminet did not know what to think of this. He was just thinking about this a moment ago, even thinking what he could possibly do or say if he were to meet one in real life, as slim the chances are. But that was happening now and he was absolutely speechless.

“Who’s there?” The mermaid’s sharp voice cut through the silence. He was spotted.

Seeing as he was busted, the diver decided to reveal himself, though keeping his distance.

“It’s you…”

Ending note: I haven't written in a while so I'm trying my best because I really like this story😭

[eretzyisrael]

By Nachum Kaplan

Hamas correctly identified that antisemitism was only dormant in the West, and that they just needed to wake the sleeping monster. They knew this because there were clear tells, such as the international media’s fixation on Israel, the over-reporting of the country, and that the Pavlovian way the conflict becomes newsworthy only when Israel responds to an attack.Hamas stuck to what has worked throughout history. The blood libel trope was modernized into accusations of genocide and deliberate starvation, while the trope of Jews being responsible for their persecution was updated with the notion that Israel had turned Gaza into an open-air prison.They leveraged their numerical advantage.With more than a billion Muslims globally, Hamas knew it had a huge virtual army it could activate on social media to reach a global audience.Hamas flooded social media with lies to exploit the Repetition Bias, a heuristic (mental shortcut) in which repeated information feels more true than new or unrepeated information. Social media repeated these lies exponentially, aided by extensive use of AI-generated “photographs.”The Palestinians also exploited another numerical advantage, the number of Muslim states, which is 48. This has given them weight in forums such as the United Nations and its various committees and bodies, creating a suited army of bureaucrats with credible titles to tell lies to the international press.Almost comically, Iran has just assumed the presidency of the UN Conference on Disarmament. That is the same Islamic Republic that funds, arms, and trains Hamas in Gaza, Hezbollah in Lebanon, the Houthis in Yemen — and ships arms to Russia to use in its invasion of Ukraine.They controlled the information flow.Hamas and the Palestinian Authority have used traditional authoritarian tactics to control the information flow from areas they govern. Reporters cannot report freely or unfavorably from Palestinian-controlled territories if they want to retain access. Threats of violence keep the few unsympathetic local reporters in check.Exploiting the inability of most media to report from Gaza directly, Hamas has used local Gazan “journalists” to feed lies, distorting images, and fabricated data to the credulous international media. Time and again, the foreign press has swallowed them, including claimed civilian death toll numbers that are demonstrably untrue (and presume every person killed was a civilian).Hamas has only needed the media to report its numbers, knowing that if repeated enough, they be treated as true and that no one will pay attention to the fine print stating they are unverified. Hamas at one point even had the media complaining that Israel was simultaneously not allowing reporters access to Gaza and targeting journalists there.They mastered the 24-hour news cycle.The internet has blurred the traditional lines between print and television news, turning all news media into digital services beholden to the 24-hour news cycle.Hamas has understood that as long as it keeps manufacturing outrages, the news cycle will move on quickly, and they will never be held to account. The Qatar-funded Al Jazeera, which has the veneer of a real news organization, has played a key role in this.They have exploited a ‘post-truth’ world.Hamas recognized that the post-Modernist rot has resonated in much of the West, including across its media and universities. The belief that people cannot only have their own opinions, but their own facts, sounds laughable, but it has become worryingly normal.Political tribes express opinions mainly as identity signals, and tribal loyalty is more important to these people than truth, or even reality. Hamas has understood that this liberates it from any need to have a fact-based narrative.They use simple slogans.“

[bangtanhoneys]

The Grammy Awards - Part Three.

Part 2

It was amazing how quickly the South Korean government could move when it needed to. The news had arrived on the President’s desk the moment the Grammy’s had ended in Los Angeles, 17 hours behind them. It was all over other various media sites as Seoul and the rest of the nation were waking up to the news that BTS had secured two Grammy wins with their female member, Grace Chu. 

She had won 7 Rings - Record of the Year and In My Head - Album of the Year, with Bang-PD & PDogg also receiving their own Grammy’s as producers of the album. It was a huge accomplishment considering BTS had been up for similar awards so many times and had walked home empty handed every time. The fact that they had been even nominated was a huge accomplishment but now they could hold their heads up high and say their female member had won it for them. 

The military had given Jimin, Jungkook, Yoongi & Namjoon an extra day of leave after the news had arrived so they could be part of Grace’s welcome home party. The government had been quick to act - a hero’s welcome home for opening the door to the rest of the world of idols and K-Pop that a Grammy could be won. 

Of course, some said it was because her song was in English and that she was British had a hand in it. Her citizenship was always a bone of contention amongst some Koreans that she had never given up her British identity, preferring to be dual. And there were the anti-fans who thought their groups deserved it more than she did, that she hadn’t done any hard work, hadn’t done any of the lyrics (although Grace had her name on every song credit) and it just continued as the news was pumped around. 

No one cared though. 

It came down to one simple thing: Grace Chu had won two Grammys in a single night, for an album she had worked her bum off for with two of the men that had always been number one supporters of her solo career. 

HYBE were already making plans to open a special display for the awards, her costumes, and her dress and hype it up even more. 

For Grace, it had been a blur. From the moment her name had been called for the first award, then the second, and then backstage where everyone had congratulated her and there were sooo many celebrities clambering to get a photo with her, and the boys were on the phone sending their congratulations and by the time they got back to the hotel with a police escort, Grace had simply asked: “What the hell has just happened?”

There was champagne, expensive bottles of it, being popped and her father had drunk at least one bottle on his own. Her mother had been calling Korea, telling their friends and family about the night and Sejin had been updating HYBE, Big Hit and the boys with what was going on. 

Grace sat down next to Bang-PD and he reached over, putting his hand on her knee to pat it. “Hell of a night?” he asked, laughing. 

“You could say that again,” she gently laughed and ran a hand over her face. She was more than ready to get the makeup off, get the dress off and have a long shower then crawl into bed. All the stress of the night had melted away the moment the hotel door opened.

“I’m proud of you though, Hea. You work exceedingly hard, double that of the boys and yet you never wanted anything at the end of the day. You simply go with the flow and if it happens, it happens. But look at what happened tonight - your performance and two awards in your name.”

“Our name,” Grace corrected with a grin. “Our name, PD-nim. You, me and PDogg. We each get our own in three months.”

“Three months?” he asked, looking horrified. “Hang on, I need to make some calls.”

She guessed he hadn’t heard that part when they had gone backstage to do photos and they had taken the awards off them, explaining that these were simply props and they would receive the actual ones in the post in three months. 

Sejin sat down next to her and let out a large breath, running a hand over his face, through his hair and slipped his glasses off. “Wonder if they're doing room service right now?” he asked, wiping the corner of his eye.

“I could do with a big greasy burger with extra pickles and a cola,” Grace sighed. If there was going to be a cheat day, now would be it. 

Bang-PD came back just as room service was bringing in trays of burgers and fries and cola, complimentary from the hotel for what she had won tonight. “Perfect timing,” he said as he swiped his own burger and took a seat next to his artist and her manager. 

“So, want to hear some good news?”

Grace and Sejin turned to look at him, eyebrows raised with matching expressions as their mouths were taking a bite out of their burgers. It made Bang-PD laugh and he waved a hand, letting them carry on eating.

“I spoke to the Grammys, we can pick up the awards on the way to the airport. They are going to rush-order them as it were. Took a bit of talking but we did it and the President has been on the phone.”

“President of South Korea?” both Grace and Sejin asked.

“That one. He’s got the information of our flight tomorrow and we’re landing in Incheon around 5:30pm so he’s going to roll out the red carpet as it were. It’s going to be a big hero’s welcome - press, photos, a little bit of a speech, and the boys are going to be there. They're off but they’ve been asked to come in their military dress for the day.”

“Jin is going to hate that,” Grace laughed as she threw the extra pickles in her mouth. “So is Yoongi.”

“From what I’ve heard, they're planning their own celebration dinner for you, us, and their families. So be warned,” Bang-PD said as he reached over to wipe some sauce from her chin.

“You always look after me,” Grace grinned as she took a napkin and wiped at her chin anyway.

“You are his favourite after all,” Sejin mentioned. 

Their flight was leaving Los Angeles at 10:50am so everyone said their goodnights and went to bed. The next morning, it was a bit of a hurry to get the crew moving though Grace’s parents had opted to stay an extra day to avoid the chaos that would be awaiting them when they got home. 

The airport was chaotic anyway and they had managed to get to the first class lounge without much issue even though there were plenty of people with cameras and phones out. The Grammy Awards, which had arrived three hours ago as promised, were locked in a large briefcase which went on with Bang-PD and a bodyguard and had to have special clearance. 

For Grace, it was still a bit of a blur. She hadn’t fully processed what had happened and she hadn’t fully realised the magnitude of winning such an award was going to bring to her, the boys, the company and the country. 

BTS had always talked about how the goal was a Grammy and though they didn’t need one to know their success, it would have been nice to point at it and say ‘We won that.’ No one had ever talked about what winning one would actually mean in the grander sense of things - it opened the doors for other artists out of South Korea to put forward for an award. That anything was now possible thanks to Grace opening up that opportunity. 

When she settled in her seat and they had taken off, she had sent a message to the group chat with the boys, unsure if any of them would be awake or active with the time difference.

‘On the flight home - it’s a 14-hour flight so I’ll see you at whatever time that is.’

Unsurprisingly, it was Yoongi who answered.

‘We have to wear our military dress uniforms. I hate you so much.’

Grace grinned and took a screenshot of the moment when her name flashed up on the screen when she had won her first Grammy and sent it over with the message: ‘Not my fault I won.’

He sent back a grumpy looking selfie but Grace knew underneath all that he was happy and excited and proud.

They were an hour away from landing when Sejin came over to her seat.

“So this is roughly how it’s going to happen - everyone is going off the plane first and us last. And then we’re going through like we normally do but they’ve laid out a red carpet and they're going to have military personnel lining the carpet. When we get to the doors, it’s the usual cameras, photos, bow and wave. There’s going to be a small stage with Bang-PD and we’ll have one Grammy out so they can take photos, answer a few questions and then finish.”

“All this because of the Grammys,” Grace groaned and rubbed her eyes. “They're making it sound like I won every championship in every sport for South Korea. Rather than it just being a music award.”

“They did this when Son Heung-min won his Golden Boot and they did this when the Parasite director, Bong Jun Ho came home after winning an Emmy,” Sejin reminded her. 

“God help them when someone wins an award worth winning then,” Grace yawned as she stretched up her arms and started getting herself ready. 

Her make up artist did a quick job of covering any eye bags and making her presentable, brushing out her long hair that had been tied up in a messy bun for the flight. It felt too much for something so little.

But then Grace had always been good at downplaying anything. 

Even something as big as this. 

She felt the nerves twist when the last passenger was off as was the rest of the team, leaving only Sejin, Bang-PD and three bodyguards left on the plane with Grace. The pilot bowed at her when she passed and thanked her for her contributions, to which she bowed back and thanked him for keeping her safe. 

As predicted, there was a red carpet from where she stepped off the plane to the long hallway which would take her to arrivals. Her bags were already collected by the team that had got off before her. 

Letting out a deep breath, Grace glanced towards Bang-PD who winked at her and gave her a gentle push forward so she would be the first one out of the doors with two bodyguards flanking her. 

She bowed in thanks to those military personnel who lined the hallway for her and she could hear the noise the closer she got towards the doors though they had been closed and blocked off by military and police. 

The moment they parted and the doors opened, the noise became overwhelming. Screams from fans, from the general public to ARMY, to the press as they all tried to get a picture as she stood there, bowing in thanks.

A hand on her back from Sejin gently pushed her towards a stand that was put up with a podium with a microphone on it, the backdrop a mix of big names like HYBE, Big Hit Entertainment, the Blue House, Korea Air and the Grammys. There Bang-PD pulled out one of the Grammys and handed it to her and for the first time, she could feel the proper weight of it.

The prop had been lighter, for obvious reasons, but this felt heavy with its full metal and she could see her name engraved on the plaque at the bottom - both in Korean and English. 

Then the questions started.

Was she happy to be back home? 100%.

What did she think of her performance?  She was very happy with it and happy it went to plan, there were no hiccups. 

Did she wish the boys had been with her? Of course.

What did she think of the Grammys now she had won it?

The question made her pause and out of the corner of her eye, she could see her boys lined up at the side but at the back so they weren’t in the crowd. They were all watching but waved the moment she looked over. 

“It’s a grand prize for a lot of hard work that myself, Bang-PD and PDogg have put into this. But I still think I’m undeserving of this when I know for a fact that Bangtan Sonyeondan is more deserving of it as a group rather than me as a solo artist. However, I’m proud and I’m proud that I’ve opened the door for others and that this brings honour to my family and to my country that I’ve called home since I was a child.”

It seemed the appropriate response as the crowd cheered and she stepped back, handing the award to Bang-PD so he could answer his questions. 

She kept her eyes on the boys though. 

One lot of people pleasing to get through with photos and then she could be out of here, back at HYBE with her people and onto the next thing. 

She was out in record time with a police escort driving her from the airport to the company building, the Grammy briefcase now with her rather than Bang-PD who had gone to see the President of Korea himself. 

“Noona!”

That’s all she needed to hear.

Her arms were trapped to her side as Jungkook rushed over, now in a t-shirt and shorts, wrapping his arms around her to hold her close. Jimin and Taehyung soon followed, Hobi followed straight after that with excited yells and finally, they were joined by Namjoon, Yoongi and Jin. 

“Thank god,” she sighed and leaned all her weight on her muscle bunny who happily accepted it. It felt good to be home, it felt good to be with her boys again. There was no need for more words even as the seven talked around her, mentioning the press conference. 

“Hang on,” Grace laughed as she pulled away. “Let me go and wash my face and wake up. That was a long flight and I don’t even know what time it is.”

They pulled away enough for her to grab the briefcase and hand it over to Namjoon, who blinked rapidly at her. “You can deal with that,” she said and headed off to the bathroom, with Seokjin following.

“This is going to look really weird if someone comes in,” Grace grinned as she watched him glance at the door as it closed behind him. She splashed cold water on her face and scrubbed at the make-up, splashing more water on her face.

Seokjin handed over a towel and leaned against the radiator, shrugging. “I’m sure the boys are betting on what we’re actually doing but I just wanted to say hello and I’m proud of you.”

The make up was off which made her skin felt a hundred times better and it felt like she could breathe for once as she used the towel to dry away the droplets. When it was all done, she walked over to her boyfriend and rested her head on his chest as he wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“I wished you had been with me,” she sighed.

“I know but your parents had a blast from the sounds of it and the night was meant to be about you and you only. Not me, not the rest of the guys, though wait till you hear the stories from when they were at mine - you’ll laugh your socks off,” he laughed and gave her a good squeeze, taking hold of her hand. “I’m very proud of you though.”

“Our time will come,” Grace nodded and smiled at the forehead kiss. “All eight of us.”

Her boyfriend dragged her back to the room where the rest of the boys were looking at the Grammy award, Namjoon holding one and Jimin holding the other.

“It doesn’t look like much, does it?” Taehyung mentioned. “All the prep, stress and everything else for something so small.”

“So what’s going to happen when they introduce us now? Is it going to be BTS with two time Grammy awarded singer, Grace Chu?” Yoongi asked, grinning over at his sister who glared at him and then gave him a good push on the other shoulder.

“Shut up. It doesn’t change anything, not for me anyway,” Grace sat down and shrugged. “If anything it’s more work because they’ll expect another album from me.”

“I’m going to say this now,” Namjoon started as he placed the award on the table. “We’re all very proud of you and we were watching with big smiles on our faces, though the outfit and dance moves need to be talked about. But regardless, she’s BTS. If anything, she’s become more important than me because everyone will want to see her more than us.”

Namjoon got a disgruntled look from his female member and he grinned in return. “Sorry noona, it’s time for you to step up to the plate now. I’ve done my job.”

“What job? I trained you, don’t forget,” Grace pointed out then pointed at each boy in return, especially Seokjin. “Don’t start getting all lackadaisical now. ARMY is waiting for us and you’ve all got months to go before some of you are back.”

“Yeah we need SK1,” Jungkook pointed out.

“Exactly,” Grace agreed. 

“Anyway,” Hobi clapped his hands as he stood, distracting Seokjin from trying to strangle the youngest. “Let’s go and celebrate! Noona deserves to be wined and dined. And then sleepover?”

“Yeah Jin-hyung has plenty of space,” Jimin agreed as he helped lock up the Grammy award. 

“I do?” the man in question asked just as Jungkook said, “Yeah he does. We can all sleep on the couch.”

Big Hit would later upload two photos from the boys to Grace - one with all of them together at the dinner, the Grammy Awards in the centre of the table and the second photo from Jungkook, taking a selfie with all of them fast asleep in the background. 

The perfect welcome home for the two-time award winning singer, Grace Chu. 

[starkinvs]

okay. i understand that many people simply do not understand the essence of the previous post/don't understand the subject of the discussion. let's start with the fact that russia imposed its language at the state level by force. fifteen countries of the Soviet Union speak russian in one way or another precisely because their cultural identity was not taken into account. Khrushchev's words at the party congress in 1961: "the sooner we start speaking russian, the sooner we will build communism." do i need to explain what communism was like under the Soviet Union? the next paragraph will present several events on the language front of Ukraine.

April 6, 1933 — by order of the new leadership of the People's Commissariat of the Ukrainian SSR, a commission was organized to check the work on the language front. the task of the commission was "to reject the artificial (what could this mean?) demarcation of the Ukrainian language from the russian language in dictionaries and to eliminate nationalistic spelling rules that oriented the Ukrainian language toward Polish, Czech, and bourgeois cultures."

April 26, 1933 - a meeting in the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Ukraine on issues of national policy. the tasks have been set out to a wide circle:

— to stop the immediate publication of all dictionaries, to review the dictionaries and all terminology, to unify technical terminology with the terminology that exists in the Soviet Union and is used in Ukraine.

— to review the personnel on the language front and to expel bourgeois-nationalist elements from this front (people who in most cases resisted due to their education and clear understanding of the consequences of such decrees).

April 20, 1938 - the Council of People's Commissars of the Ukrainian SSR and the Central Committee of the Communist Party (bolsheviks) of Ukraine adopted resolutions "on the mandatory study of the russian language in non-russian schools of Ukraine", "on the mandatory study of the russian language in schools of national republics and regions". the resolutions for the first time included an order on the mandatory teaching of the russian language in all non-russian schools. (that is, not only in Ukraine, but also in all other countries of the Soviet Union).

April 17, 1959 - a session of the Supreme Council of the Ukrainian SSR adopted the law "on strengthening the connection between school and life and on the further development of the public education system in the SSR". the study of the Ukrainian language in schools was declared optional (that is, the majority of people were taught only in russian, which only increased the number of russian speakers, thereby eradicating the Ukrainian language, which carries the cultural code of the nation). the number of hours of teaching Ukrainian literature and language in secondary specialized educational institutions has been reduced (reduction of Ukrainian literature, therefore writers who write in Ukrainian, excluding the cultural and historical factor of Ukrainian nationality, completely blurring it and making it almost inseparable from Russians).

1970 - the order of the USSR Ministry of Education on writing and defending all dissertations only in russian. as a result, I am now faced with the fact that while writing my diploma and actively searching for resources, I constantly have to translate and clarify all the information, scanning it for the presence of political and ideological propaganda.

i could continue the list, but I would prefer to be unbiased and give several examples of such a policy.

Belarus.

during the language reform of 1933, the "classical spelling of the Belarusian language" was abandoned - more than 30 phonetic and morphological features were introduced into the Belarusian language, which brought it closer to the russian language. why?

on May 5, the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Belarus created a special "Political Commission for Review of the russian-Belarusian Dictionary and New Rules for Spelling the Belarusian Language". it is noteworthy that not a single linguist was part of the commission, and its members were mainly politicians. i believe that russians or ideological puppets.

in the "russian-Belarusian Dictionary" in 1953, when the tracing of the russian language was put at the forefront, and, as a rule, the original Belarusian word followed. the question is the same, what's the point?

the President of Belarus Alexander Lukashenko himself expressed an "interesting" opinion.

"nothing great can be expressed in Belarusian. the Belarusian language is poor. there are only two great languages in the world - russian and english" - according to this statement by President Lukashenko, which he made back in 1995, experts count the loss of status and displacement of the Belarusian language in Belarus. Lukashenko then initiated the granting of state status to the russian language, but in the end only russian became the state language, while Belarusian remained secondary and little used.

as is known he is a puppet of the Kremlin. needless to say that the Belarusian language was not taught in schools during the Soviet Union, literature in the Belarusian language was extremely impoverished, and propaganda made its own adjustments. i am glad that now Belarusians are switching to their own language and Ukrainians understand the Belarusian language without difficulty, it works both ways.

Kazakhstan.

the languages ​​of some peoples that were part of the Soviet empire experienced repeated changes of alphabets.

this applies, in particular, to the Turkic languages. Uzbeks, Turkmens, Kyrgyz, and Azerbaijanis previously used Arabic script for writing. in the late 1920s, according to the decree "on the new Latinized alphabet of Arabic writing," their languages ​​were transferred to the Latin alphabet. such an attempt was also made to the Kazakh language, but it did not take root at that time.

in 1932-1933, the state authorities of the USSR artificially created a severe famine(!) in the Kazakh SSR, as a result of which more than 40 percent of ethnic Kazakhs died. At the same time, more than a million citizens repressed by the Stalinist government were deported to the republic. therefore, the indigenous Kazakh population became an ethnic minority. subsequently, the percentage of Kazakhs in the total population decreased even more due to mass migration to the KSSR during major events, such as the development of virgin lands.

during some periods of Soviet times, the number of ethnic Kazakhs in the republic was only 30 percent. it was impossible to speak Kazakh in the cities because it was not understood, and many ethnic Kazakhs switched to russian in everyday life. mandatory study of Kazakh in schools was abolished, the number of Kazakh schools decreased (for example, in Alma-Ata there was only one school with Kazakh as the language of instruction).

"the opportunity to get an education in Kazakh began to decrease in 1939, and later higher education was only available in russian. consequently, parents who wanted their child to study at the institute had to prepare them for this and sent their children to schools with russian. as a result, a whole generation of exclusively russian-speaking Kazakhs appe,ared in Kazakhstan in the 1970s and 1980s." says Ainash Mustoyapova, author of the book "Decolonization in Kazakhstan."

Estonian language.

since 1940, with the Soviet occupation, the status of the Estonian language began to decline: it ceased to be the only state language - russian became the second, the use of the Estonian language in many areas was reduced: in international negotiations, diplomatic correspondence, in foreign trade and on trade marks, in matters concerning the armed forces in training. estonian was forced out of teaching and deprived of the opportunity to develop terminology in the fields of navigation, maritime, aviation and rail transport, it also ceased to be used in mining, energy, textile and some areas of heavy industry, since most industrial enterprises were under the direct control of moscow. sounds familiar.

Crimean Tatar language.

with the beginning of the Red Terror in 1921, the population of Crimea, and accordingly among the Crimean Tatars, decreased by a third.

during this time, several waves of genocide (and therefore expulsions) took place: the execution of the intelligentsia in 1921-22, the famine(oh, we heard about that already) of 1922-23, and up to 1926-27, dispossession and deportation to Siberia, the execution of the intelligentsia. and then Sürgünlik - the forced deportation of the Crimean Tatars from their native land to Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan and the Urals.

currently, Crimean Tatar is considered a language that is on the verge of destruction (seriously endangered) according to the UNESCO classification. this means that the language is used by older generations of speakers, while parents do not instill in their children the study and knowledge of the language. this is also a consequence of the Deportation, genocidal actions, in particular, the ban on the use of the Crimean Tatar language in places of deportation, as well as the total Russification in the countries that were part of the USSR.

i will probably stop here, because this list can be continued for a long time, but the idea is the same everywhere - along with the language, the national identity of the people is washed away, the language stores the cultural code, historical information. myths, legends, ancient manuscripts, documents, literary collections, which include a description of the traditions and life of the people, all this has a huge influence. that is why people study different groups of languages, their influence on each other, that is why linguistics exists.

but the fact remains - the russian language is not native to all countries of the post-Soviet space except russia itself, it is an artificially imposed language, a whole scheme of extermination and subjugation of peoples who have mixed into one mass. now I see this as a huge problem: the russian language isolates from another world. people of post-Soviet countries can easily communicate with each other, but there is an opinion that learning english is simply becoming meaningless, because there are as many as 15! culturally and historically similar countries that speak the same language, and all together they are much larger than all of Europe. there is no such thing in western europe, there everyone speaks english as a common language, but each country has its own language, but here, in eastern europe it is very difficult to meet an armenian or romanian speaking their own language and this is pure madness.

this is a policy of isolation from the rest of the world, this is the impossibility of reading news from different sources, which often gives rise to a holy confidence that the propaganda media of their country are definitely not lying, because due to the impossibility of comparison, a person becomes like cattle without a choice who were not given any alternatives. and yes, i believe that if you speak russian and support military aggression, you should be isolated from society, because the desire to destroy is not the norm, a person with a destructive mindset without a clear moral compass is a threat to society, especially if he supports the murder of innocent (!) people.

this should not be the norm and must be discussed and if people themselves cannot understand what is what, the cancel culture will help us. only by making it clear to the russians that they are not welcome in society as long as a bloody regime destroys cities and lives, will they be able to realize that it is time to change something and that these changes must start with them. people can destroy regimes. people can win. people live on this earth only once and there is no point in living as a weak-willed creature.

all this was written for educational purposes. only being educated can we destroy a system that we do not like, because beliefs come from facts, which are based on knowledge. only by winning discussions with the voice of reason and protecting yourself from violence, but operating with common sense, can the new generation influence the future. do not be careless, learn and teach others, get information and inform.

[luimnigh]

Thinking about how this site regularly refers to "Americans" and "Europeans" in almost equal terms, when that's not really the case.

American is a national identity. It's something that grew slowly, organically, and unevenly. It was the basis of wars and revolutions, and even a hundred and fifty years ago many Americans were more loyal to state than nation. It's been something that the US Government has fostered and promoted, sure, but it's existence created the government, not the other way around.

In contrast, "European" is an artifice. There is no historic pan-European identity. It was created in the rubble of a continent ravaged by two devastating wars, as a desperate attempt to prevent another. It exists to unify the people of a continent under one banner to prevent them from killing each other under other banners.

It has been cultured and fostered by national and international governments and organisations. Promoted through economic integration, political collaboration, and yearly international singing competitions.

Every national identity is constructed, don't get me wrong, but they're usually constructed out of existing elements. They're made by promoting pre-existing cultures and traditions, by homogenising what's already there. And this is usually done in service to forging a nation, drawing the borders and differentiating the in-group and out-group.

While "European" was constructed from whole cloth, from nations who had been at war only years earlier, in order to blur the borders and de-emphasise national identity.

Only to, as the legacy of colonialism came home to roost, draw exterior borders anew and differentiate an in-group and an out-group.

...maybe it's the same thing after all.

[mariacallous]

As freshmen at New York University’s film school, some chums and I had an unusual greeting. “We live on rice gruel!” we would say if we saw one another around campus. “We’ll make do on millet!” was the reply.

This back-and-forth comes from an early scene in Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai (1954), a movie somewhat force-fed to us on our first day to teach concepts about the language of cinema such as shot/reverse shot and the fourth wall—conventions that today’s students already have in their blood having played with iPhones before they could walk. Though presented as a literal classroom assignment, Seven Samurai’s appropriation as an inside joke among know-it-all 18-year-olds is proof that watching this landmark of world cinema does not feel like homework. Indeed, revisiting the “good guys with a code facing an unwinnable battle” picture for its 70th anniversary, remastered and appearing in cinemas across North America this summer, reminded me that it’s just as fun now as it ever was.

If one had to chisel a Mount Rushmore of so-called foreign films from the influential midcentury period, surely the image of Toshiro Mifune’s mad swordsman Kikuchiyo from Seven Samurai would be among the four granite faces, right next to the cloaked figure of death from Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal (1957), Marcello Mastroianni with the fedora and whip from Federico Fellini’s self-mythologizing 8½ (1963), and Jean-Pierre Léaud’s truant teen in François Truffaut’s directorial debut The 400 Blows (1959). (For the French nouvelle vague, you could also make the case for Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless, but I’m picking The 400 Blows because this way they all have numbers in the title.)

Though Kurosawa was already a known quantity internationally after the release of Rashomon (1950), a period drama in which several people recall a violent incident differently depending on their point of view, Seven Samurai was both a domestic success and a ripping-enough yarn—swords! archery! horses! mud! gruel!—to engage the rest of the world.

Japanese cinema of the postwar period was initially reluctant to dig into its samurai storytelling heritage, the notion of blind loyalty to feudal lords being understandably less popular at the time. The two most famous Japanese films released just before and after Seven Samurai remain Yasujiro Ozu’s Tokyo Story (1953), basically an enormous guilt trip pointed at modernity for letting down their elders, and Ishiro Honda’s Godzilla (1954), a nation’s collective apocalyptic nightmare that somehow mutated into a still thriving merchandise line. Seven Samurai is set in the late 1500s, during the Sengoku period of civil war, a chaotic time that found many of the samurai class without masters. Many of these men became mercenaries, but imagine a story in which some of them (seven, if you will) decided to join forces against impossible odds because it was the righteous thing to do. In revisiting classic Japanese heroism but acknowledging the then-current sentiment, the picture had its rice gruel and ate it too.

The tumultuous setting depicted in the film—the most expensive in Japanese history at the time—no doubt resonated with a Japan that was modernizing rapidly, as did the secondary theme, blurring the lines of a previously clear class system. The highborn Katsushiro (Isao Kimura) falling for the farmer’s daughter Shino (Keiko Tsushima) amid the endless meadows of chrysanthemums, and Mifune’s Kikuchiyo, revealed to be a fraud to the samurai class but one who proves himself in combat, may feel like classic movie characters, but to a postwar Japan in search of a new identity, these transgressions resonated on a much deeper level.

Seven Samurai has a very simple story that perfectly suits its several high-energy set pieces. The 207-minute epic (that’s about 29 minutes per samurai) is set during a time when the countryside is terrorized by bandits who plunder small villages, depleting their harvests and kidnapping women. Already brutalized villagers, aware that they will soon be targeted again, decide to defend themselves by hiring some outside muscle. But how can they afford to pay (see above: “We live on rice gruel!”)? you may wonder. The wise elder who lives inside a mill with a water wheel providing an incessant warlike beat knows the answer: Don’t just find samurai, “find hungry samurai.”

Timid representatives of the village head to town and witness the bravery and creative thinking of Kambei (Takashi Shimura). They convince him to take the gig, and then he assembles his crew. This includes Kyuzo (Seiji Miyaguchi), a cold-as-ice swordsman; Gorobei (Yoshio Inaba), a brilliant tactician; the eager silver-spoon apprentice Katsushiro; and the loose-cannon Kikuchiyo, who, in time, emerges as the real star of the show. (There are two other guys: One is kind of the morale officer, and the other is just Kambei’s pal.) Anyway, if the plot seems familiar, yes, it has been adapted for Western cinema several times, most notably as the gunslinging The Magnificent Seven (both in 1960 and 2016), sci-fi romp Battle Beyond the Stars (1980), and, if you want to stretch it, the dopey comedy Three Amigos! (1986) and the Pixar cartoon A Bug’s Life (1998). Beyond that, a great many standard cinematic tropes have their roots in this movie.

Most obvious is the first act of the film, in which Kambei builds up the team. There’s no need to overly intellectualize it; it’s just fun to watch him size up potential comrades, test them out, and then make his appeal. There’s also a wonderful moment in which we think we’ve got a new addition but the samurai in question shrugs off the approach when he hears there’s no money or fame in the job. Should Disney ever purchase Toho Studios, we can maybe expect a limited streaming series to find out whatever happened to that guy. Anyway, every movie from The Dirty Dozen to The Blues Brothers to The Right Stuff to Ocean’s Eleven to School of Rock owes a lot to Seven Samurai.

Another influential development is how the villagers (and we in the audience) first meet Kambei. There is some tumult in town as a thief has kidnapped a child and barricaded himself inside a building. Kambei cuts off his hair (a very big deal for a samurai), poses as a monk, and then, after a series of badass moves, rescues the child and kills the baddie in slow motion. Introducing the hero through a mini-mission before we get to the real mission is now so common (think every single James Bond movie) that it’s funny to think it had to originate somewhere.

Most of the so-called movie brats of New Hollywood revered Kurosawa, but none so much as George Lucas, who would later use his clout to help the Japanese director secure funding for his expansive project Kagemusha. While there are more one-to-one alignments between other Kurosawa films and Star Wars (most famously, the original R2-D2 and C-3PO in 1958’s The Hidden Fortress, two comic-relief peasants tagging along on an adventure to save a princess), there’s still a lot in Seven Samurai that made it to the galaxy far, far away.

For starters, there are those wipe transitions between scenes. And then who is the wise elder hunched in the dark speaking truncated wisdom if not The Empire Strikes Back’s version of Yoda? The romance between Katsushiro and Shino is something like a Han Solo-Princess Leia dynamic in reverse, as well. On a technical level, though, one can point to the rising action of the final battle. While there is no exploding Death Star, Kurosawa, who deployed multiple cameras shooting concurrently, cuts not just between different angles of the same fight but between several skirmishes all building to the final thrilling, albeit pyrrhic, victory.

Most striking for its time—and still fiery today—is Seven Samurai’s most impressive element, Mifune. An explosive performer by any standard, let alone the typically taciturn style seen in Japanese movies of the period, Mifune is like a cross between Stanley Kowalski and Woody Woodpecker: muscular one minute, flamboyantly loosey-goosey the next. Like Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire, Mifune dominates every scene he is in with an unpredictable magnetism. (Though never stated as such, John Belushi’s famous samurai character on Saturday Night Live is basically an exaggerated version of Mifune.) Kikuchiyo is a drunkard and a brute but also silly and, when necessary, fragile. His scene rescuing an infant from a burning building is probably the best thing in the entire movie. Any other actor could have played the part as merely loud and annoying, but Mifune turns the role into something sensuous, mesmerizing, and sui generis. There are many reasons we’re still talking about this movie 70 years later, and the biggest reason of all is him.

The anniversary of the picture means its first remastering to 4K and a significant release in North America. (Not just New York and Los Angeles but places including Akron, Ohio; Paducah, Kentucky; and Kitchener, Ontario—here’s the full list.) With a 15-minute intermission plus a little time to buy popcorn, we’re talking about a four-hour commitment at the movie theater. With today’s limited attention span and hectic schedules, programming this film may seem like going up against impossible odds. Hopefully, there are enough people out there still ready to heed the call and do what’s right, no matter the cost.

[owl-with-a-pen]

Kara had been juggling so many duties over the last few days, it had really started to feel like she had a secret identity all over again. Her fingers had been a constant blur across her phone screen, so much that she’d jumped into several meetings without knowing what they were even about or – for that matter – that she had meant to have been leading them. She could have gotten away with that as Kara Danvers, but people tended to notice when Kara Zor-El got distracted - probably because it usually meant an Earth-wide threat was imminent.

She’d already had to reassure five separate co-workers that wasn’t the case, even going as far as cutting her final editorial meeting thirty minutes short so that everyone could start their Fridays early. Maybe that just made them more suspicious of her, but she was running out of time. Alex had already sent her three warning texts:

Car’s packed up, where are you?

Don’t make me call a DEO emergency just to get your butt out of there!

⌚👈🏻 ???

Kara rolled her eyes, catching her tongue between her teeth as she scanned the most recent notification. She sent a quick ‘OMW’ before slinging her bag across her shoulder.

She was halfway out the office door when a voice stopped her in her tracks.

“So, any plans this weekend?”

Kara froze.

Cat Grant usually spent her Friday afternoons lamenting all the charity dinners and extracurriculars she’d be forced to attend while Kara nodded along with a well-practiced sympathetic grimace locked in place. She’d long since accepted this as a one-sided expectation. After all, Cat didn’t really do small talk. Call it the journalistic disposition, but no question of hers ever came without intention.

She’d posed this particular question with an expectant air, her fingers loosely linked beneath her chin as she watched Kara with cat-like patience from behind her desk.

Kara took a shallow breath, knowing already what those piercing eyes were trying to gauge. “Actually,” she said, treading carefully, “I’m out of town this weekend. I’m visiting my adoptive mom with my sister.”

Cat’s lips twitched with something predatory. She lifted her chin, snatching up a pen from her desk so that she could play idly with the clicker. Every click was as intentional as her question, drilling deep into Kara’s skull. “Ah,” she said, nodding slowly, “and so I suppose one would assume that there won’t be much Supergirl activity to account for, then?”

Kara laughed, fiddling nervously with the collar of her blouse. “Even Supergirl needs a vacation every once in a while. You’ve seen the figures, crime is at an all-time low, National City can last a weekend without me.”

Cat watched Kara without expression, still clicking out a calculated rhythm. “I suppose,” she conceded lightly. “Especially with that new DEO division headed by your… friend, right? John?”

“J’onn,” Kara corrected.

“Yes, yes, that’s the one.” Cat bit her lip. “Wide shoulders.” Her eyes lost focus before she shrugged suddenly, setting down her pen with a prompt snap. “I wonder what he’ll be up to.”

“You know the DEO doesn’t give interviews,” Kara reminded her, trying and failing to hide the strain in her voice. “Not even to Supergirl.”

“Of course.” Cat pondered for a moment, cocking her head. “And the little green one works there too, doesn’t he?”

Kara sighed, the purposeful ignorance wasn’t lost on her, just as Cat had intended. She tipped her head back, resigning herself to the conversation. “What are you getting at, Ms Grant?”

Cat blinked, perfectly innocent. “Just counting heads. I only wonder if we’ll be seeing much of your Super Friends over the next few days… with you out of town, of course.”

Kara pursed her lips, drumming her fingers against the doorframe. “Well, they’re more than capable of managing themselves without me.”

“So, we will be seeing them?”

Kara spluttered. She’d really stepped into that one. “It’s a big city,” she recovered quickly, “I’m sure there’ll be out there somewhere.”

“Interesting,” Cat said, dragging the word out long enough to make Kara uncomfortable. She hummed to herself, running her index finger delicately over the items on her desk until she found her phone, snatching it up. “I need to make a few calls,” she decided, shooing Kara out of the room with her other hand. “Have fun with your—mother.”

Kara took that as her cue, making an awkward albeit flustered goodbye as she elbowed her way out the door. She didn’t try to listen in on the conversation once she was gone – she didn’t need to - Cat had seen through her as plainly as she had her old disguise.

Technically, what Kara had told her wasn’t exactly a lie. She would be seeing Eliza this weekend – after all, she’d been invited to Nia and Brainy’s wedding, too.

It didn’t matter, Kara rationalised as she hurried into the elevator, Cat could call on every source she had available to her and she still wouldn’t be getting this scoop. No one would. Kara had been incredibly thorough about that, using fake names when it came to bookings, throwing out red herrings to rival news outlets, all to ensure that the media didn’t get even one whiff of what was going down. No one was getting a camera into the service on her watch – well, except the photographer, and Kara had already run a series of extensive background checks on her.   

As for general media speculation – well, she’d already warned the bride and groom to be that there really wasn’t much she could do about that. Every magazine in the country was currently building up the clicks with Superhero news and, right now, Dreamer and Brainiac-5 were trending across all channels. Cat certainly hadn’t helped with that; she’d sunk her claws into the story the second Dreamer had first been spotted out toting a Legion ring of her own. To avoid public knowledge of future events, the Legion was something of a forbidden topic when it came to interviews and so, for anyone outside of the loop, Dreamer suddenly wearing a ring matching Brainy’s was certainly turning heads.

Engagement had been thrown around hundreds of times, with other outlets outright claiming that she and Brainy had been married in secret. Nothing had been confirmed or denied by either party, but Kara had to admit it– you only needed eyes to see the chemistry between those two. They fought as one entity, complimenting each other’s stances, supporting each other in the field so that they always fell into step with each other. Just last week, Brainy had swept Dreamer into his arms amidst an explosion they’d narrowly escaped and the shot had been headlining every newspaper not twelve hours later. They were anything but discreet and, honestly, Kara had a hunch they were starting to enjoy all the attention. It certainly made her job as Maid of Honour that much harder.

Hiding this wedding was probably shaving years off her life.

At least it would be worth it when she got to see Nia go down that aisle.

When her phone pinged again with a fourth text from Alex, Kara groaned out loud.

You just lost shotgun privilege.

She just had to get there first.

[queering-ecology]

LGBTQ America: A Theme Study of Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender and Queer History—chapter 09. Sexual and Gender Diversity in Native America and the Pacific Islands by Will Roscoe. part 2

Two Spirits in Native Tradition: Roles, Genders, Identities and Diversity cont.

In the twentieth century, ‘berdache’ “became the standard anthropological term for alternative gender roles among Native Americans. By the 1980’s, however, there was call for a change among scholars. In 1990, at a gathering of Native American and First Nations people, the term ‘two-spirit(ed)’ was coined. “Today, the term is used to refer to “both male-bodied and female-bodied native people who mix, cross, or combine the standard roles of men and women” (09-5).

The author acknowledges in a footnote that the term has its limitations (translation errors, and the fact that many tribes believe that all of us have the essence/spirit of male and female in us). But none of his reasons for these limitations match with my main critique both with the term two-spirit but mostly with the way it is often spoken of. Even within the acknowledgement of individuals who do not conform 100% to the Western concept of man or woman, the people are still fit into a binary. They are referred to as ‘male bodied’ and ‘female bodied’ two-spirited people.

To me, this often feels like an easy way for people to ‘short cut’ their understanding of native genders—as soon as they understand the way someone is sexed, they can still fit that person into a category, even if those categories are imperfect. Intersexuality is a ghost when topics of sex and gender arise. More and more, we understand that sex is not immutable, it is yet another social construction—the process of someone developing in utero and then continuing to grow and change in their lifetime is so complex that very often people do not fit neatly into either the distinct category of male or female.

(See the link below for a better image of this)

Whether that is their very chromosomes, hormones, secondary or primary sex characteristics—all these things and more combine to create a person. A person whose very sex is unique to them, as their gender is unique to them. Who knows the true reality of the two-spirit’s biological sex? No one—unless they are given extensive expensive testing that has only recently become available.

The truth is that intersexuality is natural and is common in humans, even in the Western world with its biopolitical control and its dualisms. The reason two-spirit people were and are held so special is because they do not fit neatly into these categories. To me it feels a kind of modern colonial erasure to try and sex the bodies of people who often very clearly and blatantly blurred all barriers. It feels as if it misses the entire point of the term two-spirit, as least as I understand it. But, I have not read much into what other two-spirits (especially elders) think about this concept. “Two-spirit males have been documented in at least 155 tribes; in about a third of these a recognized status for females who adopted a masculine lifestyle existed as well”. (09-6) But as Roscue later adds, “absence of evidence cannot be taken as evidence of absence” (09-8).

In general, the lives of “native women have been overlooked […] and obscured by Euro-American sexual and racial stereotypes. Taking a broader view reveals that women throughout North American and the Pacific Islands often engaged in male pursuits, from hunting to warfare and tribal leadership, without necessarily acquiring a different gender identity” (09-8). Roscoe then offers some examples of Indigenous women being awesome. The author then lists examples of traditional terms for two-spirited people across various tribes and explains that many of them cannot be literally translated into gender binary terms like ‘man-woman’. “These terms have lead anthropologists, historians, and archaeologists to describe two-spirit roles as alternative or multiple genders” (09-6). In fact, “many native societies are capable of accommodating three, four, and possibly more genders, or having a gender system characterized by fluidity, transformation, and individual variation” (09-7).

The author discusses how two-spirit children were identified often as youth by the certain type of activities they liked to participate in. Oftentimes ceremonies ‘marked’ people with two-spirit status. He then goes on to discuss the other ways two-spirits lived in society. “In many instances, male and female two spirits were medicine people, healers, shamans, and ceremonial leaders” (09-8). Certain ceremonial functions were specific to two-spirits and they were often seen to hold great power (09-8). “Because two-spirits occupied a distinct gender status, their relationships were not viewed as being same-sex” (09-9). !!!! This feels so important for some reason!!

Sexual and Gender Diversity in Native Hawai’i

This section further emphases that indigenous peoples have had genders that go beyond male or female, man or woman and also that colonial violence is a tragedy. While I respect and love the people of Hawai’i and their struggles are so, so similar to Native Americans, I believe that the vast majority of Native Hawaiians do NOT consider themselves Native American (or American Indian or even just American) so my covering on this topic will be limited.

Roscoe speaks about the mahu stones that have extraordinarily sacred significance—these stones have a powerful history and connection to the mahu people (their gender diverse term). (This summary is literally so terrible and not at all a true representative of how important and beautiful this topic is, I apologize). Like the people, the stones faced colonization and were figuratively and then literally buried—“in the 1920s they were buried beneath a bowling alley” (09-15). They have since been reclaimed and are now being properly respected but, for the native peoples, “the Land inheres as sacred—beyond human perception and conception, beyond our capacities for belief and imagination—in and of itself” (09-15) and “If there were no humans on earth, they would still be sacred” (09-15). The stone’s spiritual power ‘has never been interrupted’ (09-15).

[mournflame]

Thinking about Nevarra, as one does, and how all the dead we’ve seen. like. working around the Grand Necropolis have been skeletons. Even the bodies in open coffins or on display have been skeletons. I did worldbuild on Nevarran funerals on an old blog, and I hold to that as well as what was originally established in canon of Nevarrans mummifying their dead. And, we do see undead with flesh! So there are a few possibilities for the skeletons —

Emmrich mentions xyz body parts being donated, so there are undoubtedly people who donate their body to the Mortalitasi like we would donate our body to science. These donations can occur after death as well as before since the line between the two is blurred in Nevarra.

^ It’s possible this is incentivized by allowing people with less money to afford better funerals through donation (especially if the body isn’t going to be mummified, ergo no cost for time and materials to do that)

^ It’s also possible that donation is one way for people who would otherwise not be interred in the Grand Necropolis to gain entrance. I maintain that it doesn’t make sense to transport ALL Nevarra’s dead to the Grand Necropolis, even if we say it can supernaturally expand to accommodate. Makes more sense for there to be necropoleis across the nation with the Grand Necropolis being the greatest and most sacred. Therefore you want to end up there after death. If you die within a certain radius, you will likely be buried there (unless you’ve been denied proper burial for some reason). Wealth and/or high enough status will get you a spot there regardless of where you die. Donating your body to the Mortalitasi is one way to increase your chances of going there after death.

Bodies that cannot be identified for whatever reason, whether they are long dead or recently dead, may be put to this purpose as well. This includes testing whether someone with Sidony’s and Emmrich’s skill to make the dead speak can make them identify themselves. Due to Nevarran beliefs on the afterlife (my hcs re: them anyway), this loss of identity means their soul has likely become lost in the Void. Being able to call a spirit into their body, however, means there’s hope for something of their identity to return and for them to journey safely to the Maker’s side.

[strawberry-halla]

dragon age: the veilguard - a review: part one - the setting & reality

hello everyone! this is the first part of a multi-part review of dragon age: the veilguard.

disclaimer! i am not a professional reviewer, i am just another fan that thoroughly enjoys the dragon age series. my opinion is not at all the pen-ultimate truth, i'm just here to share my thoughts!

criticism and comments are welcome! i appreciate any and all discussions about dragon age! feel free to dm or send an ask if you'd like to share your own thoughts!

[this post contains spoilers for the entirety of dragon age: the veilguard, please do not click the 'read more' if you do not want to be spoiled! you have been warned!]

before we get into the setting of veilguard, we have to talk about the setting of dragon age itself. dragon age is labelled as a dark fantasy series. there's discussions of slavery, sexism, racism, and so much more. this dark setting is one of the most compelling features about the series. many people (myself included) praise dragon age for depicting such well-written worldbuilding of these dark themes.

in veilguard, these dark themes still exist in some forms. however, the themes have been watered down to some extent. for example, minrathous has been described in all previous three entries as the slave capital of tevinter. it is all but normalized in their society, engrained in the politics and economy of the imperium. i can't help but feel like it was deliberately avoided by the writers to depict this society.

i want to clarify that i am not at all saying veilguard NEEDED to show slavery to the worst of its' extent to be labeled as 'dark' in any way. i am a firm believer that depicting dark themes should be done as respectfully as possible. it should make sense in context of the world around it and shouldn't be done for 'shock factor' or a fuel to make an 'evil' character 'someone the player should dislike.' and it definitely shouldn't be carelessly thrown into the story for the sake of just saying, 'hey our game is dark! look at this bad stuff in it!'

this is just one example of a problem i have with the setting of veilguard. cultural identities between nations and societies seem to blur together or are completely omitted. this leads into a whole other problem veilguard has: the lack of past choice diversity.

when i found out veilguard not only was NOT using dragon age keep, it was only going to import 3 choices....from inquisition. and two of them were locked behind trespasser.....a dlc. ouch. i was....not happy. i still am not. part of dragon age's entire identity is that the previous game's choices were reflected in the sequel. it was an extremely cool and fun feature that had me excited to see how different decisions impacted current events and characters. yeah well! it's gone now. sorry!

veilguard suffers from this decision. part of dragon age's identity is wiped away and the sting still hurts. the setting is locked into a difficult path of vague references to past events, hiding them in codices strewn throughout veilguard, or never brought up.

however! this does not make veilguard unredeemable. the setting they do salvage from this difficult situation is still a compelling one. i thoroughly enjoy northern thedas, even if it is not exactly what i envision due to the constraints. each location is unique and memorable in their own way. i personally LOVE nevarra and the grand necropolis. i love the gothic imagery, culture, and the mourn watch faction as a whole. one of the great many new additions to the setting of dragon age.

veilguard does a good job of showing the player all the new or, offhandedly mentioned stuff in previous titles, without contradicting itself (for the most part). a lot of returning factions (i.e. the antivan crows, the grey wardens) have new layers of depth that make sense! the passage of time between entries helps with this, because it's perfectly understandable that organizations change overtime and adapt to new factors. i would not have liked origins's depiction of the grey wardens and the antivan crows 20 in-game years later. i'm glad things were changed or referenced as lessons for these organizations to learn from.

i'm not here to forgive and forget all that we could have had with veilguard. i agree with most criticisms with the game. the setting is the factor that suffers the most because of all that was taken away with 'the 3 choices.' i mourn what we could have had if dragon age keep was considered viable. but sometimes you just have to accept or reject what you get. people that reject veilguard aren't wrong for doing so. it's extremely sad and upsetting of what we COULD have had with joplin or morrison. but we didn't get those versions of 'dragon age 4,' to be honest it's a miracle we got a fourth game at all.

phew. there's part one! i got a bit heavy at the end but yeah, there we go. part two will come whenever i decide to write it i guess? part two is going to be about the storyline! i think this part is going to be a little bit more difficult to shrink down because i have many thoughts! so many! see you then!

[gatheringbones]

[“If I were growing up now, I might consider myself trans too,” says my friend Kate. She grew up in the Texas Panhandle during the 1950s and gravitated toward feminism in the 1970s like many of her peers. She adds ruefully: “I’m glad I didn’t have that option.”

Nadia has absorbed those fears, and she wonders whether her friends will see her top surgery as an act of betrayal. Before they left for Florida, Nadia implored her girlfriend, Flora, not to tell lesbian friends of theirs that she’s “getting rid of [her] boobs,” joking that she’d “be out of the club.” Flora says she feared losing access to her lover’s body. Never having undergone surgery before, she was afraid of the unknown. “Will it really solve her problems?” she wondered. Why put yourself through that? And why go to a doctor who specializes in transmale top surgery if you’re not trans yourself?

Nadia has stayed in touch with some of the lesbian-identified people she met online who told her they were having top surgery. A few have since “decided to go on T and now identify as male,” she says. It led Nadia to question her own motivations: “Will I begin to identify as trans? Is removing my breasts some sort of internalized misogyny? Am I betraying the lesbian community?”

The fact that transitioning is now an option for women who identify as male means that Nadia must consider how she wishes to identify herself. Flora reassured her: “Having tissue removed from your body is not going to make you a man.” Several months after she had undergone top surgery, Nadia still sees herself as a woman—albeit a woman without boobs. She has a new job and a new girlfriend—someone she used to work with at the employment counseling nonprofit, who worked with her in her union. Her involvement in the union has energized her in new ways, renewing her commitment to social justice organizing. When we speak, she seems happier and more at ease with her life. Top surgery hasn’t changed her life radically, though it has helped her intimate relationships, she says, and has made her less self-conscious about her body. She goes to the beach or to the Y locker room topless now and no one bats their eyes. “I now look how I’m supposed to look,” she says.

Recently, when she was at a union conference in Las Vegas, Nadia spotted another person at the hotel pool who also had the familiar scars of someone who had had top surgery, who was also there with a girlfriend. Though they didn’t say anything to each other, they looked at each other and shared a glint of recognition. Her story suggests that after being estranged from one another, younger butches and trans men are finding one another and making common cause, welcoming gender-crossers into the Lesbian Nation.

In an effort to blur the boundaries between butch lesbians and transgender men, some have suggested the label “transbutch.” When I ask Nadia whether that label is meaningful to her, she seems unconvinced. “It seems too ‘second wave,’ ” she says. Nadia sees herself as part of feminism’s “third wave,” which is more aware of queer issues and racial diversity, and which refuses to “put people in categories.” Unlike her second-wave feminist foremothers, who, in their enthusiasm for remaking the world, seemed at times pretty prescriptive, she’d prefer to “let them decide for themselves how they identify,” she says. So for now, she’s calling herself “butch and queer.” Or “whatever.”]

arlene stein, from unbound: transgender men and the remaking of identity, 2018

[that-1d-blogger]

This is Part 3.

Part 1

Part 2

The weeks following Zayn's admittance to the hospital passed in a blur of fear and desperate hope. His family kept a quiet bedside vigil, watching in anguish as his condition deteriorated with each passing day. The gut-wrenching reality that he required an urgent liver transplant to survive loomed over them like a menacing storm cloud.

Specialists and surgeons came and went, explaining in grave tones about the complicated process of finding a suitable donor match. With Zayn's relatively uncommon mixed ethnicity, the odds were not in his favor. His name was added to the national registry, but the waiting lists for cadaveric donors were frighteningly long. His best chance was to find a living donor willing to make the ultimate sacrifice - but even that was an enormous gamble rife with risks.

Through it all, Zayn suffered in a haze of confusion and anxiety. Though he couldn't clearly articulate it, some deeper instinct told him there was something monumental he was forgetting. His amnesia made his world feel like an abstract painting - he could discern vague familiarity in the faces of loved ones surrounding him, but the details were maddeningly blurred. Only flashes of old memories sparked in his subconscious, whetting his appetite for the past he couldn't retrieve.

Late one evening, Zayn startled awake from a bizarre dream. Visions of a beautiful young woman with warm brown eyes and flawless bronze skin still danced in his mind's eye. She was smiling at him with an expression of pure adoration, like he was the only man in the world. He felt an overwhelming sense of love and longing when he looked at her, but he couldn't place her identity.

"Who was that?" he rasped out loud, his scratchy voice rousing his mother from the vinyl recliner where she slumbered.

Trisha's eyes fluttered open and she was instantly at his side, taking his clammy hand in her own. "Who was who, beta?" she asked groggily.

Zayn searched in vain for the right words to describe the dream. "I don't know…there was a woman. She was…she seemed so important, you know? But I can't remember anything else about her."

The creases in Trisha's forehead deepened with unmistakable sadness. "Oh Zayn…I wish I could help put the missing pieces back together for you. Maybe once you're feeling stronger, it will start coming back."

She stroked his arm in a soothing rhythm, willing her son to drift back into a peaceful sleep. But Zayn's mind was restless, nagged by the feeling that he'd lost something profound and earth-shattering. If only he could remember…

Zayn's health was a roller coaster in the ensuing days, the damage to his liver taking an increasing toll. He grew weaker, more lethargic, the whites of his eyes taking on a distressing jaundiced hue. Simple acts like sitting upright in bed left him winded and beaded with sweat.

His family knew time was running out. If a donor didn't emerge soon, they'd be forced to say goodbye well before they were ready.

Then one spring morning, a spark of hope flamed to life in the solemn hospital room. The door opened and the familiar face of Zayn's doctor appeared, carrying a cipher of guarded anticipation.

"I have news," the doctor said solemnly, his hazel eyes finds Zayn's amber ones. "We've received word that a living donor has come forward and been approved as a viable match for your transplant."

A collective gasp fell across the room's occupants. Trisha clutched Yaser's hand tighter, fresh tears springing in her eyes.

"A…a donor?" Zayn murmured in disbelief, still trying to process the enormity of the situation. "Who is it?"

The doctor's expression turned regretful and he shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't divulge the identity at this time for privacy reasons. But I can tell you the donor is an excellent biological match, which increases the chances of a successful outcome exponentially."

The little color remaining in Yaser's face seemed to drain away as the weight of those words hit him. "What about the risks? To the donor, I mean? This is an incredibly dangerous procedure…"

"You're correct, the risks are substantial," the doctor acknowledged soberly. "We'll be removing nearly two-thirds of the donor's liver, which will hopefully regenerate over time. But there's no downplaying the potential life-threatening complications - blood clots, bleeding, infections, liver failure and death in the worst scenarios."

Zayn felt like he'd been kicked in the chest, all the air buffeting from his starved lungs. Some selfless individual was literally putting their life on the line to save him - a reality that was both humbling and terrifying.

"Are they…are they aware of the dangers?" Yaser pressed, his brow creasing with paternal concern for this anonymous sacrifice.

The doctor's expression tightened and nodded gravely. "The donor is fully informed and accepting of all the risks involved. In fact..." he paused, seeming to carefully weigh his next words. "Well, let's just say this particular donor was immensely difficult to dissuade once their mind was made up."

An image of the beautiful woman from Zayn's dream flickered in his mind again, though he couldn't fathom any logical connection. He blinked slowly, suddenly overwhelmed by a bone-deep weariness.

"When...?" he murmured hoarsely. "When is the surgery?"

"We need to move forward as quickly as possible, before your liver deteriorates further," the doctor stated. "We're tentatively slating the procedure for the end of this week, barring any new complications on either side. I'll keep you updated as we get closer."

With that ambiguous promise, he gave a solemn nod and departed, leaving Zayn's room in a state of mixed relief and tension. Though overjoyed at this miraculous turn of events, the risks hung like a shroud, reminding them all that nothing was guaranteed.

The next few days were a flurry of pre-operative appointments and testing, both for Zayn and his anonymous savior. He spent hours hooked up to wires and monitors, his chalky skin and protruding ribs a sobering reminder of how far his condition had deteriorated. Vials of blood and various other fluids were drawn, records meticulously updated, and a final pre-surgery consultation scheduled.

When the appointed day arrived, Zayn was wheeled into the stark, sterile operating suite just before dawn and prepped for the marathon procedure. An IV line was skillfully inserted into his spindly forearm, sending a potent cocktail of medication washing into his system. He felt himself growing deliriously lightheaded and pliant as the anesthesia took effect

-------------------------------

Zayn groaned as he opened his blurry eyes to see his family and doctor already looking at him

"Mr. Malik, your surgery went as well as we could have hoped. The new liver is functioning properly…" He paused, seeming to steel himself for his next words. "But I'm afraid I have some very difficult information to share about your donor."

Zayn felt his brow crease in confusion, his mind still foggy from the anesthesia and potent medications. Donor? What did the doctor mean by that?

Trisha sensed her son's bewilderment and reached for his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze as she looked at the physician with pleading eyes. "What is it? What's happened?"

The doctor drew a fortifying breath. "The liver you received…it came from a living donor. A young woman named Zuri Simmons, age 25. She insisted on being the one to provide this life-saving gift, despite our urging about the extreme medical risks involved."

The name sparked an instinctive flicker of recognition in Zayn, though he couldn't immediately place the connection. Zuri…the beautiful woman from his fragmented dreams and visions. Hadn't she been important to him somehow?

"During the procedure to extract a portion of Ms. Simmons' liver, there were…complications," the doctor continued with obvious difficulty. "She suffered a catastrophic hemorrhage that we couldn't get under control. We did everything within our power, but I'm so dreadfully sorry…Zuri didn't make it off the operating table alive."

A deafening silence seemed to descend over the room in the wake of those words. Zayn's mouth moved wordlessly as he attempted to process this staggering revelation.

Zuri…the young, vibrant woman who had given up her life just so he could live another day? It was unfathomable - an act of love and sacrifice so profound that he could scarcely comprehend it.

Suddenly fragmented images and sensations crashed over Zayn in waves - flashes of Zuri's warm, crinkly-eyed smile…the feeling of her silken hair brushing his skin…the scent of her favorite vanilla perfume lingering in the air. She had been so, so important to him once, he realized with a sickening jolt. But his amnesia had ravaged those memories, leaving him adrift without the past they'd clearly shared.

Zuri had been willing to die for him - and now she was just…gone. Violently ripped from existence because of her unwavering determination to save his life, no matter the cost.

The anguished wail that tore from Zayn's throat was utterly primal - a guttural expression of heartbreak, loss and guilt so exquisite that it transcended rational language. Hot tears blurred his vision as ragged sobs wracked his healing body, the deep stitches screaming in protest at the strain.

"No…no, no, no!!" he croaked between the paroxysms of grief. "How could she…why would she do that for me??"

Trisha and Yaser could only clutch each other and weep freely alongside their son, sharing in the lancing pain of mourning this selfless young woman who had made the ultimate sacrifice. Even the doctor seemed visibly shaken, his professional mask slipping to reveal the deep well of empathy stirred by Zuri's tragic story.

Once the initial tsunami of emotion passed, Zayn felt something akin to shame creep in around the edges. He had been so consumed in his own amnesia-warped state that he had clearly pushed away someone who was the very embodiment of unconditional love. Zuri's total willingness to lay down her life to preserve his spoke to emotional depths he couldn't begin to fathom - or even remember sharing together once upon a time.

"We were…together," he murmured in a sandpaper rasp, his red-rimmed eyes scanning the room, "I dont deserve to live after how i treated her few days back..Oh god" his voice broke with realization at the end as he started crying again.

"Im so sorry for your loss" Doctor said with a sombre expression before reaching out to pull out a letter from his pocket. "Ms Simmons knew about the death risk and ..wanted you to have this."

Unstopping tears dropped down his cheeks as he scanned the letter over and over again, just have a glimpse of her through her beautiful handwriting etched on the paper, he buried his face on the paper , hoping to feel close to her last memoir of her.

He started hearing her sweet voice whisper comforting words in his ear. He imagined her stroking his hair, not because he remembered her doing that but feeling as if her actually doing that would be the only thing to get him to breathe again. Her sweet but heartbroken smile silently reassuring him that everything would be alright.

And the cruel truth-

That he'll get to see her, adore her,

Only in his imagination.

Mainblog

I have two ideas for the epilogue , I'll decide on one and post it after the liam fanfic