#and the guy who did interpretive dance to communicate his policies

[gryffin-who-cannot-fly]

speaking of wet politicians and soggy liberals can I introduce you to my favourite Australian politics campaign ad

(from the 2022 federal election) regrettably it didn't really pan out for him and he got less than 1% of the primary vote in his seat of North Sydney, but I appreciate his commitment to the bit

Tories: Here’s our plan to feed anyone under 25 years old into a wood chipper

Labour: Here’s our plan to be as transphobic as possible while also suspending every left-wing Black and Asian woman in the party

Reform: *constantly on telly*

Greens: *never on telly*

Lib Dems:

[your-hurricane]

neon moon || chapter 1 - broadcast me a joyful noise unto the times

A/N:  Disclaimer, I haven’t written fanfic since I was fourteen so please be gentle with me, friends

AO3 link

Fair warning that the only editing this has gone through has been proofreading!

Also, the first two chapters are largely exposition and setting up the various connections between Frankie and the MC (Natalia), but they will finally get to meet in chapter three!

Neon Moon summary: [starts three years after the events of the movie]

Single dad Francisco "Frankie" Morales and former Ph.D candidate Natalia Yevstigneyev-Diaz are trying their best. 

Alternatively: Frankie and the woman about to change his life keep missing each other, until they don't.

“Whoo-wee! Nice one, Diaz!” Benny said from where he’d just been knocked onto his back atop the sparring mats. 

 At her instructor’s praise, Natalia Diaz preened, making a show of taking her long dark wavy-curls out of her workout ponytail and flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Thank you, thank you, always happy to hear my badassery is increasing.”

 “I’d say perfecting. That was solid.”

 “Yeah, haven’t seen him go down that unexpectedly probably ever,” piped up a man with big, kind brown eyes whose name Natalia swore was Frankie. She’d only ever heard him called by his real name once or twice --- Benny usually greeted him as Fish.

 If Frankie was here, that meant the rest of Benny Miller’s military buddies would be trickling into the gym. Pity they seemed to be on time today— flipping Benny was fun, maybe he’d’ve given her a window to do it again. Sometimes if his buddies ran late he’d keep sparring with her past the self-defense session she’d paid for. 

 “It’s thanks to him and his lessons! Wouldn’t know where to begin without him.” Natalia hi-fived Benny from where he was on the floor, now sitting. “Thanks as always, Benny. See you Friday afternoon?”

 “Hell yeah!”

 “Awesome. Well, I’ll get out of your hair before the rest of the guys show up. Later Benny!” She nodded politely to Frankie just as she spotted the man she knew to be Benny’s older brother and...Pope? Santiago? again, she’d only run into these men in passing.

  ~.*~.*~.*~.*

Natalia Diaz’s early life read like an adventure, and in many ways, it had been. Her mother, Anna Diaz, was a first generation Mexican-American of Spanish, Mixtec, and Chinese background who met her father, then in medical school, while studying abroad in Russia. Her father, Gavril Yevstigneyev, was from Yakutsk of mixed Russian, Yakut, and Chuvash background. He was a doctor who gave up the possibility of an ultra-lucrative career to spend most of his life working as a medical officer in human rights organizations, and she was a research assistant in those same organizations.

 Born while her father was practicing in St. Petersburg, Natalia Gavrilovna Yevstigneyeva Diaz didn’t spend too long in one place. She may have been a dual citizen of the United States and Russia but she didn’t set foot in the United States until she was twelve years old, and her earliest concept of ‘home’ was Pakse, Laos. She was educated at international schools across Southeast Asia, and spoke Lao, Khmer, and Vietnamese in daily life depending on where the Yevstigneyev family was living, Russian at home, learned English and French at school, and her mother taught her enough Spanish to understand her abuela’s English-Spanish mix on birthday and Christmas phone calls.

 When it came time to graduate from secondary school - she graduated in Laos, ultimately  - she even applied to universities across Laos, Canada, Cambodia, France, The United States, Switzerland, China, Singapore, Australia, and Russia. At her parents’ insistence she cast her net far and wide. Except, with twenty-two acceptance letters and zero rejections, she almost wished she hadn’t.

 She studied at McGill University and through a combination of scholarships, her parents’ help, and her “waitressing” job (stripping job actually, and Natalia was damn proud of it and the crazy money it made, but knew her parents would flip out on her so she lied), she earned her B.A.s in linguistics with a minor in translation and interpretation, and anthropology.

 She had her pick of the litter as far as where she could settle post-grad: her dual citizenship made the US and Russia wide open to her, Canadian employers were offering to keep her in Canada, her parents still lived in Laos - six years in one place? That was a record for her folks! - and the NGO they were working for straight up offered her a job without her even sending an application. 

 There wasn’t a grad school on planet Earth that would’ve rejected her application.

 Natalia’s life should have been set forever. For a while, it was.

 After a gap year traveling Bhutan, Thailand, Indonesia, Mongolia, and completing the Trans-Siberian railway with her younger sister Mariya, who took a gap year between secondary school and university herself, Natalia prepared to conquer grad school….at motherfucking Yale!

 That same year, her parents and younger siblings (save Mariya who was studying at Yakutsk State University in their father’s home Russian Republic of Yakutia) moved to her mother’s home state of Texas. A part of Natalia felt bad for her eleven year old sister and the three year old twins out of some sense that her upbringing had been, objectively, the best possible. Natalia did not feel Russian, or Mexican, or American, or Laotian, or Cambodian, or Vietnamese, nor did she feel the need to. Borders were an arbitrary thing. People were people just with different languages, looks, and customs, and she believed she came to know that truth early in life because of her childhood as a third culture kid. 

 She understood why her parents made that decision though.

 In her first year of grad school, the Yevstigneyev Diaz siblings were twenty-two year old Natalia, nineteen-year-old Mariya, eleven-year-old Valentina, and two-year-old Alisa and her twin brother, the only boy in the family, Pavel. Alisa had been born partially deaf and their parents, as if they could react any other way, saw it not as a terrible thing to mourn over but as an opportunity to learn. A challenge did not equal a burden in their eyes. When she was two, however, they realized they needed to either move back to Russia or move to the United States.

 The Yevstigneyevs primarily worked and lived in Vietnam and Laos, and there was no singular Laotian or Vietnamese sign language, rather, localized sign languages. As Alisa grew from an infant to a toddler they decided they did not want to deprive her of Deaf culture, and thus, the decision to move to Texas was made.

 Just two years after relocating to Texas, tragedy struck the family.

 A car speeding through a red light killed Anna and Gavril on the way home from volunteering their time to teach Russian classes at the local Russian cultural center. Natalia, then twenty-four years old with a newly minted Masters from Yale and acceptances to three Ph.D programs, had to force out emails declining the offers, pack up her apartment, and move to Texas to raise her siblings.

 Abuela Rita instinctively offered to handle her grandchildren, but Natalia couldn’t possibly make her abuela (who she barely knew at that) raise three children again. Besides, her mother’s youngest sister still lived at home, and this was the same year Hurricane Harvey destroyed one of her uncle’s homes and he, his wife, and their children were also living in Abuela’s home...yeah, no. No, this had to be Natalia.

 It was Natalia or the state of Texas and like hell she was going to throw her three little siblings, two of them just four, and one of them deaf,  into the system. Alisa being able to communicate in ASL was so important to her parents...how could Natalia possibly let Alisa go into a system that wouldn’t care?

 And anyway, it wasn’t so bad. She used her fluency in Russian, Lao, Khmer, and French to work as a book translator. She’d even gone back to dancing four days a week for two reasons. A. You’d think speaking five languages fluently would mean she was making an assload of money, right? Wrong. and B. The inheritance and life insurance policies from her parents wouldn’t last forever and she had four college educations to finance. 

That was three years ago, and two and a half years before she started taking self-defense classes from Benny Miller. She’d only been working at an Austin strip club for about four months when one handsy patron reminded her that she needed a refresher on how to throw a punch.

 As for why she was Natalia Diaz now and not Natalia Yevstigneyeva? Well. She was still Natalia Yevstigneyeva-Diaz, but unless she was filling out legal papers, or at the Russian cultural center, it was just Diaz. Her mother’s last name was just easier for Austinites to pronounce right. You had to be at least a level six friend to unlock her tragic backstory and her full last name.

 Natalia had had everything going for her until one drunk driver took her parents, her Ph.D goals, her planned return to traveling the world, and even her name in one instant. 

 She wished she had it in her to be bitter but that would require her to have time to think about herself anymore. If it wasn’t taking ASL classes with Alisa, it was listening to Mariya complain about her job. If it wasn’t Valentina’s archery competitions, it was Pavel’s gymnastics meets. 

 (Yes, yes, she knew. How stereotypically Russian of them to have a kid in competitive gymnastics. It wasn’t her idea! Pavel loved it and when he begged his big sister to be allowed more than one class a week...she dared anybody to say no to that face.)

Any Natalia time she did have was too precious to spend being bitter, she decided.

   ~.*~.*~.*~.*

“Natasha! Nataaaaaaaasha….NATASHA!” 

 “Wha!” Thud! “Fuck. Oww.”

 Natalia groaned from where she’d fallen into a startled pile on the living room floor, staring up at the ceiling and turned her head to shoot a glare at Mariya.

 “Marusya, one day, you’re going to scare me awake to actual death.”

 “That’s impossible.” Valentina said from where she sat at the dining table typing up a paper for school. “If you’re scared to literal death you can’t be scared awake because you’ll be dead. Dead people can’t be awake.”

 “Unless she’s a zombie, Valya!” Shouted Pavel from his room down the hall.

 “Pasha’s got a point.” Mariya said, to which Natalia grabbed her foot and yanked hard, making her shriek as she fell against the couch. “Oof. Anyway, you’re going to be late for work if you don’t hurry up.”

 Natalia checked her watch and let out a swear under her breath. “I really need to not spar with Benny on work nights. Hey, Valya-” she sat up on the floor and whirled around to face her middle sister. “Do I need to drop you off for babysitting anywhere tonight?”

 Valentina shook her head. “Abuela’s picking me up to take me to Mr. Morales’. I’m watching Daniela.” Mr. Morales - whoever that was - lived near Abuela and her taking Valentina to his house gave her some ‘Valone time’ she liked to say.

 Natalia peeled herself off the floor and made her way to her bedroom, stopping by Alisa’s on the way. She grabbed the purple narwhal plushie that lived in a little basket attached to her door - the Get Alisa’s Attention Narwhal - and gently tossed it at Alisa, and when it landed in her lap Alisa tossed it back to Natalia, kept her hands free, and said “I didn’t forget.”

 “Good. If you’re good at the dentist tomorrow morning, I’ll buy you ice cream after.”

 “Isn’t that the opposite of what you should do after the dentist?”

 “So you don’t want ice cream?” “That’s not what I said!”

 Natalia laughed and stepped far enough into Alisa’s room to ruffle her hair and then said, “Be good. Masha’s in charge while I’m at work.”

  ~.*~.*~.*~.*

 “Thought you were day shift on Wednesdays, Natasha!” A black woman with her hair in box braids — Jess, stage name Phoenix — said, throwing her arm around Natalia when she first got to work. 

 “Nah, I talked to Paris, got my hours changed around, remember? Gosh, it’s like you don’t remember everything I ever say to you.” 

 Jess stuck her tongue out and muttered, “Bitch,” before smooching Natalia’s cheek.

 Natalia shoved Jess off of her with a giggle. “Go finish getting ready, ya crazy.” She sat down in front of one of the available mirrors to touch up her makeup before she was officially working, then addressed Jess again. “My 11-8 days are now Sunday and Monday. Wednesday, Saturday, I’m here with you 8 til 4, baybeeeee.”

 “Mm, good call. Wine Wednesday.”

 Half price wine meant more cash for dancers. 

 “Needs more body glitter,” Natalia said in her best Christopher Walken impression, before unscrewing the cap of her body glitter to shiny herself up. 

 “Now in your Zoya voice!”

 “Needs more body glitter,” Natalia repeated, this time, in her stage persona’s stronger Russian accent.

 The accent helped to further distinguish between Zoya the performer and who Natalia was offstage. It also wasn’t exactly offensive, either, because it was just Natalia exaggerating the accent she naturally had and just making it consistently Russian. It was a mess otherwise. Natalia and Mariya...talked funny. Their accents were kind of impossible to place because of how they learned English and which languages they first learned to actually speak in.

 At first listen, their international school education would hint at American- ish . But listen closely and certain vowels come out like an Aussie or a Canadian, courtesy of international school teachers from those countries. Listen for another moment and you’ll hear that Natalia’s tongue, specifically, never learned to consistently make certain sounds that English has that Russian, Lao, Vietnamese and Khmer just don’t. Natalia’s H’s came out harsh courtesy of her Russian father. And both Natalia and Mariya had a habit of dropping articles when telling their younger siblings to ‘close window’ or ‘feed dog and cat.’

For the most part, as Natalia tried to explain to anybody who asked about her accent, English was a language for the classroom. They spoke exclusively Russian in the home and out in ‘the wild’ spoke the local language. Yakutsk was a closer flight from Laos, Cambodia, or Vietnam than Austin was so if they visited any grandparents for Christmas it was their babushka and dedushka in Russia.

 Returning to the US permanently never was the plan, remember. It was only a decision they made for Alisa to live somewhere with a standard sign language -- and the only reason, Anna confessed to Natalia once, that they didn’t go back to Russia, was because Natalia had recently come out as bisexual.

  “We worried for Valya and the twins. What if they also grow up and realize they aren’t straight? The way it is in Russia for people like you...your father and I love Russia more than the United States. But we love our kids more than Russia.”

 She hated how vivid that conversation was in her head. There were some truly beautiful moments with her mother that had already faded from memory. How unfair of her brain to let things like holidays, birthdays, and her mother’s hugs slip. 

“Drive home safe, Jess.” Natalia bid her friend farewell a little after four the next morning, kissing her on the cheek before she unlocked her own car. If she got up to 70 and stayed there, she’d be home in time to count her tips, shower, and fix breakfast for the kiddos before school and in Alisa’s case, the dentist.

~.*~.*~.*~.*

 “Stand still Pasha,” Natalia said as she gently bopped the seat of her baby brother’s pants to knock the glitter off them. “Your butt looks like a glitter cannon exploded right next to it.”

 Pavel giggled and pointed out, “It’s your fault there’s always glitter in your bed.”

 “You shouldn’t lay down in my bed for naps after I’ve woken you up for school anyway. Especially not after you’ve already got your clothes on, you dingus.”

 “ Heeeey, that’s mean!” Pavel pouted.

 “Not if I’m saying it with love. Which I am.” Natalia stood up and pressed a kiss to the top of her brother’s head. “Okay, your butt’s as unsparkly as it's gonna get.”

 “I don’t see what wrong with having a sparkly butt anyway.” Pavel grumbled.

 “Now run along to the bus stop with the other kids. Be good at school, learn lots, I love you kid.”

 “Love you too , Natashe-!” the -nka! came muffled as Pavel had darted out the door to run down to the bus stop. 

 Natalia sipped on her coffee and watched out the window as her brother darted across the field to the complex’s mailbox pavilion to make sure he joined the other children safely. Satisfied he had, she turned away from the window to trudge back to the kitchen and refill her coffee and begin her vanilla work for the day before she had to wake Alisa for the dentist. On today’s docket? Trying to get through editing at least the first third of her Russian translation of the next book in the hottest new YA series.

 There was nothing Natalia wanted more than a nap but she was already cutting her deadline close. Right on schedule was the same as being behind in the literary translation world. If she wasn’t so ahead of schedule she was getting bored then she was nearing panic mode. 

 Logically she knew that only she felt that way. Her boss didn’t, or at least never felt the need to express to her that he did, but just herself was enough to put the pressure on from beginning to end of a project.

 It had benefited her in school. Not so much in her career.

 A life in academia as a linguistics scholar and researcher would have suited her better. The universe didn’t consider that when it let a drunk driver kill her parents and leave her three siblings to raise and Mariya’s academic dreams to finance.

[didanawisgi]

A depressing and predictable series of events seems to follow mass shootings like the one that took ten lives Friday at Santa Fe High School. First, we learn that an unspeakable act has occurred in a place where we imagine we, or someone we love, could have been—a church, a movie theater, a shopping mall, a dance club, or, in this case, a school. Then we begin seeing the killer’s picture on our smartphones, tablets, laptops, and televisions, along with images of the stunned and tearful survivors. Next come the calls to strengthen America’s gun control laws, as people convince themselves that the latest incident is the one that will finally bring change.  Our legislators tweet their sympathy while doing little else. And amidst the furor, those who own guns, roughly a third of the U.S. population, quietly go out and buy more ammunition, if not another gun.

To understand why, after decades of massacres, there aren’t stricter gun laws in this country, one has to understand gun culture. And nowhere is gun culture more evident than in Texas. Guns here, as in many parts of the country, aren’t just about self-defense. They’re also about history, identity, and community. Experts say that ignoring, dismissing, or denigrating that fact is what dooms any discussion of gun control.  

The fight for Texas’ independence, like the fight for American independence, was a plucky pushback against government overreach.  Back in 1835, the dictatorial ruler of Mexico dispatched troops to seize a small cannon from settlers in Gonzales, Texas. The settlers, who had been using the cannon to fend off Comanches, then turned it on the Mexican soldiers. And to make their feelings as clear as an extended middle finger, they raised a homemade flag with a picture of the cannon on it and the words “Come and Take It.”    

Today, some 183 years later, it’s hard to drive anywhere in Texas without seeing a “Come and Take It” bumper sticker. Only, instead of the words paired with a cannon, you’re more likely to see the silhouette of an AR-15, which is America’s most popular gun—and notably, the weapon used during the mass shootings in Newtown, Las Vegas, Orlando, Sutherland Springs, and Parkland. (Friday, Governor Greg Abbott stated that initial reports that an AR-15 was used at Santa Fe were erroneous—a shotgun and a revolver were used.)

The ubiquity of that bumper sticker is a not-so-subtle reminder of how Texans feel about the right to bear arms.  And the sentiment cuts across class, gender, and race lines. Whether it’s a beat up pickup truck in Gonzales or an Aston Martin in Dallas, one would be wise to assume the driver has a gun in the glovebox, if not holstered at the hip.

Which is why horrifying mass shootings—even those uncomfortably close to home, such as those in Fort Hood, Dallas, Sutherland Springs, and now Santa Fe—don’t dent Texans’ resolve to keep their proverbial cannons. Particularly when the incident seems to confirm the belief, dating back at least as far as the Texas Revolution, that the only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun. Recall that a resident of Sutherland Springs chased down the assailant while firing multiple rounds from his own AR-15.

“This notion of cultural competence, of being cognizant and sensitive to cultural differences, is something that we typically talk about in terms of race, ethnicity, gender identity, and religion,” says Daniel Webster, the director of the Center for Gun Policy and Research at Johns Hopkins University. “But one of the starkest cultural competence problems we have in this country has to do with guns.”

Webster says that many gun control advocates claim the moral high ground while calling gun owners “redneck idiots.” They question gun owners’ intelligence for ignoring gun violence research, but fail to note that, despite the terrible number of mass shootings in recent years, homicides and other violent crimes have actually decreasedsignificantly nationwide over the past 25 years, even during periods when gun sales have spiked, as routinely happens following mass shootings.

The interpretation of gun violence statistics—what is or isn’t “fake news”—seems to depend on whether you’ve ever used a pistol to shoot a rattlesnake menacing a family pet or scared off a trespasser by just standing on the porch holding a shotgun (perhaps pumping the forestock to show you mean business).

“One common denominator in all these mass shootings is the shooter was in complete and total control to selectively and casually put bullets in the heads of cowering people.” says Jerry Patterson, a former Marine, Texas state senator and land commissioner who pushed through the state’s concealed carry law in 1995, which was signed by then Governor George W. Bush. “The first time someone returns fire, the shooter is no longer in complete and total control.”

In Texas, as elsewhere in the country, there are gun owners who identify as redneck and play up the stereotype that their opponents deride. But gun owners are also in the highest echelons of government and industry. They carry pistols in their briefcases and go on hunting trips together to forge alliances and strike deals. Indeed, hunting camps and leases are often equipped with airstrips to accommodate private jets.

“It’s a ritual of having a couple of drinks and cooking supper and getting up early in the morning to go sit in a deer blind or walk the hills and hunt for birds,” says the prominent Houston attorney Dick DeGuerin.

Those who study gun culture say it’s not only attitudes and beliefs that drive gun ownership; it’s also activities and communities, which give gun owners a sense of identity, connectedness, and meaning. Harel Shapira, an assistant professor of sociology at the University of Texas at Austin says that during his three years embedded with gun enthusiasts in Central Texas he’s learned it’s a mistake to harbor the liberal East Coast condescension that people who carry firearms are those “crazy people down there” in states like Texas. It’s a condescension he himself held prior to his research. “Gun culture is not just a Texas story, it’s an American story,” he says, “Until we understand and appreciate that and start consensus building, people are just going to get further entrenched into their identities.”

Hunting and plinking at cans are recalled fondly by many in Texas as bonding activities with their parents. Guns are heirlooms passed down through generations and used to hunt the Thanksgiving turkey and Christmas goose. Moreover, millions nationwide participate in tactical or sharp shooting competitions and belong to gun clubs that are the focal points of their social lives. Those enmeshed in gun culture take pride in their safety mindedness and technical skills as well as their ability to protect themselves and their families if necessary.

“I put up in my garage the target that I got while training to get my concealed handgun license,” says Gerry Brown of New Braunfels, a 60 year-old grandmother of ten and accompanist for a local high school choir. “So if anyone tries to break in, they’re going to go, ‘Oops, wrong garage,’”

She, like virtually everyone, is appalled by mass shootings, and was devastated by what happened in Sutherland Springs, not far from where she lives, as well as in Santa Fe, not far from where her daughter lives. And yet she says such incidents only stiffen her “Come And Take It” stance, particularly regarding calls to ban or confiscate certain kinds of weapons or gun accessories. “Try that in Texas,” she says. “It won’t work.”

All this has Jerry Patterson, the gun rights advocate and former elected official, surprisingly in agreement with Daniel Webster, the gun control advocate. “We’ve have gotten too invested in our clichés,” says Patterson. “There are things we can do if both sides can just come to the table with an open mind and be willing to accept the validity of the other person’s point of view.”

Points where both sides can possibly find agreement?

Ensuring better data entry, coordination and enforcement of the National Instant Criminal Background Check System, or NICS, used to check the eligibility of anyone wanting to buy a gun. And expanding its use to include online and gun show private sales.

Punishing those who lie on the form submitted to NICS and giving authorities more than three days to vet submissions.

Recovering weapons from people who bought firearms and then subsequently did something that flags them on NICS, such as committing a felony, beating up a domestic partner, becoming addicted to drugs, or having a psychotic episode.

Broadening who is prohibited from buying a gun to those convicted of stalking offenses and violence against dating partners.

Preventing copy cat crimes by taking steps to avoid naming and raining fame on mass shooters in the media (this would likely be done not through legislation, but by getting media outlets to police themselves, much as social media is now being asked to do when it comes to hate speech and fake news).

Garen Wintemute, an ER physician and director of the Violence Prevention Research Program at the University of California-Davis who has spent almost $2 million of his own money studying gun violence, says what opponents and proponents of gun control share, whether in Texas or elsewhere, is that they don’t want innocent people hurt.  “We can start the discussion there,” he says.