#also Black being capitalized and white not is intentional on mine and the authors parts

[embraceyourdestiny]

Reading Hood Feminism by Mikki Kendall and immediately this quote on page 2-3 got me

“Feminism as defined by the priorities of white women hinged on the availability of cheap layer in the home from women of color. Going into a white woman’s kitchen did nothing to help other women. Those jobs had always been available, always paid poorly, always been dangerous. Freedom was not to be found in doing the same labor with a thin veneer of access to opportunities that would most likely never come. A better deal for white women could not be, would not be, the road to freedom for Black women.”

[choerrypuffs]

and stupidly, us.

pairing: vigilante!sicheng x nurse!reader

genre: angst, fluff, it gets a little hot and heavy but no smut 

word count: 5.5k

synopsis: your boring, routine life takes a turn when you find a man bleeding to death by your apartment.

author’s note: this was originally going to be written for another member but then the take off teaser was released, so here we are (update: the mv was released halfway through me writing this so everyone go stream it!!!)

additional: read the yuta spinoff here

A wave of humidity hits you as you leave the air conditioned convenience store. Cringing, you ignore the disgusting feeling of your t-shirt clinging to your sweaty back and begin your trudge back to the apartment. The dark sky is riddled with bright stars, and it would genuinely a gorgeous night if it weren’t for the atrocious weather. The plastic bag you’re carrying keeps brushing against your leg and sticking to your skin. Annoyed, you swing it over your shoulder and let it hang from your fingers. 

You easily dodge a couple of drunken college girls who are stumbling down the street, in search of another night club to get even more drunk at. You wonder if they’re going to the one your co-worker, Chaeyeon, is at. All of the ER nurses (that weren’t on-call) were out partying tonight. It’s been a hectic week, so Chaeyeon suggested that everyone come out for shots tonight. Of course, you declined because downing shots of tequila in a loud, smelly night club is not exactly your thing. You’re more of a curling-under-a-warm-blanket-with-some-cheap-bottles-of-soju-and-a-pint-of-ice-cream-while-crying-over-cheesy-movies-on-Netflix kind of girl. 

By the time you arrive back at your apartment complex, you are debating on taking another shower. It’s so hot outside that your three minute walk to the convenience store has you soaked with sweat. Fishing your keys out of your back pocket, you begin to unlock the door until you hear a soft groan. You freeze mid-lock turn and slowly turn your head in the direction of the noise. It sounds like it’s coming from the small gap that separates your apartment building from the next one. 

Every rational part of your entity is screaming at you to run inside and lock the door, but the nurse in you can’t help but notice that it sounds like the person is in pain. You mentally argue with yourself for another couple of seconds before you inhale, taking a small step toward the direction of the noise. 

“H-Hello?�� 

There’s no response, but you’re close enough to hear someone panting. Exhaling the breath you took in, you peek down the narrow space. It takes your eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness, but you finally see it. See him. 

There’s a guy, who didn’t look much older than you, crumpled over on the ground. His back is against the side of the apartment building, his hand clutching at his side. You can see the rapid rising and falling of his chest as he drifts in and out of consciousness. Without blinking, you squeeze yourself through the small space and make your way towards him. 

“Sir, are you alright?” you ask, awkwardly trying to kneel. The space is so narrow that you end up nearly toppling onto him. 

Once again, he doesn’t say anything. His eyelids are fluttering, which is a good sign. You place your hand against his cheek; his skin pallor with a sheen to it and he’s cool to the touch. You furrow your brows, lowering your gaze to where his hand is. Pushing aside the bomber jacket he’s wearing, you gasp out loud when you see the amount of blood pooling through his shirt. 

“Sir,” you say, a little louder this time, “you’re losing too much blood. I’m going to call an ambulance, okay?” 

You begin dialing emergency services, but before you can even enter the first number, the stranger grabs your wrist and yanks it to the side. Nearly dropping your phone, you shoot a bewildered glance at him. 

“Don’t,” he says, voice hoarse. 

“Sir,” you say slowly, “if you aren’t transferred to a hospital, you will die of blood loss.” 

“Don’t,” he says again, shaking his head. 

You bite your lip. It’s clear that he’s growing weaker by the second, yet he used the remaining strength he had to stop you. There’s obviously a reason, and a very serious one at that, why he’s refusing medical care, but you don’t have the time to question him about it. Without another word, you stand up and haul him out from the gap. Dragging him to your doorstep, you shakily unlock your door and pull him inside. With a considerable amount of effort, you manage to get him on your couch. You try not to look too depressed as you watch his blood seep through the white suede. 

“I’m a nurse,” you explain, slightly out of breath, “I’ll help you stop the bleeding.” 

The stranger looks up at you warily and nods, and you’re struck with how handsome he is even when bruised and battered. His dyed hair is disheveled and slightly matted with dried blood, and his luminous skin glows even with scratches all over it. His plush lips are perfectly kissable, despite the cut on it. 

Get it together, you chide yourself, are you seriously ogling a dying man? 

You grab the first-aid kit in your bathroom and a couple of clean dish rags from the kitchen after you wash your hands, before sitting down beside him on the couch. His eyes are closed but he opens them again when he feels the couch dip with your weight. Without looking at him, you grab the hem of his shirt and yank it up until you see the wound. There’s a long gash marring his pale skin, but luckily, it’s a shallow one. For the most part, the edges of it has already been caked with dried blood, but you can see fresh blood glisten through the gash whenever he breathes. 

Wetting one of the rags with warm water, you try your best to clean up his wound. You frown when you notice that the gash is starting to bleed a little more profusely without the barrier of the dried blood stopping it. You quickly grab another rag and firmly press it against the gash.

“What’s your name, by the way?” you ask, feeling a little awkward in the tense silence. 

He says nothing, just watching you. Though you suppose you should be, you’re not really that bothered by it. There is no malicious intent in his gaze. He’s analyzing, looking at you with a curiosity and perhaps even a little fascination. 

“Well, mine is Y/N,” you answer yourself, huffing at his rudeness. 

“It’s...better if you don’t know,” the stranger says quietly, low voice rumbling deep within his chest. Now you’re really curious, but you know better than to pry.

“Well, you could at least give me a fake one or something. I’m saving your life, you know,” you point out. 

He’s silent for just another moment before, “Winwin.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Winwin. Out of all the names you could’ve given me, that’s the one?” 

“It’s an old nickname of mine,” Winwin explains, a small smile on his face. “In fact, you’re the only one I’ve told about it in a very, very long time.” 

“Well, I guess I’m honored,” you tease. 

Winwin gives you a full-fledged smile, and suddenly, all the moisture disappears in your mouth and you find yourself at a loss for words. His eyes trail down to the floor, where your stuff from the convenience store lay. Most of it is spilling out of the bag due to being haphazardly tossed, including a lone bottle of soju that had rolled away completely. 

“Do you mind if I drink that?” Winwin asks, pointing at the bottle. “As you can probably tell, I’ve had a rough night.” 

You snort. “Let me finish bandaging you up, and we can both help ourselves.” 

He gives you another grin, and you wish he’d stop (not really). 

Once the bleeding is under control and the gash is disinfected, wrapping Winwin’s injury is a piece of cake. After that’s finished, you toss him the bottle of soju and he catches it with one hand. 

“I still strongly suggest you go to a hospital and get it checked though,” you advise as you clean up everything. 

Winwin shrugs noncommittally, cracking open the soju and drinking straight from the bottle. You’re slightly concerned and yet impressed all at the same time. By the time you have everything cleaned up, the bottle is empty and he’s up in search of your trash can. 

“Damn,” you note, pointing him in the direction of it. “That was quick.” 

“I needed it,” he says, tossing it in your trash can smoothly. “Anyways, I’ll get going.” 

You nod, feeling just a little sad that he’s leaving. Though you aren’t really sure why. This guy screams trouble with a capital T, no matter how attractive he is. You follow him to the door and nearly jump out of your skin when he turns to face you, the space between you dangerously close. 

“Thank you,” Winwin says sincerely. “For everything. Also, I’m sorry for ruining your couch.” 

“It’s an old couch,” you say dumbly, unable to form intelligent phrases due to his proximity. 

You’re mentally beating yourself up for your stupidity as he steps outside. Just as you’re about to close the door, he turns again. 

“Next time,” he says in a quiet tone, “don’t blindly bring strangers into your house. They could be dangerous, including me.” 

The weekend passes by in a flash, mainly consisting of you watching terrible romcoms nonstop in an attempt to take your mind off Winwin. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work. 

Your alarm goes off at 5:45 AM, and you jolt awake. You’re laying on your back, arm slung across your eyes, and trying to make sense of your surroundings. The alarm continues to angrily beep until you find the energy to roll onto your side and switch it off. Lethargically sitting up, you aggressively rub your eyes before finally climbing out of bed. Your room is pitch black due to the lack of sun, and you nearly trip over a pile of dirty clothes as you stumble into the bathroom.

After you brush your teeth, you tug on a pair of semi-clean scrubs and pull your wild bedhead out of your face. You don’t look too hard at yourself in the mirror, because you know you look terrible. Though you would love to be able to get up at five o’clock sharp, take a nice shower, and maybe even put on a little makeup, you value that extra 45 minutes of sleep much more than your appearance. 

It occurs to you that this is probably why you don’t have a boyfriend. 

One long, drowsy subway ride later, you finally arrive at the hospital. There’s barely anyone here, but you do notice two shadowy figures near the double doors that lead to the ER. You furrow your eyebrows and begin to approach them. One of them turns when he hears your footsteps, and you recognize him as Dr. Nakamoto Yuta, a general surgeon. You’ve never spoken to him, but you’ve heard plenty about him from the giggly nurses in the ER. The figure behind him leans to the side to look at you as well, and you stop in your tracks. 

It’s Winwin. 

“Good morning,” Yuta greets politely, but there’s a bit of an edge to it. 

You drag your eyes away from Winwin and nod. “Good morning, Dr. Nakamoto. Do you two have business in the ER?” 

He shakes his head. “No, we’re just chatting. Sorry if we alarmed you.” 

You turn your gaze back to Winwin. He’s looking at you with a hardened, cold expression, one that he didn’t have last time. Tilting your head, you wait for him to acknowledge you, but he doesn’t. It’s like he’s looking right past you, and it hurts more than it should. 

“Alright then,” you say softly, “have a nice day.” 

“You as well,” Yuta replies. 

They’re silent as you walk past them and into the ER. You want to turn back and snoop on them, but something in your gut is telling you not to look back. 

“Y/N! Wanna go for drinks?” Chaeyeon asks, throwing an arm around your shoulders as the two of you walk out of the hospital. 

“We have work tomorrow, Chae,” you say sternly. 

“Just for a little bit. I promise you’ll be home by midnight, Cinderella,” she teases. 

You want to say no, but it’s not like you have anything to do at home either (other than mope about Winwin ignoring you this morning). Sighing, you relent. “Fine, but just for a little while.”

Chaeyeon is surprised at how easily you give in this time but nevertheless erupts into a loud squeal. Pulling you into a rib-crushing hug, she jumps up and down in happiness. “I can’t believe I’ve finally worn you down enough to say yes! And the other girls said I wouldn’t be able to do it!” 

You wheeze in response and she finally releases you. 

“Go home, get dressed in something hot, and we’ll pick you up in an hour, okay?” she orders excitedly. 

You nod, slightly overwhelmed. Chaeyeon lets out another happy squeal before waving you goodbye. 

Just what have I gotten myself into?

When you arrive home, it dawns on you that you only have one “partying” dress, gifted to you by Chaeyeon actually. You’ve worn it a total of zero times, and you’re pretty sure it’s too small for you now since you’ve taken up the rather bad habit of snacking whenever you have nothing to do (which is all the time). 

It’s a maroon velvet cocktail dress that stops just above your upper thighs. The dress has spaghetti straps, but they’re so thin that they really serve no purpose other than for aesthetics. When you wriggle into it, it’s a bit snug but not as bad as you thought. Even though you’re slightly uncomfortable, you admit that the dress does wonders for your curves. You do your makeup as best as you can without looking like a raccoon and swipe on a dark red lipstick that you had bought on impulse once when you were drunk. 

As if on cue, you hear Chaeyeon honk her car horn outside your apartment. Grabbing your clutch and slipping on a pair of strappy heels, you quickly go outside. You see the other nurses in the backseat waving at you and quickly beckoning you to join them, so you do. Chaeyeon’s jeep is stuffed, and you’re basically all sitting on top of each other. 

“You look hot,” a nurse, Joohyun, comments. 

“Thanks. You too,” you say awkwardly. 

“Alright, ladies! Operation: Get Y/N Some Dick has started!” Chaeyeon announces loudly. The rest of the girls cheer, and you feel yourself blush. 

“Guys, that really isn’t―”

“Hush,” Chaeyeon shushes, “I know for a fact that you haven’t had a fling in an extremely long time, or maybe ever. So it’s our duty to get you one.” 

You want to defend yourself, but it’s true. 

“Don’t worry, girl. All you have to do is have fun, and we’ll take care of the rest,” Chaeyeon reassures you. 

“That makes me worry more,” you mumble. 

They all laugh, but you’re already beginning to plot an elaborate escape plan in your head.

Your stomach erupts into butterflies when Chaeyeon parks the car and everyone starts to get out. Luckily, Joohyun is leading you by the arm and basically drags you out of the car. The music from the club is so loud that you can hear it before you even arrive at the entrance. The bouncer takes one look at Chaeyeon and lets you all pass without a single word. You give a confused look to Joohyun and she just winks at you. 

Once you walk in, you nearly go deaf from the volume of the music. Chaeyeon turns and says something to you but you don’t hear a single word of it. You’re not sure how anyone communicates with each other in this sort of environment. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to be expecting a response and makes a beeline toward the bar. The other nurses start to disperse, and you’re not really sure where to go so you continue to follow Chaeyeon.

She says something to the bartender and she gets to work, plopping a drink in front of you within minutes. 

“A personal favorite of mine,” she yells over the music. You’re only barely able to hear her. 

You warily pick up the drink, the strong scent burning your nostrils. Holding your breath, you down it in one shot and nearly cough up a lung doing it. It burns all the way down and lingers in your throat. Chaeyeon laughs, patting your back. 

“Atta girl,” she says proudly. 

The bartender makes you another one, and you lightly sip at it this time. When you turn to say something to Chaeyeon, you realize she’s not next to you anymore. She’s on the dance floor, pressed up against a random guy. Rolling your eyes, you finish your drink. 

“Abandoned that quickly, huh?” the bartender asks. 

You shrug, sliding your empty glass to her. “Another, please.” 

You’ve always been a lightweight, so you already start to feel the buzz. You know your third or fourth one will be your limit, but the alcohol is dulling your rationality and you can’t bring yourself to care. After a couple more, you’re drunk. Your cheeks are ablaze, and everything around you is spinning. No longer having the energy to stay upright, you lay your head down on your arms. 

Go home, the coherent part of your brain tells you, but your limbs don’t listen. 

Suddenly, there’s a cool hand on your back, and you hear someone say your name. It’s a soft voice, but yet you hear it so clearly over the thumping bass. The hand has moved to your shoulder, shaking you gently. Letting out a whine, you try to move away. 

“Y/N.” 

You hum in response, finally lifting your head and opening one eye. Winwin’s gorgeous face finally comes into focus, and you giggle. You grab his cheeks and squish them together, making his lips jut out like a fish. 

“Well, look who decided to show up!” you slur, swaying from side to side. “Are you suddenly talking to me again?” 

Winwin clasps your wrists and removes your hands from his face. “You need to leave now, Y/N.” 

“But I don’t wanna,” you say, pouting. 

“You’re drunk. Go home,” he says firmly. 

“Are you gonna take me?” you ask boldly. 

Liquid courage, indeed. 

Winwin looks almost embarrassed. “I’ll call a cab for you.” 

For someone so mysterious and brooding, he can be quite cute, drunk you muses to yourself.

“I want a piggyback ride, like in the movies,” you say, crossing your arms. 

He gives you an incredulous look, and you stare back at him. When he realizes you mean it, he sighs and scratches the back of his head. There’s a little pink dusting his cheeks, but he nods. Smiling cheekily, you put your arms out in front of you and wait expectantly. 

Winwin looks around and sighs, turning his back to you and lowering himself to match your height. You throw yourself on him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands catch your thighs, and he adjusts you a little further up his back. Burying your face into his shoulder, you can’t help but notice how good he smells. You expected him to smell like tobacco and stale smoke, but he just smells like soap and fabric softener. 

He easily weaves through the crowds, even with you on his back, and you realize just how stuffy it was in there when the fresh air hits you. You cling onto him some more, the warmth of his back nearly lulling you to sleep. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you give really mixed signals?” you whisper into his shirt. 

His shoulders shake as he chuckles. “No, because I usually don’t give signals at all.”

“Well, you’re giving them to me. Really mixed ones. Unless they’re all in my head,” you say, “that would be super embarrassing.” 

“They’re not,” he says faintly, “though I really shouldn’t be giving them to you.” 

“Well, why not?” you demand. 

“I can’t tell you.”

“How do you know Dr. Nakamoto?” 

“I can’t tell you that either.” 

You sigh, blowing a lock of hair out of your face. “Of course not. You won’t even tell me your damn name.” 

Winwin doesn’t respond and the rest of the walk back to your apartment is silent. When the two of you finally reach your doorstep, he puts you down. Your legs wobble and you would’ve fallen over if it weren’t for Winwin grabbing your arm. You look up at him in your drunken haze. The glow of the moon cascades over his face, and your breath is taken away by his beauty. 

Once he makes sure you’re stable, he lets go of your arm. Clearing his throat, he says, “I should go.” 

“You should,” you agree softly. 

He nods but makes no move to leave, his warm brown eyes training their gaze on you. The weight of his stare is so intense that you have to remind yourself to breathe. You feel him reach out and curl a finger under your chin, tilting it up. Once you meet his eyes, his thumb quickly swipes at the corner of your lips, where your lipstick had been smeared. 

“How much of this are you going to remember?” Winwin asks. 

You shrug and he looks down at your shoulder. One of the straps on your dress has fallen down, and he says nothing as he hooks his finger on it and lifts it back up. His knuckle brushes against your skin the entire time. You shiver, letting your eyes flutter shut. He pulls you closer, hands resting on your waist and forehead against yours. He lets out a shaky breath. 

“Sicheng,” he whispers, “my name is Sicheng.” 

You open your eyes, reaching up to cup his face. He leans into your touch. “I don’t think you were supposed to tell me that, Sicheng.” 

“I know,” he says, “I just wanted to hear you say it. Good night, Y/N.” 

Sicheng steps away from you, his hands lingering slightly on your waist before his touch is gone completely, and he leaves. 

You head into work the next day with an atrocious hangover and a few choice words for Chaeyeon. Though you don’t stay too mad at her because of what happened after. You can still hear his voice in your head like he’s speaking to you. 

My name is Sicheng.

The rational part of your brain is scolding you for being so fixated on a guy that you’ve literally only talked to twice and is definitely hiding something serious from you, but you can’t help but be drawn to him. The way he looks at you makes you so― 

“Y/N?” 

You snap out of your daze, nearly dropping the files in your arms. Nakamoto Yuta is standing in front of you, hands tucked into his coat pockets. He’s smiling at you, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You smile back nervously. Something about him unsettles you. 

“Yes, Doctor?” you respond. 

“Would you mind joining me for lunch? I want to talk to you,” he asks, tilting his head. His eyes are daring you to say no. 

“Sure,” you say slowly, nodding. “Lead the way.” 

Yuta makes small talk with you during the walk to the cafeteria, but you can’t shake the weird feeling in your gut. He pays for both of your meals and sits at a table in the corner of the room. The moment you get situated, his face drops. 

“So,” he starts, “what��s your relationship with him?” 

You try to keep your expression neutral. “Who?” 

“Sicheng’s never been good at lying, and I guess you aren’t that skilled at it either,” Yuta muses.

You don’t respond. 

“I’m just going to get straight to the point. He’s smitten with you, not enough to be stupid about it yet, but it’ll happen very soon if this continues. We have a lot of enemies, and they won’t hesitate to use you against him. I’m sure you’re a very nice girl and you’d be good with him under any other circumstances. But not this one. So, stay away from him. For your own good and his,” he says harshly. 

“I―I don’t understand. What on Earth are you talking about? What enemies?” you ask. “Are― are you guys in a gang or something?” 

Yuta sighs, leaning back in his seat. “Let’s just say he leads a very different, dangerous lifestyle from yours.”

You begin to ask more questions, but he cuts you off. “Don’t ask anything else. The less you know, the better.” 

“But―”

“If you value his life at all, you’ll stay away.” 

Yuta doesn’t wait for your response, simply picking up his tray and leaving. 

You don’t see Yuta or Sicheng for the next two weeks. Chaeyeon attempts to get you to go out with her again, but you strongly refuse each time. You’ve been spending the majority of your free time doing what you’ve always done, curling under a blanket and watching movies while snacking. But for some reason, it feels so empty. 

It’s storming tonight, and a loud clap of thunder makes you flinch. You turn off the movie you’re watching and prepare for bed when you hear a loud rapping on your door. At first, fear washes over you but then a small glimmer of hope blooms in your chest. You quickly pad over to the door, looking through the peephole. When you see Sicheng, you immediately open the door. 

“Hey,” he greets. 

“Jesus, Sicheng,” you breathe, stepping aside to let him in. 

He’s sopping wet, once again battered and bruised. His cheek is swollen, and there’s a nasty cut across his forehead. The skin on his knuckles has been scraped off, and he’s limping. For the most part, he’s in better condition than he was when you first saw him. You realize he’s shivering and you quickly grab your fluffiest towels from the bathroom, swaddling him in them.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, plopping down on your couch. Right on the spot with his blood stain. “So you remember.” 

“Remember what?” you ask, drying his hair with a smaller towel. 

“My name.” 

You stop, looking down at him. “How could I not?” 

Sicheng shrugs. “Yuta told me he talked to you. He’s right, you know.” 

“Yet you’re here,” you say wryly. 

“Strange, isn’t it? I had every intention of going to Yuta’s, but I found myself here,” he says quietly.

You give up on drying his hair, slapping the towel over his head, before leaning back against the couch and sighing. “Stop saying stuff like that.” 

Sicheng watches you, reaching over and sliding his hand into yours. His hand is wet and cold, but it somehow warms you. You let your intertwined hands stay like that for a only a few moments before you pull away. “Are you ever going to tell me who you are?” 

“I can’t,” he says again, shaking his head. 

“Are you a criminal?” you ask. “Murderer? Drug dealer?” 

He doesn’t answer. 

“I can’t keep doing this, Sicheng. You’re the one who told me not to blindly let strangers into my house, including you, but you came to me. You’re the one who said it’s better if I don’t know your name, but you told me anyways. I don’t want your breadcrumbs anymore. If you have no intention of telling me who you are, then get out. I don’t want to see you,” you say, pointing to the door.  

You’re met with another round of silence. 

“Criminal,” he says after a long pause. “I guess you could call me a criminal.” 

“You guess?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. 

“We serve justice to higher-ups that are corrupt,” Sicheng explains, “just not in the most lawful way. We don’t kill though, we just simply hit them where it hurts: their bank accounts.” 

“So you’re a vigilante,” you say, “a modern day Robin Hood.” 

He smiles. “That sounds much better.” 

“Oh,” is all you can reply with. You’re glad he’s not a murderer or anything like that, but you’re not sure what to do with this information now. 

“So, you can imagine the amount of enemies that I’ve made,” Sicheng continues, “and how they’ll tear you apart if they find out that I care for you.” 

“Which means you should probably go,” you finish for him, nodding and looking down at your hands. 

“Yes, I probably should,” he agrees, tilting his head and waiting for you to meet his eyes.

There’s another brief pause before you do, and it’s all over from there. 

Sicheng’s arms are suddenly wrapped around your waist, hauling you onto his lap. You grab his face and kiss him with a fervor that you never knew you had in you before. His hands are clutching your hips tightly as he yanks you forward, pressing you flush against him. You let out a mewl in his mouth at the friction, and he groans in response. He removes a hand from your hip and places it against the back of your head, deepening the kiss. His tongue draws out another moan from you, and you feel your lungs crying out for air. 

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers as you pull apart to breathe. His lips are glossy and slightly tinted from the lip balm you had on. “Tell me this is wrong.” 

You shake your head, throwing your arms around his neck and bringing him in for another kiss. Sicheng doesn’t protest and kisses you back even harder. His fingers begin fiddling with the hem of your shirt, and you can tell he wants to take it off but is waiting for your approval. Breaking the kiss, you take off your shirt and toss it over your shoulder. He’s surprised at first, but his gaze quickly softens as he leans in to press feather light kisses against your skin. 

“You’re beautiful,” he mumbles, sucking purple bruises onto your collarbone. 

You crane your neck, clutching his head to your chest. Once he dots hickeys across your chest and neck like constellations in the sky, he pulls away to look at you. His lips are swollen and his eyes are lidded. 

“Stay,” you whisper, placing your forehead against his. 

“I shouldn’t,” Sicheng says it like it’s physically hurting him. 

“You shouldn’t,” you echo. 

But he does. 

When you wake up, you see Sicheng with his back turned to you as he tugs his shirt back on. It’s so early that the sun hasn’t even risen yet, and you groggily call out to him. He stiffens like you caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to, slowly looking back at you. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, rubbing your eyes and sitting up. You don’t even have the energy to be embarrassed when the blanket falls from your bare chest.

He eases himself on the edge of your bed, brushing your messy hair out of your face. “I have to go.”

“Why?” You wrap your fingers around his wrist as he cradles your cheek. 

“Last night was...a mistake,” he says softly, “a wonderful, amazing mistake, but a mistake.”

You knew he was going to say that. Though it doesn’t hurt any less.

“The more I’m around you, the more I like you, and that terrifies me,” Sicheng says, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone. 

“What are you so afraid of?” you whisper, leaning into his touch.

“That you’ll get hurt. That this feeling will turn into love. That, one day, I’m going to have to choose between what I’m doing and you―” 

He closes his eyes. 

“―and that I’ll make the wrong decision.” 

You’re silent, watching him. Sicheng opens his eyes again and looks at you, his expression a conflicting mix of longing and frustration. Wrapping your arms around him, you place your cheek on the top of his head and he buries his face in your chest. 

“Come back to bed,” you finally say, after the two of you stay like that for a while. 

“I―”

“Don’t worry about the what ifs,” you shush him, “worry about right here, right now. And right now, you’re here with me. We’re safe. No one is going to come through that door and try to kill us―” 

“You don’t know that,” he mumbles. 

“Shut up, you’re ruining my grand speech,” you snap. 

“Sorry.” 

“Well, now I’ve forgotten it,” you sigh, “anyways, just cuddle with me. Geez.” 

Sicheng smiles against your skin and falls onto the bed, taking you down with him. Rolling on top of you, his arms cage your head as he leans down to press a small kiss on your lips. 

“Should I?” 

You roll your eyes, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and bringing him back down to you. 

[rawliverandcigarettes]

Thoughts on Fanfiction

Hey.

Today I have thoughts. Not that I didn’t have thoughts on this for a very long time, but for some complex, private-ish reasons it really culminated today into near anger, and I want to put it out here.

I’ve put it under a cut because maybe people don’t want to read me being moody about fanfiction. Sometimes, the day just isn’t right for salt, and I get that.

TLDR: I feel like we are solely enabling fanfiction authors to write stuff for them that immediately feels good, and not enabling each other enough to also have the nerve of writing stuff of consequence, that matters, that takes advantage of this political medium with intent, and that jokingly calling each other trash all the time to cope with external disdain of transformative works is not pushing us to craft stories of greater impact.

So the thing is. Fanfiction is not legal. We can turn it on its head, slap the « transformative works » on it (zero shade, I love this term, but this is still a way to make fanfiction more acceptable to the current system), it remains illegal on a fundamental level based on how it disagrees with the way our northern culture decided the belonging of ideas is a concept that exists, that there is a state of purity of thought that then can be profited from and needs to be protected from external devaluation. Fanfiction is by nature very anticapitalist – it disagrees with these values by its very nature. Myself, I do not see the point of creation that doesn’t become a chain reaction. Anything that refuses to be transformative, that desperately wants to remain pure (and stagnant) is as good as wasted work, because it’s trying to fight the very way ideas are formed, and the purpose of art, which remains communication at its core.

So to me there are a lot of similitudes between hacker communities and fanwork creators, because the act of refusing the concept of property of content as eternal, unmoving and to be consumed passively, is politic (because it involves money down the line, and controlling who gets to create products, who gets to consume them and how). I think that’s very interesting, because there lies the ground for counterculture, stuff happening, conversations, explorations and experimentations that will not suffer the gatekeeping of traditional businesses in charge of ensuring quality and controlling the market (nooot saying they are not necessary or don’t do a great job in the context in which we live, which is under capitalism, but they are still guardians of worth, distribution, and serve as a tool to maintain said market into place). But… Yeah, needless to say, this is not how fanfiction is perceived by the outside world, and not even by its own authors.

I have a particular disdain for how fanfiction turned into this joke, a joke perpetuated by people who never invested in the medium in good faith. Fanfiction have this sexist, queerphobic connotation of amateurism, of being unworthy of honest investment and serious consideration. As authors, we hide it with shame and share it under the anonymity of internet. We make up excuses for our interest: « I know it’s trash, but it’s my guily pleasure », « Sure most of them are bad, but there’s some really good ones in there, I promise! (please believe me, I’m not like other girls fanfiction readers/authors) ».

As if most of any art medium, especially easily accessible one, isn’t amateurish and hollow, and also an amazing ground to grow in and experience ideas as well. But that’s a tale we have been told, that we are trash, and we kept telling it to ourselves, until at some point, we got to that part that really annoys me; we started to believe it.

I am honestly tired of seeing all this enabling echo-chamber about how we are valid because we want to write this popular trope, this coffeeshop AU even though everybody else did it already and we have nothing special to contribute to it, that it’s all about having fun because life is too short not to. I agree with these posts. I am against cringe culture as well. I agreed a lot, before I saw literally hundreds of posts like that on my dash, and yet I was seeing no post that says: maybe you have it in you to say something important. Maybe you could challenge yourself to more than the absolute minimum for your immediate enjoyment. Maybe your perspective is important, so do it justice and get your voice out there. Maybe try to leave something behind you that fuels change, and not stagnation. Maybe disagree. Maybe you won’t be able to make it perfectly right, but maybe try still.

This wouldn’t bother me as much if the state of mainstream culture aesthetic right now wasn’t so worringly unnuanced, concise and entertainment-driven, with immediate power fantasies of vague progressism and very little hard work of subtext and understanding of larger systems that don’t feel as simple and easy to break. But that’s just what mainstream culture does. We don’t have to be that –nobody is paying us for doing so.

And I understand we live hard historic times that are scary, scarring, hard to swallow, that we crave black and white, and simplicity of the interpersonnal, that most people are driven by the need to be loved romantically and feel warm at least in their own head, and that fanfiction is free work –I get that.  And I’m not saying that we should stop doing fluff and unconsequence either, because it is important too, and it is important to cultures and lives that maybe are not mine. But writing is essentially assembling smaller ideas into bigger ones, so making sure they say something worthwhile about who you are, your experience of the world, what matters to you, is only giving justice to your own voice. I find it jarring that I sometimes see people bullying each other on the base of personal interpretation of fiction that challenges some sort of statut quo –wasn’t this the entire point?

I just want us to remind ourselves of the political nerve of what we are doing. And that we are as entitled to write unconsequence and fluff than we are on writing stuff that digs, criticizes, matters.

[southafricantv]

Messages about thousands of Chinese troops in SA are ‘ridiculous’, says SANDF

One of the images circulating as faux information about the SANDF.

The navy has warned that claims circulating on social media are patently absurd and other people shouldn’t be fooled.

The Chinese military isn’t “coaching 80 000 blacks (sic)” in the Potchefstroom space, there are no “ISIS coaching camps” in KwaZulu-Natal, “Operation Iron Eagle” is a fantasy and President Cyril “Ramaphose” (sic) doesn’t want to elucidate the presence of Chinese “navy troopers” in South Africa, as a result of there aren’t any.

Adding to the rising checklist of faux information and hoaxes is a declare being distributed on WhatsApp and social media that there’s a Chinese navy presence in South Africa. While the aim behind this “secret” deployment isn’t clear, these behind the declare need “Ramaphose” to know that they are “not blind”, offering photographic “proof”. The solely snag is, these photos are both outdated or faux.

One message, written in capital letters in damaged Afrikaans riddled with typos and spelling errors by one Karen Kruger, states: “I’m wondering what the aim of Chinese helicopters and cannons with round 1 000 troops who ‘landed’ in Cape Town and Waterkloof on the weekend may very well be?”

A submit by one Sandra-Marie Strauss claims that 6 000 Chinese law enforcement officials from China arrived on 4 ships in Cape Town and that they got a farm of 26 000ha in Platfontein for coaching functions.

She additional claims that there are 50 000 Chinese in the Korannaberg mountain cross between Excelsior and Clocolan and one other 35 000 between Kroonstad and Petrus Steyn, the place the Chinese seemingly “purchased a mine” and that nobody is allowed to go near it.

“Seems they are afraid of the white man,” Strauss states.

Captain Jaco Theunissen, joint operations division spokesperson on the South African National Defence Force (SANDF), dismissed these claims as “ridiculous”.

“This is faux information. I noticed some of these messages on social media myself. One of the movies, for instance, was taken when navy gear was delivered in Walvis Bay almost three years in the past. In that occasion, the gear was destined for Botswana and the SANDF was not concerned.”

ALSO READ: Viral video of ‘tanks’ being delivered nothing to be alarmed about, says SA navy skilled

Use credible sources

Theunissen stated it was unhappy that folks needs to be gullible sufficient to imagine every little thing they see on social media.

“We have press freedom and transparency in the media in South Africa. I subsequently discover it unusual that folks would depend on social media as an alternative of simply googling a dependable, extra correct supply.”

The photos hooked up to the faux messages had been additionally outdated and unrelated, Theunissen stated.

“At this stage, the main focus of the SANDF is to help authorities in its efforts in curbing the Covid-19 pandemic, in addition to our common duties.

“It is surprising when you think about the numbers of Chinese troops individuals declare are in South Africa. People should simply cease and assume: How many planes must land to ferry tens of thousands of troops? One would actually want thousands of buses to move these so-called troops. It is ridiculous … actually ridiculous. There are no Chinese troops in South Africa.”

Twitter consumer Tim Hunter investigated the images that accompanied the claims and located that they had been taken from a range of publications dated from 2013 to 2017.

Some photos present US and South African troopers gathering for a jumpmaster’s temporary at Bloemspruit Airbase on 23 July 2013. Some of the US troopers are of Asian origin however are not from China.

Another image used prominently reveals South African paratroopers taking part in conduct coaching in China in 2017.

So guys does this imply the R5bn for navy was for the chinese language and never sandf?

Why are we letting this occur? They’ve locked us inside in order that we do not see what they are doing? #ChineseVirus #ChineseMilitary #LockdownSA #day54oflockdown #angiemotshekga pic.twitter.com/VaS3Ie6dtY

— The White Lion ???? (@AzaniaSunRising) May 19, 2020

Jail time for faux information

The South African authorities has gazetted new legal guidelines beneath the Disaster Management Act to fight the unfold of faux information. Citizens may get a high quality or a six-month jail time period for spreading faux information about the coronavirus.

Regulation 11(5)(c) of the act classifies faux information as “publishing any assertion by means of any medium, together with social media, with the intention to deceive another individual about measures by the federal government to handle Covid-19”.

For extra information your manner, Orignaly Published on https://citizen.co.za  and 

live at 2020-05-21 14:42:10

The post Messages about thousands of Chinese troops in SA are ‘ridiculous’, says SANDF appeared first on Channels24.

source https://channels24.co.za/messages-about-thousands-of-chinese-troops-in-sa-are-ridiculous-says-sandf

[lakewitchjournal]

Books, Crystals & Incense! - 003

So this is kind of a continuation from my last post! I’m going to start with the books:

Material Girl, Mystical World by Ruby Warrington ⚠️

Rating: 4.5/10, no recommendation

This book was okay. It certainly provided some wonderful insights, but there were some really strong ‘White Feminist™���’ influences in it that made it... tone deaf? I really disliked that aspect of the book and it made it difficult to read it all.  I really got a lot out of the astrology and tarot sections of the book. I skimmed through the last three chapters, because at that point I didn’t find anything new or relevant and was bored of the book.

Kitchen Table Tarot by Melissa Cynova ❓

A book a just started, but so far it’s really great! The author does a really good job of articulating what they want to say without drawing it out in a rambly way. So far it’s providing some really cool insights, like what tarot reading might feel like. So far, I love this book and its approach. We’ll see once I finish it!

Let’s talk about crystals.

You might say that crystals were kind of the gateway for me to this path. It all started with listening to the ‘Gemology’ episode of the ‘Ologies’ podcast, where the host had a gemologist on to talk about ROCKS. Small aside: I love rocks. I have always loved rocks. When I was a kid I would collect rocks I thought were pretty, and keep them in a small box on a bed of cotton. I would stare at them, play with them, take them with me to places. I loved these rocks. When my grandmother passed away, I inherited her rock collection. She was an avid traveller, so these were specimens that she had collected from all over the world. I still have this rock collection. I would have been 6 or 7 when it was passed on to me. 

Back to the podcast! I’ve always been a skeptic of crystals. But what this gemologist was saying about them really made me think about it (because remember, I fuckin’ love rocks). I can’t remember what was exactly said, but my take away was that crystals can be a visual reminder of the energies and positive attributes that we want to attract. I do remember someone saying on the podcast, ‘if it makes you happy then do it’. 

I’ve been keeping my distance from rocks, crystals, whatever you want to call them, because I’ve held the belief that I’m ‘too old’ to have a serious rock collection now, and don’t want to be see as, you know... ‘woo-woo’. But after hearing this episode, I started really thinking about it. And then one day on the bus, I was feeling really overwhelmed and shitty and awful (one part seasonal depression, one part absorbing everyone’s awful morning commute emotions), and I just googled ‘Crystals for Winter Blues’. And I fell down that rabbit hole head first. 

Before going much further, I would just like to add a little disclaimer. I recognize that crystals, herbs, and whatever else cannot replace or be used in place of proper care for any illness (mental, physical, etc.). It can be used in tandem with proper care and treatment yes, but crystals, herbs WILL NOT cure anyone of depression, cancer, etc. This is a belief I hold strongly. I realize this is a tricky issue. Being from Canada, where a decent amount of healthcare is covered, and as well having some benefits that can cover a little bit of therapy and pharmaceuticals, I don’t really have to worry about paying absurds amounts of money to get the help I need. Whereas I recognize that people often turn to ‘alternative’ methods because they cannot afford proper treatment, and these alternative methods/medicines, etc, are not nearly as expensive. So I say this and I recognize I’m speaking from a place of privilege. Capitalism sucks.

Another quick thing: I think the human brain is a powerful thing. There’s something to be said about the placebo effect. I am all about harnessing the power of that placebo effect. That’s so fuckin’ cool.

ANYWAYS: After that morning on the bus, a week later I went into a store with a list of crystals that I wanted to buy and did so. I hate buying things, but I also love pretty rocks. I started out with the following: 

2 Black Tourmalines

Rose Quartz

Smoky Quartz Cluster

2 Amethysts

2 Fluorites

Carnelian

Citrine

Hematite

Green Aventurine

Labradorite

2 Clear Quartz’

Jade

Tiger’s Eye

Howlite

Malachite

Bloodstone

Lepidolite

I went nuts. To be honest, I should have started with much, much less. Here’s what I think I should have started out with now:

Black Tourmaline

Rose Quartz

Clear Quartz

Amethyst

Citrine

Carnelian

IMO that’s the best starter kit. But now in April, here I am with almost 80 crystals. I love them all. My particular favourite right now is Blue Lace Agate, which I have 3 of. I’m still learning how I can work with them, but sometimes I make little formations around a candle or burning incense, or on my nightstand with ones I feel that will help me. I’ll make another post sometime about my findings of each stone and how they’ve helped me, what they represent to me, and how I work with them. Right now I use them as physical reminders. For example: when I carry Black Tourmaline with me when I’m in public. Whenever I start to feel anxious or that I’m starting to absorb emotions that aren’t mine, I just reach into my pocket and hold the stone and remind myself that I’m grounded and protected and visualize a forcefield around me, and picture it being reinforced by the Black Tourmaline. It’s really helped. That’s enough on crystals for now. But man, I love them. They’re great.

When I was buying my crystals, I also picked up some incense. I used to hate the smell of incense. I’m not even sure why I bought it in the first place, but I felt compelled to at the time. And one thing I’ve learned to listen to over these years is my intuition. I felt a strong desire for it from my gut, so I picked up a small black wooden holder with a Sun engraved on it, and a pack of sage incense. I burn it about 3 times a month, whenever I feel that I need to clear my mind or relax. When I do longer meditation sessions, I try to burn some as I feel it helps me get more into that mindset. I intend to do some reading up on it, but for now I’m just going with what feels right to my intuition.

I wanted to get to more in this post, but I’ve run out of time for today. Maybe I should make a daily practice out of it so I don’t have these crazy long run on posts. But for future posts, I’m going to talk about tarot! My past experiences with it, the deck I just ordered, the books I’m going to read, all that. I’d also like to make an entry about coming to terms with being an empath. And I’m still going to discuss my experience with some basic intention setting, how I’ve been training to protect myself as an empath in public, guided meditation and past life regression meditation, some youtube videos that I’ve checked out, as well as the huge let down I experienced at an ‘expo’ here in the city. These will probably all be separate posts. So expect the next one to be about the expo letdown!

April 4th, 2019

[stefanoaltieri]

The SAT Is Not A Test, It's Trickery.

Right now my kid is undergoing the torture otherwise known across America as the SAT. He has been preparing for this day for quite some time now. By the look and heft of his The Official SAT Study Guide, it seems he has been preparing for the last eleven years. I picked a bookmarked page, random to me, right about midway through the College Board-issued behemoth, page 356 to be exact, and glanced at the cryptogram on the left column. I read through it and thought to myself, “this feels like trap of sorts. This is an intellectual contraption setup to promote failure. This...this is trickery!”

I vaguely remember some chapter in the story of my life when I was somehow reluctantly convinced to undergo such torture myself. There were some figureheads, some caricatures of authority, involved. Something about college, and a test, and scores, and being punctual, and timing. And oh, yes, something involving a pencil, a very specific pencil, a No. 2. It had to be sharpened, of course, and I was instructed to "bring a pair." Apparently that's all the ordeal required. The rest, for the most part, is vague. Very vague.

Bubbles. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. The letters A, B, C, and of course the ever-elusive D, which may as well have been a hostage in an All of the above or None of the above scenario or some variation of the sort. The details escape me now, as I am certain they did then, but I do remember, almost vividly, the clock. More specifically, the minute-hand racing past the hour-hand, on the white-faced something-ix clock stuck on the painted cinder block wall, just above the classroom door. The second-hand was red, and sometimes between glances from the test to the clock, I would catch it standing frozen still for a moment too long.

And oh, yes, there is one more thing. I was never on time for school back then. I usually, almost predictably, always "came way too late," as Dean Young would tell me during one of our many confrontations in the hallway discussing my impending suspension for my failure to appear at detentions assigned to me as disciplinary measures designed to curb my tardiness. Also, I was never prepared, constantly "borrowing" loose leaf paper and a pen from well prepared classmates. And, to a fault, I always left way too early. Some would consider that "cutting class" but I didn't, I simply didn't go to the last class of the day because it was directly after my lunch period, which was technically the period I would cut out of school. So, I argued, in my defense, I did not intentionally "cut" that last period class, whatever it was it was simply an unwitting casualty of bad scheduling, or, more correctly, a matter of conflicting timelines.

As I have learned, conflicting timelines is a recurring theme in life, generally, but more specifically so in mine. But for the sake of brevity I will say for that particular place and time, there was no specific, intentional, rationale or reason for my lateness other than I just either always woke up late or left home late, and I rarely made any attempts to make up for it.  In my last trip through the wringer, during my senior year, this meant missing first period, almost entirely sometimes. I think it was either Algebra or English, but it may have been Gym, as I don't recall ever breaking a sweat in that school. I spent sixth and seventh period mixing and rolling dough at Pizza Boy in the Roosevelt Mall. Suffice it to say, my SAT score was greatly affected by such behavior, et al. Needless to mention, my academic career, in general, and perpetuity, suffered tragically. Fatally. Yes, that's Fatally, with a capital F.

What I don't remember is  anything about workbooks or practice tests or study guides. But Me 2.0 is all up in that. As he very well should be, I mean this kid is an honor roll staple. They could literally use his name as a staple to hold up the Roll of Honor hanging on a hall wall at his school. Like clockwork, if there is an occasional B it is always flanked by a row of A's and often transformed into one by the next marking period. An impeccable attendance record worth boasting about. No tardiness. No absence. Spotless. To a fault. I once told him he could miss a day of school to tag along with me and pick up my new motorcycle in Ohio. I worded it in such a way that it would sound like a really cool thing to do, but used a tone that connoted such concepts as "responsibly" and "thoughtfully". I pitched him something along the lines of making a once in a lifetime, memorable experience of the thing, a one-day father & son road trip. An adventure that would involve bonding, trust, brotherhood and beef jerky; miles and miles of nine-over-the-limit on the clock and lots of cruise control; Rock and Roll - or oldies, depending on which generation you hail from; a case of water for hydration; and some big empty cups for to avoid pulling over during the longer stretches between rest stops. It would have been a party on four wheels, for sixteen hours straight. I even suggested he could snapshot highlight moments of the debacle and post it to his Instagram. I wish I had done something like that with my father as a kid. Now it was my chance to turn the tables on life's mis-dealt hand and break the chain of missed-opportunities. He could tweet about it. #OneDayRoadTrip.  That's what the kids do. Right? YOLO. Right?

He turned me down. He did not want to miss school and have to catch up on his work and... Well, I don't remember the rest of it. I lost him after those first few words because of the confounded mess I became once the look in his eyes hypnotized me senseless. First went sound. Then darkness took over, summoning thoughts of despair and pending doom to any nonconformist-on-the-brink-of-turning-conservative. I was in a momentary state of dumbfounding shock, while the horror of it all echoed in my head with eerie notes something to the tune of "is my son a nerd?"

?

His instinctive reluctance to miss out on a legit, parent-sanctioned school absence for the sake of school-related malarkey made absolutely no sense to me, a dropout. None. Not then. Not still. Doubt it ever will. So, I ventured out on my own. I did it old-school. SOLO. Because that's how I roll. Apparently. But to make sure I didn't end up in a scene from Deliverance, I had the route all planned out, and set up my outdated Android to talk me through the plot twists now and then. As rubber wore down, I occasionally lifted my G3 out of the cup holder to check for signs of life and to make sure the car charger thing kept the battery juiced up in case I got stuck somewhere. It was a couple hours of high spirits until the WaWa coffee ran its course and the radio faded to static and I eventually got bored enough to try and picture-text a few location updates to my son, back at school. He would sneak me a very delayed thumbs up (👍) emoticon now and then during school hours, surely he waited until he was in the crowded hallways, inter-class. Then I remembered I shouldn't text and drive. So I kept it to rest stop texting only, mostly. I even tried miserably to capture a few snapshots of such roadside sights as deep valanced valleys nesting rural villages, and cool old rusted-through farmland robots planted like landmarks amidst the alternating chromatic values of green and freshly-plowed dirt. These, I thought, I would rub in his face when I produced them as evidence that he totally missed out. But I ended up with blurry, skewed shots of road signs, and eighteen wheelers, and dashboard. Lots of dashboard. Once, the ever-intrusive fingertip made a cameo, photobombing what would have otherwise been a postcard-esque shot of a tunnel entrance.

Epic.

Fail.

All in all, it ended up being a trip worth taking. For me. For the obvious reasons, the most logical of which was to haul back the coolest thing on two wheels worth taking such a trip for, which is the only logical reason to ever partake in such shenanigans, solo or accompanied. But admittedly, it wasn't something worth missing school for. Those sixteen hours felt like an eternity of dreadfulness at the time, eight of which mostly spent in pitch-black darkness, on the way back, with my bike in tow, strapped down in the hollow cargo cavity directly behind my seat. Eight hours of going eighty, with eight-hundred pounds of steel and rubber and gasoline held in place, just inches from my head, with the cheapest ratcheting straps I could find. It wasn't safe and it wasn't pleasurable. No place for a kid who's gonna use his brains in life. It was forebodingly dark and loud. Road noise, mostly, echoing through the uninsulated van like a rolling tin can, deadened only by only moments of fleeting redemption as I played hide and seek with the dropouts in radio frequency on which Alice Cooper, God bless his soul, hosted late-night radio. Sipping bad coffee to keep my eyes peeled enough to avoid plot twists involving six-pointers and eighty-miles-an-hour rental vans as I made my way through the peaks and valleys of western Pennsylvania.

But I digress. My kid. My boy. The fruit of my loins. The heir to all my fault-derived understanding of this world and most of my mistake-learned wisdom, is taking the SAT. Right about now, he is fully aware that he is being tested on his aptitude, whereas I felt, at his age, in a similar setting, or generally, that I was being tested on my attitude. I still do. But not him. He's every good thing I could never be if I tried. He was up for it. Prepared for it. He's got this. I know it, and more importantly, he knows it. He gladly sharpened three brand-new Dixon Ticonderoga No. 2 pencils, before going bed last night, and told me, with nary a hint of playfulness, "Dad, this is the best pencil in the world."

I concur.

I hope that his No.2 fills in only the right dots. I hope it leaves a trail of lead* that maps out nothing but the right answers, marking only the correct solutions. I hope that whatever fate had in store for him today, it also involves a handful of educated guesses, with some lucky guesses mixed in for good measure, though I doubt he would need that many. I hope he ultimately pencils this in as nothing more than what it is, a minuscule experience in an ever-evolving wheelhouse of much, much greater experiences that a life well lived should undoubtedly grant him. I hope that whatever pattern, whatever master key is used to unscramble this cryptogram of grey bubbles,  I hope it mirrors the pattern that his teachers taught my boy. And I hope that my boy decides to duplicate that pattern through the fullest extent his knowledge. I hope that the system utilized to review his choices can also connect the dots of his answers to his propensity for assessing the true value of knowledge. True value. True knowledge. The kind of knowledge necessary to pursue and carry out a fulfilling life.

I hope the appointed surveyor of errors scans both the marked and the unmarked choices and recognizes them only as the result of the invisible act of choosing choices chosen over choices not chosen, and not use the weight of consequence to suppress any choices he has yet to make or coerce anyone to make a choice about him, in the future, based on his choice of an answer today. I hope this examination of his scholarship can sift through his absorption of the mindless regurgitations of expanded sophomoric academics and screen his wondrous, now-limitless potential, ripening and maturing into a future which seems more and more so uncertain to a father like me and yet so promising for a son like him. I hope that whatever computer computes his standardized Scholastic Aptitude is also programmed with the intangible sensitivity necessary to gauge his ability to use his standardized scholastic intellect to enhance his common sense and his uncommon, not-so-standard sensibilities about and towards the world around him.

I hope the College Board can look at his test score, no matter what it may end up to be, and recognize its irrefutable meaninglessness against his all-in effort, his can-do attitude, his willingness to do and be more and better, and his relentless dedication to apply both his critical thinking and the stuff they teach at school to his advantage and to that of others, especially in situations where his natural instincts may prove futile.

I hope, for the sake of our future, 'cause that's what the children are, that these standardized tests, and their score, don't mean that much to them. And by them I mean the kids.

By the way, In the color of full disclosure, due to one of my innumerable battles with my arch-nemesis Time, I missed the greater bulk of my SAT. My final score was 900-something, which, as evidenced in my writing, is largely attributable to the luck fate had in store for me on that day.

Also, Dean Young was a friendly figure in a stern setting. Sometimes we ate together at the Burger King across the street. His treat. Always.

I never, ever mentioned his toupee. Not to him, not to anyone. Until now.

*is it graphite?

[neo-losangeles]

http://www.thevocal.com.au/loudest-room-isnt-correct-rise-twitters-pop-sociologists/#.WNCDbxq9GSs.twitter 

Devyn Springer Devyn Springer is an Atlanta artist, writer, and activist who is currently studying the African diaspora and art history at Kennesaw State University. Approx  8 minute reading time My grandmother used to always tell me, “the loudest one in the room is not always the smartest, and the one saying the most words is not always saying the most truth.” Then again, a year ago, days before publishing my first book, a mentor of mine reminded me, “the person whose book has the most pages does not always have the most knowledge on the pages.” Taking these two statements to heart and analysing how they exist in different spaces, I instantly thought of social media, specifically Twitter.

Over the past few years the world has witnessed a paradigm shift in the ways Twitter is used, with the platform rapidly transforming into a tool used for education and sharing of news. Following the death of young Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, we saw a rise of people utilising Twitter as a means to educate and inform people on different topics. And while this was not new to the popular social media platform, it did begin a new trend of what I call the “pop sociologist,” or folks who dedicate much of their existence on Twitter to educating people on various topics of race, gender, class, activism, history, etc.

As someone dedicated to delivering dialogical and liberatory education, the possibilities of educating individuals on Twitter are endless, but not without limits. There are trends in several popular Twitter ‘pop sociologist’ accounts that at times can do more damage than good.

The concept of an audience, or building a following, plays a central role in motivating individuals to produce content which can be seen as damaging. A trend has set in which promotes the idea of “watering down” or discussing topics on very basic, 101 levels for the sake of gaining a large following. While it is important to start with basics whenever discussing a topic, it is important to understand the problematic nature of never progressing educational content beyond this basic level.

Tweets are often made in thread form – a tool which allows you to string together several tweets and easily pack lots of information together – for the sake of going viral, not for the sake of educating individuals. This alludes to the intent of many Twitter ‘pop sociologists,’ and doing this allows for content to go viral which lacks critical engagement with the subject, dialectical analysis, and historical context. It is the difference between discussing how non-Black people of color often have anti-Blackness in their communities and discussing how non-Black people of color have anti-Blackness in their communities due to a specific historical context and integration into a systemic context which leads them to this. The latter would be less popular because it discusses a historical context and lends itself towards a solution-based analysis, while the first would go viral for its simplistic nature. When statements that lack nuance, depth, and historical context go viral, this often allows for the misrepresentation and misuse of content and theory. Tweets that allude to theory, but do not explicitly source, discuss, and cite, allow generalisations and blanket statements to become the norm, which is a problem.

Another problem we often see is the deliberate altering or rendering of form and content within tweets for the sake of whiteness, or rather white comfortability, to garner more retweets. Content is often pacified and de-politicised in order to not upset white followers, and what this creates are several accounts nearly appropriating radical language for a white audience. Examples of this are several “pro-Black” accounts that create content about Black politics from a very liberal and respectable perspective. Individuals who perform a radical or leftist politic, but obscure true leftist content with neoliberal ideals.

To understand this, we can look at how several Black queer intellectuals exist on Twitter. People like myself tend to stay in our lane, continually talking about the things we are well knowledged in, keep our content heavily experiential based, and never seek to make ourselves an authority of any certain politic. Contrasted with several other users, you can immediately notice individuals only talking about certain things when they are trending topics, often appearing to present themselves as authority on topics and politics in order to gain social capital.

And within the context of Twitter, the idea of creating yourself as an authoritative figure on a subject is important to note because it often positions one’s politics as anti-dialogical, or above criticism and approach,  and stifles critical engagement. By positioning themselves as some social justice authority through various means of accumulating social capital, individuals present themselves as uncheckable and infallible. This is an individualised rendering of a popular mechanism of neoliberalism; to position your politics, your identity, and your positions as binarily true. To position your self with a false sense of authority is to disrupt the organically engaging, dialogical, and uniquely communicative nature of Twitter.

What does this mean in the larger context of Twitter and what does it mean to exist in a manner that might be inherently damaging, even if done with pure intentions? And what solutions can be theorised and put into practice to effectively use Twitter for education? For starters, it means accepting the notion that if you want to dedicate your account to education and advocacy, you are taking on a responsibility to also progress and sharpen yourself over time. This is a process that the social justice oriented individual should be invested in already, but as our great elders like Paulo Freire, Walter Rodney, and Assata Shakur have taught us, the responsibility of education is not one to be worn lightly.

It also means the one dedicating to using Twitter to educate people having a clear line of introspection, as well as a pedagogical approach rested on engagement. Of course no one person is required to engage in any capacity if they don’t wish to, but on some level critical engagement is critical and vital to the education process. A model for this pedagogical, or educational, approach would be one that not only welcomes but insists upon engagement, constructive comments, questioning, and even at times critique; which Twitter is the perfect platform to allow this sort of pedagogy to blossom. The educator, like the activist or the artist, can be anything but neutral, and we must begin to see Twitter as an extension of a liberated classroom if we are to continue to attempt to use it as such. Tearing down the walls of promoting certain individuals as ‘authority’ of a certain politic due to their following and social capital is harmful to this pedagogical approach, because it allows individuals to deny introspection as well as critique.

And we have to ask, is Twitter even the best platform for the role of education? Surely, as a realm for social interaction and entertainment it is of fantastic use, but is it possible to ever properly use it pedagogically? I believe it can be, or it often is, but when done correctly with good intentions. Certainly many can agree that only so much depth and nuance can be packed into 140 character tweets, leaving out large portions of theory and context often, however with innovations in Twitter’s threading, linking, and photo/video uploading features, this is rapidly changing. While Twitter is not (and should not be viewed as) a space to build an entire personal political analysis from, replacing books, personal study, and research, it can be a great medium to exist as a starting point for analyses. We have to begin to see it as such – a starting point – and develop the craft of using Twitter to educate around that notion.

Much of my own nature on the platform exists in this same space, having dedicated the majority of my presence on the site to educating folks on different topics I’ve studied and devoted time to, so this exists not just as a critique to strangers but a self-critique and reminder as well. A reminder that if I am going to use what tools the master has given and attempt to subvert them to build power, I need to also hold myself accountable to using the tools as best as possible.

We saw the rise of the “pop activist” in 2016 and the entire construct was critiqued to hell and back, and rightfully so. But may I suggest the “pop sociologist” or “pop expert” is an equally problematic and at times harmful construct that we need to examine, dissect, and mould into something better? Can we turn the ‘pop sociologist’ into a pedagogical figure where false authority doesn’t replace dialogical critical engagement, a large following is not more important than the actual depth of content being produced, and knowledge is not pacified and distributed without historical context for the sake of appeasing a following?

As Paulo Freire informs us in his book Pedagogy of Freedom, “whoever teaches learns in the act of teaching, and whoever learns teaches in the act of learning.” Therefore those dedicated to using Twitter as a platform for educating others must never feel they are above being educated, because it is a crucial part of a healthy pedagogy. One that involves the ‘pop sociologist’ to move beyond analyses formed solely on social media and into a praxis of education rooted in theories of liberation. Twitter can be a powerful tool for education and pedagogical activism, as we’ve seen already, but only if we continue to harness its power in the sharpest, most emancipatory ways possible.

Leaders who do not act dialogically, but insist on imposing their decisions, do not organize the people–they manipulate them. – Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed