#and most depictions of this involve hate evolving into love or love evolving into bitter hate

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

Madk's mangaka is one of the few people who truly understands the old adage

Love and hate are two sides of the same coin

[irinapaleolog]

Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker had raised the hopes of Reylos, fans who longed for Rey and Kylo Ren to end up together in the end, healing the wound inflicted on the galaxy two generations earlier by Emperor Palpatine and Anakin Skywalker. The marketing certainly hinted at such and, at least for less-invested viewers, the film delivered on its promise of romance: Reylo (and Bendemption) did occur, and Rey and the redeemed Ben Solo shared a passionate kiss, which is why it may be so perplexing for the general audience that Reylos hated the ending. Two weeks after the release, they're still mourning on social media, and demanding for Disney to #RealeaseTheJJCut, a reference to an edit that would have delivered the conclusion they wanted, and purportedly what director J.J. Abrams intended. So, what happened, exactly?

While romance is certainly not a new concept to Star Wars, it was never depicted from the perspective of a woman. However, The Force Awakens and The Last Jedi made moves to remedy that: The camera stays with Rey when she interacts with Kylo; the lighting, music and the chemistry between the actors drew in many women. The trope being trapped was "enemies to lovers," a classic of romance literature. In The Force Awakens, Kylo is infatuated with a "lowly scavenger," despite himself and his training. In The Last Jedi, the two characters establish a connection that goes deeper than their pasts, ripe with wedding imagery from around the world, before separating again.

The comparisons with the doomed romance of Anakin and Padmé popped up. If the tragic lovers of the prequel trilogy married in the second movie and died in the third, surely the sequel would turn it around, allowing the last descendant of Anakin Skywalker to fix what he had broken and to triumph where he had failed.

It's easy for a certain segment of the audience to dismiss the power of romance, but it remains most lucrative literary genre in the world. Romance writers master the art of the promise and the delivery, which is a happy ending for the main couple. There are tragic romantic novels in which one or both of the lovers die, but that's not what Disney was promising with Episode IX. From that perspective, The Rise of Skywalker punishes the male lead by killing him the moment he chooses to save the love of his life. Abrams and his co-writer Chris Terrio were going for a parallel with Return of the Jedi, but that movie was never promoted as having romance at its core, and Darth Vader didn't have his entire life in front of him.

The Rise of Skywalker then goes out of its way to show how little Rey really cared for Ben, to the point where, after watching the final scenes, it's difficult to assess what impact he had in the plot. The film also does that to Hux and Rose, but in the case of Ben Solo it's particularly egregious because he's the last of the Skywalker bloodline. If they were going for Return of the Jedi parallels, they could have included either a funeral or a Force ghost, but the audience is denied that, which is a strange and cruel narrative choice.

Even worse, the ending broke the promise made in the promotional material. Yes, there was a kiss, but it's swiftly punished: The heroine ends up alone in a barren planet; the Byronic hero is never mentioned again. The other side of fandom might argue that Star Wars should have never catered to romance, but they would be the first to complain if a film advertised like Fast & Furious turned out to be a family comedy; false advertising elicits the same kinds of reactions in everyone.

Ben Solo's death, isolated from the romance, is also problematic because he was coded as a conflicted, groomed, abused, abandoned and brainwashed child soldier fighting to break from his programming. The ancillary material supports this, and in Marvel's The Rise of Kylo Ren, it's shown he never attempted to kill Luke Skywalker, he didn't burn the Jedi temple, and he didn't attack his fellow students. It was a set-up designed to turn his family against him and place him within the First Order. Han, Leia and Rey work  for two entire movies to try and bring him back. By killing every single character that even attempts to turn around, the film confirms their worst fear -- that the only way out is death.

There'ss another horrifying message lurking in The Rise of Skywalker, however, if you are coming to the film from this perspective: that your family will disown you and forget you the moment you misbehave, replacing you with a "good child." That's exactly what happens to Kylo Ren; despite his efforts to come back as Ben Solo, neither Luke nor Leia nor Anakin help him. Ben has to imagine a conversation with his father to move forward, and in the end, his mother and his uncle replace him with Rey, who becomes their "found child" and assumes the Skywalker name.

But Kylo was filling a different role too -- the monster boyfriend, whose most famous example is Beauty and the Beast. While the original purpose of tales like Beauty and the Beast was to prepare girls for marriages in which they would be under the authority of their (potentially monstrous) husband, the tale evolved, and the monster became a focus for those that society had misunderstood or repressed. It's the grown-up version of little children, who feel powerless most of the time, preferring the Hulk over any other superhero, only with romance, darkness and danger thrown in; it's a way to explore a problematic aspect of reality through fiction. Unfortunately, instead of allowing fiction to play its role for women, the monster boyfriend trope is incredibly policed ("it's toxic!"), a criticism that doesn't extend to monster girlfriends (see Mara Jade's murderous origins and her eventual marriage to Luke Skywalker in Legends).

Many women in Star Wars fandom identified with Kylo Ren for those reasons, and the more the character was attacked on social media ("he killed his father!" "he's ugly, unworthy of being a hero!"), and the more stories about what really happened to him were published, the more affection he drew.

And while we are talking about ancillary material, The Rise of Skywalker contradicts almost every single narrative thread about Kylo published to date, which were hinting at redemption as far back as 2017. Most Reylos engaged with that material wholeheartedly. Despite the amazing talent involved in its creation, those fans view the ending of Episode IX as a slap in the face, and many women feel like they have wasted their time buying into a franchise that ultimately never cared about fulfilling its own promises about happy endings, telling a complete story, or even offering hope and compassion to the characters that needed it the most.

However, all of that might have been better received had the film been generous with the heroine, the first woman to be the primary protagonist in the Skywalker Saga. For two and a half movies, it even looked to be a story in the fairy-tale tradition, with a poor orphan discovering her inner power, defeating an unspeakable evil, forging friendships and, ultimately, finding the love of her life and becoming the leader of her people.

Instead, The Rise of Skywalker leaves Rey effectively where she started, on desert planet, taking with her someone else's droid and someone else's name. She doesn't grow, and she doesn't even confront or integrate her inner darkness. Rey, who had been wonderfully feral up to that point, becomes a creepy Stepford smiler.

That, in a nutshell, is why Reylos are angry, despite getting their space kiss. For many, The Rise of Skywalker felt like a bad punchline after a long con from Disney, and Star Wars has the bitter taste of a franchise that accidentally tapped into women's interests but had little interest in them as intelligent viewers engaging with the material.

[noahxsweetwine]

mistletoe

(no one sent this prompt I just wrote it bc I’m igyts trash. Also, I’m not a writer so this is probably bad asfflkajskl)

Jude Age 14

I hate mistletoe.

Given my trademark infatuation with the superstitious, most assume mistletoe is one of my good omens. In fact, Grandma Sweetwine’s Bible makes no mention of the spiky sprig, so I am left to turn to traditional ancient lore to find meaning in it.

The Druids believed mistletoe was a magical cure for every ailment. On the eve of their new year, they gathered it from oak trees, careful to not let it touch the ground. Then they hung it over their doorways and made it into drinks to take advantage of its fortuitous properties.

Mistletoe is actually poisonous. What’s more, it’s parasitic. It invades the soil around another plant’s roots and seeps the life out of it in order to live. The Druids were trying to cure one poison with another. 

The more well-known connotation seems ridiculous to me. It’s as if we ignore the obvious danger of the plant for its seemingly harmless and beautiful appearance. (Better not walk under the mistletoe unless you want to smooch someone! What a joke.) Even if I did, the boycott is under full effect. They say if a woman is not kissed under the mistletoe at all during the season, she is destined to stay single for a year. That’s absolutely fine with me.

Some well-intentioned (or possibly mischievously-intentioned) CSA students thought it was a great idea to line the halls with the offending parasite. I’ve managed to mostly avoid it, but I have to check before I walk through doorways. (This isn’t too much extra effort: doorways are an auspicious liminal space anyway, so I’ve always been careful. Depending on who you ask, walking through an entryway backwards can be good or bad luck. Though, most things are either good luck or bad luck depending on who you ask.)

Once, though, I was in a rush to get to Anatomy (the science requirement for CSA students - it’s meant to be more tailored towards aspiring artists. I like it better than traditional science classes, but they still haven’t taught me what I really want to know. How can your twin brother’s beautiful brain suddenly stop communicating with his body? Why does my heart still feel pain when I’m hurt if emotions are controlled by the mind? What happens to the human body when it’s run through with a car?) In my haste, I didn’t look up before entering, and ended up nearly colliding with Caleb Cartwright (art-is-truth, I-have-no-filter Caleb Cartwright). I only dropped my pencil, but when I bent down to pick it up, there was snickering from within the classroom.

“Mistletoe,” one boy with purple hair pointed out. He looked immensely pleased with himself, despite the fact that he had spinach stuck in his teeth. “Wouldn’t want to defy tradition, would you, CJ?”

I gritted my teeth. In fact, I did not subscribe to every superstition out there, I wanted to say. I borrowed from what I saw fit, but Grandma Sweetwine’s Bible was my only obligation. Instead of saying anything, however, I pushed past Caleb, who looked like he couldn’t care less, honestly.

“No offense,” started Randy Brown. “But you look red as a tomato, CJ.”

I probably did. I willed my body to cease its vasodilation (a word I learned in Anatomy. See, education is not wasted on me.) The CSA kids aren’t nearly as malicious as those at my old school, but they often don’t have the tact (or the desire, maybe) to keep themselves from saying whatever came to mind. I wondered how Noah was surviving at the normal high school. 

The bell rang, and I took my usual seat next to Fish. (Most CSA teachers changed the seating arrangements regularly to “promote evolving artistic collaboration,” but Anatomy was different because it involved lab partners.) Fish was staring intently at a Rubik’s cube she was holding in her hand. I wondered when she had gotten it, as I’d never seen her with it before. 

I snap out of the memory. The mistletoe has started disappearing over the past few weeks, but I keep up my constant vigilance. I spot a sprig laying on the door frame leading to the art wing.

They say if mistletoe is allowed to touch the ground, disaster is sure to follow.

I flick the mistletoe off the door frame. I’m Calamity Jude, after all. Disaster seems to follow me anyway.

Jude Age 16

Maybe the Druids were right.

I keep finding bits of mistletoe in the hood of my jacket. Maybe it’s the work of my fellow CSA students, but I can’t imagine what reasons they would have for that and I doubt they would keep up the prank for five days in a row. More likely, it’s one (or both) of my matriarchal specters who is responsible. If it was meant to frustrate me, it’s probably Mom. If it’s supposed to...encourage me, or get me in the “holiday spirit,” it’s probably Grandma.

The French called mistletoe the “specter’s wand” and thought that its holder would have the power to see and communicate with ghosts. (I’ve never needed help with that.)

Regardless of the planter’s intention, the mistletoe has brought me good luck for once. Or that’s the way it appears.

Guillermo has agreed to mentor me, and English Guy (whose name is OSCORE!) is...certainly something. I keep having to remind myself of the boycott. Yesterday he tried to return the orange to me, telling me that “satsumas” are traditionally given as gifts around Christmastime in his home country. 

My mind keeps drifting back to my last class before break: Thematic and Symbolic Art History. The lesson of the day was about, of all things, mistletoe. Or, at least, it was mistletoe-inspired. We learned the history and controversy surrounding works depicting the act of kissing. As in, The Kiss. All three versions: Klimt, Brancusi, Rodin. I wish Guillermo’s works had been included, now. 

Guillermo is introducing me to his methods of teaching. I thought Oscar’s modeling would be a one-time thing, but apparently I need a lot of practice in portraiture if I’m going to ever sculpt my mother. I’ve drawn Oscar a lot now. His face is practically seared into the back of my mind. (Does it violate the boycott if I’m thankful his face is so nice to look at?)

Some ancient peoples believed that mistletoe had the power to open all locks. (Do hearts count as locks?)

Am I stupid to dream?

Jude Age 18

I’ve warmed to the mistletoe idea over the years.

It might have something to do with the fact that Noah is currently enthusiastically hanging mistletoe around the houseboat. Like the boat’s name, his sudden interest in the superstition, statistically my area of expertise, is a mystery. (Or maybe not: he only started decorating after Dad and I extracted a promise from him that the kissing rule would not be under effect. I doubt he’ll tell that to Brian, however, when he comes back from vacation tomorrow.) The anniversary of Mom’s death seems to loom less ominously than in previous years.

My wary appreciation, however, doesn’t entirely stem from my brother’s antics.

Christmas isn’t really a big thing in the Sweetwine family. When we were little, Noah and I made sandmen instead of snowmen, and our gingerbread houses were definitely not indicators of our level of artistic potential (at least, I hope not). But now the only tradition we have is ordering pizza and staying inside to watch movies, which happens year-round (especially the pizza part when Noah has anything to say about it). 

I can appreciate the sentiment of the holiday, though. Renewal. Gratitude. Family.

Love.

I’m sick of losing soulmates. I’ve lost too many, especially in winter. Grandma. Mom (and Dad, for a while, around the same time). Zephyr.

At first, I thought the best way to heal was to cut out all possibility of love in my life. It seemed to be working for Noah. Hence, the boycott.

That went out the window as soon as I met Oscar and Guillermo. “I’m not okay,” Guillermo had said. “I’m not okay either,” I wanted to reply.

When I became Guillermo’s student, I felt like I was healing, through art and through Oscar. But over time, I realized Oscar had his own problems and we tended to amplify one another’s issues rather than resolve them. Being reciprocally “not okay” wasn’t an automatic path to a relationship. The inevitable breakup was mutual (if we were ever even in a relationship). It was nowhere close to being as messy as it could have been.

The whole Oscar thing should have made me more bitter about love. But it was more of a learning experience, really. A person can’t fix you. You can’t fix someone else. And too much of anything can kill you, as my toxicologist father often points out.

Mistletoe is the same way. It’s a parasitic species, yeah, and that shouldn’t be overlooked. Too much, and it seeps the life out of the forest. But in the right amounts, it has its place.

There was Zephyr. There was Oscar. There will be other chances. But for now, I’m content to have all ten fingers to draw and paint and sculpt with, a father and a brother to depend on in this rocking boat of a family, and the resolution to stop avoiding mistletoe as I walk through doorways.

When I think of mistletoe (and when I think of many things), Grandma Sweetwine’s words come to me:

Quick, make a wish. Take a (second or third or fourth) chance. Remake the world.

(Not confident I got the timeline right but just go with it. I know NoahandJude’s birthday is a bit before winter break, Jude met Oscar and Guillermo during winter break, and Diana died during a winter break....merry christmas/happy holidays!!)

(source for the lore)