#bigotry in plain sight

[interactyouth]

"Intersex people are also impacted by anti-trans legislation, but too often we are the unmentioned casualties. We are constantly caught in the crossfire of culture wars or used as the “gotcha” moment in arguments to uplift others’ humanity, even as the painful discrimination our community faces—and the authentic beauty of our presence—remains hidden in plain sight. Long a vital element in the case for someone else’s truth, we are also tasked with defending our own. Intersex people are human beings too and deserve dignified lives beyond just proving bigotry wrong. We don’t exist to prove a point; we exist because we do."

Alicia Roth Weigel, "Trump’s ‘Biological Truth’ Executive Order is Not Based in Biology or Truth"

[hellspawnmotel]

What were the writing changes in the Pluto anime that bothered you?

I'd have to give the manga another read (which I should) to jog my memory more, but the two that stick out to me right now are:

(spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers)

1. in the anime, the robot-hating adolf doesn't allow his family to have a robot maid. in the manga, however, not only do they have a robot maid, but it's in fact the same woman who gesicht spoke to after the death of her husband at the very beginning of the story. I think just going "well he's prejudiced against robots, he wouldnt want a robot in his home" really misses out on the impact of that and what it says about bigotry hiding in plain sight. like, when you realize that you know this woman and you start to understand that her job is serving a man who wants her dead but is held back just by keeping up appearances, your stomach just drops. many such cases, as they say.

2. this one bothers me a LOT more like it actually makes me mad to think about. at the very end of the anime, the president of thracia admits that he always knew there weren't any weapons of mass destruction in persia. he justifies this by saying he "just wanted to protect his country". in the manga that line is very different! he originally says that he "just wanted to make thracia the greatest country in the world". that's huge. it was never about security, it was about power and domination. and when you take into account that pluto is VERY, VERY OBVIOUSLY commentary on the iraq war, and this character is VERY, VERY OBVIOUSLY an expy of george w. bush, it feels super insidious that this revealing moment was softened into something that approaches sympathetic. it feels revisionist, almost. like the anime was afraid to commit to that statement (which it probably was. I see you netflix).

if there's anything else I'm forgetting it's probably more along those same lines- disregarding the intended parallels to events in real life in order to draw less attention to the specific things urasawa is trying to talk about. I don't think pluto is perfect with its allegories 100% of the time, in some instances I'd even call it tasteless, but I admire the fact that it wasn't hiding a single aspect of its message. it feels true to the spirit of the original astro boy manga in that way, whatever your opinion on tezuka's political commentary he sure didn't mince words lmao. and I think covering any of that up is both cowardly and doing a huge disservice to the work.

[innerlmnt]

The US Presidential debate was horrible. It only underscores how bad both actually are, and it doesn't matter to vote either.

i watched clips of the debate. the united states should be ashamed.

your senile american dust pouches suck for sure, but that's exactly why you need to vote. the people who want the orange man with the principles of bigotry and an actual American doomsday event in office will show up to vote. they showed up in 2016 and they will show up again.

from a guy living in a parliamentary republic, i wish y'all had shit like coalitions and multiple parties in government, but because the right to vote has been manipulated against you, it's beyond critical to participate and take back that right. no one in their right mind wants to vote for Biden or Trump but y'all are between a rock and a hard place right now. it's because of your primitive voting system that the free world will be led by one of these doofuses and it's best that you pick the one that will do the lesser damage, even by a little.

think of it this way. Biden isn't gonna live forever. He's older than Trump. Joe Biden has a higher chance of dying while in office, which will bring in the Vice President i.e. a younger person - to take the lead for the Oval Office - at which point it will become the United States' job to protest and turn around the Vice President rather than Trump who is more set in his ways.

y'all have been left very little choice but to try and game the system that's been playing your asses in plain sight. sadly this comes at a time when that strategy doesn't help groups worthy of immediate attention (Palestinians, BIPOC, queer people etc.). the fight in front of you all is long and hard and tough, but it's a fight worth fighting nonetheless.

[enigmaticexplorer]

I Yearn, and so I Fear - Chapter V

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers. 

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 4.6K

A Like without a Reblog will result in an automatic block.

3 Helona

“These symptoms are extreme for this stage of her illness,” Healer Natasha said.

Kazi didn’t respond as she studied her sister. 

Asleep, Daria looked fragile. Easily breakable. Like the glass dolls common in Reformist households on Ceaia. The dolls with unblinking eyes, perfectly plain skin, and rosy lips. 

Sweat glistened on Daria’s forehead. Her breathing was shallow yet slowing, courtesy of the anesthetic med-spike Kazi stabbed her with an hour ago.

The fear in her sister’s eyes—the sheer terror—when Kazi pinned her to the ground was imprinted in her mind. 

It happened so fast. 

Kazi had only just returned from work. Exhausted, she visited Neyti’s empty room to place a new stuffed animal—a space whale—on the pillows. On her way back, she caught sight of Daria in her room, staring at a wall, rocking slightly.

“Daria?” Kazi asked hesitantly. 

Daria flinched. “Where are we?” she whispered. “Why am I here?”

The fear in her sister’s voice moored Kazi to the floor. She was so tired—mentally and physically worn to the bones—that she could only stare at her sister. Confused. Uncomprehending. She took one step forward but Daria collapsed to the floor. Her hands flattened against her ears. Her body curved into a ball. She panted for air. 

It was the sound of her panicked breaths that snapped Kazi into action. She snatched the med-spike from the hallway closet. The medicine had sat there, unused, for months. 

She had never expected to use it.

And she hadn’t expected Daria to start crying, begging, her not to hurt her. 

Scared and unnerved, Kazi stabbed Daria with the med-spike. Her sister fell limp beneath her. 

The only good thing about the situation: Neyti was downstairs sketching, and Commander Fox and trooper Nova were gone, so no one witnessed the ordeal. 

“I thought you said her medicine was supposed to prevent these symptoms.” Kazi faced Healer Natasha, folding her arms across her chest.

After endless appointments with Ceaian healers unwilling to treat Daria, Kazi was relieved to meet Healer Natasha. 

A decade older, Healer Natasha was quick to diagnose Daria, create a treatment plan, and enforce necessary care all within two weeks. The healer was dedicated to Daria’s treatment. Determined to ease her suffering and preserve the stability of her mind for as long as possible. Her kindly personality and patient attentiveness made her respectable and trustworthy.  

However, months ago, Healer Natasha claimed a morning and nightly potion would curb Daria’s symptoms. That severe episodes of forgetfulness and panic were improbable the first fifteen months of the disease’s three-year timeframe.

The disease wasn’t supposed to progress for another eight months. 

“The potions should be working.” Healer Natasha studied Daria’s pulse and scribbled a note onto her datapad. “Their efficacy is tested and proven. There must be something interfering…”

Kazi swallowed a bite of fear. “How much time do you think she has?” 

“Possibly a year.” Kazi blanched and Healer Natasha offered her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry. I can ease the symptoms as much as possible until the next stage.”

“The next stage is—”

“Loss of memory. I advise moving her to the medical center for 24-hour care.”

“You said Stage Two won’t happen until Telona of next year. At the earliest.” Her heart was beating far too fast, and she swallowed, forcing her breaths to calm. “You said she had at least two years to live from Telona. She’s only been sick for seven months.”

“Daria’s disease is an anomaly, and one we have little information to study,” the healer said gently. “The disease has few similarities across patients and we still don’t know the cause or if it’s curable. I am operating based on what I have researched, but much is left to the unknown.”

Kazi knew all of this—they had talked about it before. But it didn’t make acceptance easier.

Seven months ago, she was working in Ceaia’s capital when she received a comm message from home. Nearly eight years had passed without word from her mother, and she had rarely spoken to Daria in that time. So the comm message shocked her. She didn’t know what to expect.

That night, she quit her job, packed her belongings, and bought a one-way ticket back home. 

The local healer didn’t know how to treat Daria and the few droids available were just as useless. Kazi threw herself into researching Daria’s symptoms, cross-referencing potential illnesses, contacting various healers across the planet and then expanding her search to neighboring systems. She argued her way into consultations with the most renowned healers. 

All of those hours researching, all of those days she spent trying to find a solution, were ultimately futile. The last healer they saw on Ceaia claimed the disease was a progressive destruction of memory and mental functions. There was no cure. 

In private, the healer had advised Kazi to stop wasting her time and monetary resources on her sister. To instead enroll Daria in a 24-hour hospice center. The pity on his face at her immediate refusal still rankled her. 

Through it all—the dozens of consultations and various healers—Daria became more withdrawn. Reclusive and quiet. Kazi assumed it was a combination of shock and grief. 

Their mother was no help. Daria was her pride, and her hope for the future, and Daria’s inability to marry into society left her depressed.

Her hopelessness didn’t matter much since she passed away a few months later. From heart failure. It wasn’t a shock considering she was in her early seventies. She didn’t have Kazi and Daria until her early forties, as Traditionalist and Reformist culture encouraged, and the combined stress of Kazi leaving home at eighteen and the onslaught of Daria’s disease was too much for her to handle.  

Kazi thought their mother’s death would upset Daria. To her surprise, her sister became less morose and reclusive. 

“I don’t have much time,” Daria said one day, her smile forcibly brave, “and I won’t waste it moping.”

Healer Natasha placed a hand on Kazi’s shoulder, her fingers dark brown and scarred. “You should prepare yourself for the possibility that Daria’s illness is progressing at a faster rate.”

“I understand.” Kazi observed Daria’s pallid features. “Thank you for coming by tonight. I know it’s not in your contract—”

“Daria is my only patient. I’m here for her.” Kazi nodded her gratitude while the healer packed her bag. Once her instruments were sequestered away, Healer Natasha straightened, a frown marring her features. “A question, Ms. Lucien: has Daria encountered anything at home that could have increased her stress levels in the past months?”

The last three months zipped through Kazi’s memories, like a holofilm fast-forwarded. The clones’ arrival was the sole anomaly. But had built a rapport with Commanders Cody and Fox, and on some occasions, she even cooked with the former. 

An indicator of high stress probably emerged from—

“We’ve had a few disagreements about the future,” Kazi admitted.

“The future?” Healer Natasha hefted her bag. “Her future?”

“No.” Kazi scrunched her nose. “Mine.”

Healer Natasha nodded in understanding, approaching the bedroom door. “It would be best to avoid stressful conversations as they can exacerbate her symptoms, especially conversations about the future. Patients suffering from terminal disease struggle with both the unknown and the desire for a future. Talks about what you will be doing in a year or two can increase distress.”

Late evening sunshine bespeckled the surrounding jungle when Healer Natasha left. Kazi locked the front door and leaned against the wall, pressing her palms to her eyes. 

Her head felt too heavy. Too full. Like it was stuffed with wet sheep wool and she couldn’t stop it from expanding and thickening. 

Deciding fresh air and the setting sun might ease her headache, Kazi wandered to the sunroom. She expected to find Neyti absorbed in a sketch. Instead, she stumbled on a puzzling sight.  

Outside, Neyti sat among the ferns, a canvas on her lap and a paintbrush in her hand. For a brief moment, Kazi was distracted by the canvas and paints. The ones Commander Cody had gifted Neyti a few days ago. She hadn’t seen Neyti use them before and the sight eased some of her tension. She made a mental note to tell the commander when he returned to the house from his mission. He would appreciate it. 

And then she took in the entire situation, and former elation gave way to exasperation.

Rather than painting, Neyti was scowling, her knuckles white against a paintbrush. Scowling at Commander Fox and trooper Nova.

The clones must have returned from the Marketplace while Kazi was speaking to Healer Natasha. Each carried a bag of groceries, but it was Commander Fox who also held a cup in his hand. He stood a few meters from Neyti and was gesturing to the cup. Behind him, Nova grimaced. 

Commander Fox took a step closer. He started to kneel. 

Eyes narrowed, Neyti brandished her paintbrush and stabbed it in his direction.

“Oh my fucking gods,” Kazi muttered under her breath. 

The commander lifted a hand in surrender, and he slowly lowered the cup to the ground. Neyti swiped at him. Again. Kazi hurried outside.

“Neyti.” The girl blinked at her. Kazi gave her a long look. “We don’t hit people with paintbrushes.” She turned on the commander. “And if she doesn’t want whatever you have, don’t pressure her to accept it.”

Commander Fox shrugged, his casual demeanor forcibly unruffled. “I was going to leave it there and walk away.”

Kazi turned her attention back to Neyti, lifting an eyebrow. Neyti glowered at Commander Fox and then lowered her brush. A frustrated huff spoke her true feelings. 

Sharing a look with Commander Fox—the clone’s mouth pressed in a hard line—Kazi accepted the cup he placed in her hands. Lemony shaved ice filled it to the brim, and she felt herself start to smile as she knelt on the ground. Neyti eyed the cup suspiciously.

“This is a treat,” Kazi explained, spooning a lump of ice.

“I told her that,” the commander said. A distinct line wrinkled between his eyes. “I thought younglings liked dessert.”

“They do.” Nova’s voice was quiet, softer than Commander Fox’s. His hair was longer than any of the three commanders and a yellow tattoo of a rising sun lightened his left cheek. “Guess the problem is you.”

Commander Fox rolled his eyes. 

Ignoring them, Kazi offered the spoonful of ice to Neyti. The girl hesitated. 

“It’s really good, I promise,” she encouraged. 

When Neyti continued to eye the cup, Kazi shrugged, taking a bite for herself. Commander Fox had opted for a simple flavor: lemon with a hint of mint. It wasn’t half bad, though she preferred lemon and lavender. 

“You know,” she said, meeting Neyti’s intrigued gaze, “shaved ice is popular on Ceaia.”

The pointed comment was a theory she had developed the last few weeks, and Neyti’s reaction—her lips parting and former suspicion melting into interest—partially confirmed it. 

Neyti set aside her canvas and paintbrush, and Kazi handed her the cup. Carefully, Neyti spooned a small mouthful of the ice and took a tentative bite. 

Her eyes widened. Fascination, and subtle delight, lit her face. She took another, larger bite.

A quiet, hoarse chuckle emanated from the clone commander, and Neyti stiffened. A disparaging glare darkened her face. To Kazi’s slight amusement, Commander Fox winked. An angry flush darkened Neyti’s face. The little girl shoved herself to her feet, huffed her annoyance in Commander Fox’s direction, and stomped toward the closest tree, collapsing among its knotted roots. 

“Good going,” Nova said. Shoving the commander in the shoulder, he grabbed both bags of groceries and strode into the house.

Commander Fox slid his hands into his trousers’ pockets, watching Neyti. “You have your hands full. With that one and your sister.”

The amusement in his tone—the suggestion behind his comment—made Kazi stiffen. He had no right to judge Neyti and her sister. He had no right to make them his entertainment. 

“Don’t talk about Neyti that way,” she said coldly. “And don’t talk about my sister, either.”

The commander blinked his bemusement. “I wasn’t—”

“I have work to do.” Stepping away, she settled her attention on Neyti. “You should go inside. I think it’s best if you don’t bother her.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw but Commander Fox inclined his head, retreating into the house. 

The moment the back door snapped shut, Kazi grimaced. Maybe she was too quick to judge him. Maybe she shouldn’t have snapped at him. And she probably should have thanked him for thinking of Neyti. For buying her a treat. 

But Kazi couldn’t muster the energy to care. To feel ashamed for her behavior. 

Stress had gnawed through her muscles and was now working on her bones, dull teeth steadily eating her away. 

She wondered how long she would last. 

It didn’t matter, really. Once Neyti was adopted and Daria passed away, there would be nothing left to concern her. And no one to know her.

The bluish glow of Eluca’s three moons washed across the first level while Kazi mopped the hardwood floors. Unable to sleep, she thought the repetitive motions would soothe the amalgamated mess of conflicting thoughts pounding inside her head. So far, it hadn’t worked.  

She needed to access the bank codes for Bash. And yet she still didn’t know how to.

She needed to research Daria’s disease and see if there was an explanation for her rapid progression. And yet she knew it was ultimately futile.

She needed to reconvene with the adoption center and confirm Neyti’s application. And yet she had to wait for Neyti’s testing. 

She needed to call a mechanic and get the kitchen fixed—the squeaky drawers, broken cabinets, weak faucet grew more problematic by the day. And yet she couldn’t muster the fucking energy to make one comm call.

The house was dirty. She hadn’t properly cleaned the kitchen, living room, and sunroom in a month, and her bedsheets were unwashed for more than three weeks, and she hadn’t dusted in a long time, and there were crumbs—fucking crumbs—on the kitchen counters because the adults in this house were too lazy to properly clean the fucking counters after a meal. 

Living room floors scrubbed and drying, Kazi made her way to the kitchen. A glance at the chrono heightened her fatigue. 

She closed her eyes, telling herself not to cry. She wanted to sleep, but she couldn’t. And she despised lack of sleep. Her head felt too heavy to think and her muscles too slow to respond. She would most likely opt out of a swim and then she would miss an important workout and—

Kazi opened an upper cabinet and retrieved the sole bottle of alcohol in the house. A bottle of aged red wine. 

Daria couldn’t drink because of her medicine, and Kazi disliked the lack of control she experienced when she did drink, so alcohol was in short commodity. The bottle of wine she was uncorking was a gift from the neighbor a kilometer away. An older man she hadn’t spoken to since, though she did wave whenever she saw him drive by. 

A short pop and the cork fell away. A regular glass filled to the brim. A dark red unsavory.

At the first mouthful, Kazi nearly spit it out. Gods, she hated wine. Too sweet. Too thick. Too many uncomfortable memories. 

Another mouthful and she closed her eyes. The image of Daria, pale and sweaty, begging not to be hurt, seared her mind. Her eyes flew open. She released a shaky breath.

The urge to run spasmed down her spine. The urge to leave the house, leave her sister and Neyti, and just run. 

Run far away. Away from the responsibility, away from Daria’s suffering.

Kazi stared at the dark wine, its color too reminiscent of blood. Her hand started to shake and she set the glass aside. It was pathetic, but the bloody glass reminded her of her first, and only, time fishing with her father. 

She was five, eager to prove herself a reliable sailing companion. 

They sailed to one of the islands, her father cast a line, and they sat for an hour. Waiting. It was a rare day. The sun peeked through Ceaia’s usually gray clouds, its rays a gregarious warmth. 

Little Kazi had high expectations. For both herself and the experience. 

The line snagged, and she and her father shared an excited grin, reeling in the first catch of the day: a fish longer than her arm and quite fat. She watched her father kneel on the wooden boards. The fish squirmed and struggled. Kazi no longer felt excited. 

Her father raised a long spike. She kept watching the fish try to escape. To return home and live. Her father stabbed the fish in its head.

The sight haunted her nightmares for an entire year.

The fish wriggling. Blood oozing from its scales. The sound of its tail smacking the deck.

It took a long time for the fish to quiet and then still.

Little Kazi sobbed. She sobbed over the pain and suffering of a fucking fish. 

Startled by her reaction, her father abandoned the rest of the trip and they returned home. And so began a life avoiding the signs of pain and suffering. 

More difficult to avoid than Kazi had expected considering her mother owned the local apothecary and served as a healer on most days. She had forced Kazi and Daria to accompany her during busy hours. Daria helped. Eager to ease patients’ suffering. Eager to do good. Kazi stood in the corner, hands pressed to her ears, trembling as she listened to grunts of pain. Screams.

She took to running away. To avoid it all. 

The day her father died, she was ten, and she saw him in the med-center bed. His body was broken; his face was swollen. He had reached for her. His pain was too similar to Daria’s. 

Except his death was different. 

His sudden absence left her shocked and grieving—there was no time to prepare. She had eaten breakfast with him that morning, and he was gone by dinner.

Daria’s illness prolonged her pain and suffering. 

There would come a time when her little sister no longer remembered her. A time when Daria wouldn’t even know her own name. 

And Kazi wasn’t prepared for it. No matter the façade she wore, she wasn’t prepared. 

Swallowing another mouthful of the sweet wine, Kazi drained two-thirds of the glass. She was about to force herself to finish it when the front door banged open.

The glass fell. Its shatter was as loud as a blaster shot in the silence of night. Wine splattered her freshly mopped floors. 

Heart slamming against her chest, Kazi peered around the staircase wall and toward the entryway. A glaring Commander Wolffe followed by a narrow-eyed Commander Cody shadowed the hall. The front door snapped behind them, the lock sliding in place.

The anger emanating from them was palpable enough that Kazi’s stomach dropped. Tension slithered down her spine and she retreated into the middle of the kitchen, the bar serving as a barrier. 

The clones trudged toward the bookcase, Commander Cody offering her a grim nod before disappearing into the basement. Commander Wolffe paused beside the bookcase. He tucked a small, worn notebook into his utility belt and lifted his gaze to hers. 

A blackening blob puffed his right eye. His tetchy expression reminded her of their last conversation a few nights ago. The conversation when he rudely dismissed her. 

Tapping her fingers against the counter, she studied the harsh lines of his face. 

Mouth pressed in a thin line. Shoulders rigid. Jaw clenched painfully tight. 

“Do you want to discuss the intel?” she asked.

It was like poking a shark with a fishing pole—purposeful agitation with the expectation of a reaction. She knew she should ignore him. Clean up the glass and go to bed. However, she wanted to antagonize him. Because he was rude and dismissive and she needed to know why he no longer wanted to share intel. Needed to know why she wasn’t considered good enough for him.

“I told you,” he said, voice taut with restraint, “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why.” 

The commander regarded her. Bored, unfazed by her question.

“I don’t understand you.” She chuffed a sardonic laugh. “You were the one who asked me to work on the intel—”

“I don’t believe you’re capable of handling it.”

Her lips pursed. “I attended one of the most prestigious universities in the Outer Rim. I received not only my first degree in basic analytics, but I received a second and third degree in military and political intelligence. Military analytics is my specialty. I’m more than credentialed to analyze your intelligence. More than you probably are as a soldier.”

Commander Wolffe released a scoff so full of scorn her vision reddened. The commander’s outline blurred at the edges, and she knew she needed to walk away. 

“What’s your problem?” she demanded. 

A moment of silence passed. The commander seemed to be wavering between his two options: engage or back away. His soldiery background must have won out because he squared his shoulders and let the bookcase close. He took a step closer, countenance ornery. 

“My brothers and I are the ones out there. Running missions. Risking our lives,” Commander Wolffe said. His voice was low, strained with a rising rage that set her on edge. “We don’t have room for a shoddy analytic job. We don’t have room for mistakes.” 

“My analyses are not shoddy,” Kazi hissed. “I dedicate time and effort to make sure they’re the most accurate they can be—”

“I know you don’t give a shit about the lives of my brothers. But I do.” He levelled the full weight of his glare on her. A glare full of vitriolic antipathy. “And I won’t put their lives at risk based on your analyses.”

Kazi blinked her shock, straightening her spine. This asshole was questioning her credibility. Questioning her effectiveness at a skillset she had honed for eight years. The skillset she dedicated years of her life to perfecting in order to escape the forced life of demure housewife and child-bearer. 

“I would never put someone’s life at risk.” Heated rage turmoiled beneath her skin, churning hotter and faster. “You have no right to judge my skillset—”

“I reserve every right to question your credibility. These are my brothers at risk—”

“Then why did you ask me for help?” 

“I miscalculated.” He shrugged. “I realize now you’re lacking the quality we need.”

Internally, she flinched, and it took more effort than she cared to admit to keep her features unruffled. His opinion didn’t matter. She knew her skillset was credible and refined, but she couldn’t entirely dissuade the self-doubt it procured. 

“You’re the one who asked me for help, and now all you can do is ridicule my work?” A hollow laugh broke loose. “You’re pathetic.”

Commander Wolffe jerked away, his nostrils flaring and scowl hardening into deep fissures. He took a breath. And then another. Never looking away. 

“Are you going to bring men around here?” The question caught her off guard but she didn’t miss the blatant mistrust and scorn. “I’ll need to know. For security purposes.”

Kazi eyed him for a long moment and then realization crashed into her. 

The commander had overheard her argument with Daria. A good portion of it.

The judgment in his gaze—the expectation that she would risk their operation for a male—was despicable. And it pissed her off even more.

“That’s not a problem you need to worry about.” She fisted her hands at her sides to steady herself, both from the wine blurring her vision and the defensive anger howling to get out. “Instead of worrying about who I spend my time with, maybe you should worry about your own missions. Since they’re clearly ineffective.”

It was a low blow. A punch straight to his ego and she knew it. She relished in his nearly imperceptible flinch. 

“I thought you were running rescue missions, Commander.” She gestured to the empty entryway. “Where are your rescued soldiers?” The taunt was cruel and horrible and she would regret it the moment the conversation ended, but in the moment, she wanted him to hurt. The way she was hurting beneath his criticism of her character. “Maybe if you had an accurate analysis—”

“Shut up.” 

“What? You don’t like hearing the truth? Your missions are pointless and do nothing for the good of the galaxy—”

“I’m rescuing my men. I’m doing something. What the fuck are you doing?”

Commander Wolffe took a step closer to the bar, running his tongue along his teeth. Kazi widened her stance, refusing to balk beneath his hostility. 

“You’re a nobody from a backwater planet that thought it could rebel against the Empire.” The commander leaned across the bar. “What good did that do for your people? For the galaxy?”

Kazi suddenly felt both cold and hot. How he knew about Ceaia, she wasn’t sure, but it threw her off-kilter. An attack on a vulnerability she tried so hard to bury. An attack on the guilt she harbored for her cowardice.

“You wanna talk about doing nothing for the galaxy,” Commander Wolffe growled, “let’s start with you running from your planet. You could have stayed and fought. And instead, you saved yourself—” 

“It would have been a massacre.” Her voice was quiet, underscored by a slight tremble. “Staying would have done nothing—”

He snorted. “You’re a coward.”

“I’m trying to help others. The rebel network—”

“Is an idealistic group of people. They naively believe they can take down the Empire—”

“And is it not naively idealistic to try to rescue clone soldiers from the Empire?” She snickered and the commander stilled, his features stony. “What’s the point? There are hundreds of thousands of clones. You can’t save them all.” 

“You wouldn’t understand.” He cocked his head, his sneer belittling. “Your home life is fucked up. You have a kid who doesn’t trust you. Your relationship with your sister is estranged. You’re a shitty sister and even shittier caretaker. And you wouldn’t know the first thing about familial duty.”

The accusation burrowed into her chest and flayed open the encaged emotions she worked tirelessly to repress. Her insides felt cold and tears—from both hurt and self-righteous anger—pressed at the corners of her eyes.

“How can you judge me for my home life when you don’t even understand the meaning of it?” She swallowed, ignoring the blood welling in her palms beneath her fingernails. “You’re a clone. What do you know about familial duty?”

The commander’s upper lip curled. “I have brothers—men I care for. Men I’m trying to save. Every mission I run is for them. What have you done for your family? Nothing.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done for my family. You don’t know what I do for them. You have no right—”

“And you had no right to question me—”

“You’re a paranoid bastard.” A tear eased down her cheek and she furiously wiped it away. “You’re so fucking paranoid because you turned on your own people. Your actions allowed the Empire to rise and the Republic to crumble. And now you expect any and everyone to turn on you because you were the traitor first.”

She was done with this argument. She was so fucking done with him.

“Ridicule the network; ridicule me. I don’t care. But you’re not the selfless hero you believe you are.” Stalking toward the staircase, Kazi threw him a final glare over her shoulder. “If you don’t trust my work—or me—then you can leave.”

Masterlist | Chapter 4 | Chapter 6

A/N: This is where the fun begins.

[t0ast-ghost]

S3 EP7 (Day Of The Dove) already has me laughing with how they beamed down.

Without further ado:

- Sulu gets Spock jumpscared

- “You killed my brother Piotr.” WHAT. CHEKOV LORE?!?

- Chekov is getting the worst fucking treatment in these past episodes. First shot to death, now tortured to death

- Good thing they’ve got a button for that

- Chekov’s like, ‘KILL THEM’

- “My wife, Mara. And my science officer.” Parallels much?

- wish I had a shiny ball of sparkles following me

- Uhura’s hair is amazing, she’s got these little side curls

- Do they even have a place they’re supposed to be exploring, almost every episode they’re being taken out of the galaxy

- SWORD FIGHT YEAHHH

- Those redshirts are going to seriously walk into sickbay with a STAB wound

- Kirk DO NOT grip the sharp end of the sword

- YEAHHH CHEKOV AND SULU FIGHTING WITH SWORDS

- Sulu is so damn confused. WAIT HE NEVER HAD A BROTHER? I love that Sulu knows Chekov

- Real image of McCoy after performing top surgery

- Scotty gets to play with swords too

- Sneaking around in plain sight… works?

- Are we going to get to see Spock fight with a sword? I just think it’d be hot- who said that

- Cannot tell if McCoy is being controlled or he’s just like that in this episode. He’s being controlled. That’s good. His eyes are so blue and I think he’s going to bite someone tho.

- The low/harsh lighting really works for Spock’s face. He looks really cool.

- “May I say that I have not thoroughly enjoyed serving with humans. I find their illogic and foolish emotions a constant irritant.” Damn that’s so right, babygirl. They have no right to say this shit to you. No but seriously what the fuck? Spock faces constant verbal abuse for being half Vulcan

- Sulu is literally the best in this episode (please involve him more. Plllleeeease)

- Okay I know sparkles is controlling everyone but did I feel a bit better when Kirk was going to beat up Chekov? Yes.

- “Gentlemen, if we are pawns, then you’re looking at one who is extremely sorry.” “I understand, Doctor. I, too, felt a surge of racial bigotry. Most distasteful.” McCoy and Spock reconcile

- Is this the episode where they beat the entity with friendship?

- Get nerve pinched, idiot

- “Captains log, star date… Armageddon.” Kirk is sooo dramatic

- YEAHHH SPOCK AND MCCOY SWORD FIGHTING (well Spock ended up nerve pinching the guy but still)

- I like how McCoy and Spock fought their way over to Kirk just to stand there

- “Let’s jump him.” Spock has to be like, ‘no, Doctor.’

- Spock is done with their antics

I’m just wondering now if the new trek is just random shit put into a season or if there’s actual plot. I don’t think there should be actual plot. (I know there’s actual plot)

Masterpost

Episode written by Jerome Bixby

[kaleidoscopecollectivemagazine]

The Loud Silence: What Trump’s America Asks Us to Tolerate

Kaleidoscope Collective Editorial Team

It should not be radical to say that a man openly threatening nuclear war, defaming political opponents, and promising mass deportations is dangerous. It should not take advanced degrees or insider political knowledge to recognize the architecture of fascism being rebuilt in plain sight. And yet here we are—living in a country where saying those truths out loud is still treated as controversial.

Donald Trump’s rhetoric is not careless. It is calculated. The threats he makes, the dog whistles he amplifies, and the chaos he encourages are all tools of authoritarian control. Each time he pushes the boundaries of what is acceptable, he waits to see who resists. And each time the nation fails to respond with collective outrage, the goalposts shift. The silence that follows is not neutral. It is approval disguised as discomfort.

This silence becomes even more violent when we recognize who it protects and who it abandons. Trump’s political rise and return are built on a foundation of scapegoating queer people, immigrants, disabled folks, and Black and brown communities. These are not abstract policy points—they are human lives being targeted, erased, and silenced. Our people.

At Kaleidoscope Collective, we exist because of that silence. We exist to disrupt it. To amplify the stories, resistance, and realities of those who are so often talked over, criminalized, or strategically ignored. Because the most dangerous thing about Trumpism isn’t just what is said—it’s what is tolerated. And what’s tolerated today becomes normalized tomorrow.

What we are witnessing is not just political. It is cultural. It is spiritual. It is a moral crisis. When neighbors, teachers, and pastors ignore the real harm caused by fascist language and state violence, they are choosing comfort over conscience. When people wave flags and chant slogans as civil liberties are stripped away, they are not uninformed—they are invested.

We understand that many were raised in systems that taught them to fear difference, to cling to a mythologized America, or to obey authority without question. But access to information is no longer limited. Most people in this country have the internet. They have the means to learn the truth. To read the stories of queer teens banned from bookshelves. To hear the voices of deported families ripped apart. To understand that neutrality is a privilege not afforded to the people being harmed.

We are in an age of infinite facts. Infinite stories. Infinite evidence. And still, many choose not to listen. Still, many treat Trump’s threats like punchlines or policy quirks. Still, many only respond when queer, disabled, and marginalized people speak with anger—because soft truths don’t pierce hardened hearts. Because for some, survival has to sound like shouting before it registers as real.

But rage is not our only tool. We carry joy. We carry community. We carry art, resistance, and radical love. Kaleidoscope Collective is built on the belief that every person who has been told they are too loud, too different, too much, has a place here. A voice here. A future here. We do not speak truth to power because it is trendy—we do it because silence kills.

We call this what it is: a dystopian unraveling. And we refuse to narrate it in neutral tones.

We are not interested in civility when it protects cruelty. We are not interested in bipartisanship when it enables bigotry. We are interested in truth. In justice. In building something freer than what came before. And that requires disruption. It requires clarity. It requires us to name Trumpism for what it is: a threat to everything we are fighting to protect.

If that makes you uncomfortable, sit with that. If it makes you furious, good. It means you’re awake. It means the silence is beginning to break.

Kaleidoscope Collective will keep creating, keep resisting, and keep amplifying the voices you were never meant to hear. Because we are not just documenting history. We are shaping it.

And we are not going anywhere.

[transexualpirate]

Hi! Saw your post on redberryterf and racism.

I'm not PoC(nebulous USA spicy white but I come from immigrants) but I've been eyeing that user specifically for a fucking minute tbh. Her posts always seemed too edgy and evocative of the alt-right to me, in a way I couldn't quite describe much less prove something wrong with. Lo and behold LOL.

The truth is racism is everywhere there's white people and especially there's racism where there's Not Supposed To Be, like radical leftist organizing.

Queer AND radical feminist spaces host plenty of racism cloaked in whatever politically correct language, because both Queer and Radical Feminist discourse spaces on the English-speaking internet are predominantly white, western, upper middle class and college-educated.

I've seen some women on here try to claim Radical Feminism is *thee* feminism of the rest of the world, but I find that disingenuous. Most American and British radical feminists are nothing like Korean or Chinese radical feminists, and who knows what would happen if we were all in the same conference as those in Mexico, Romania, Greece. A responsible feminist would not try to separate herself from racism in her own movement by claiming The PoC Agree and would instead acknowledge and address it.

Climbed in your inbox because I think it will do us all a service to discuss how racism is enabled in leftist spaces regardless of the rest of our political alignments x have a good day.

hello!! i really appreciate this, so thank you. i agree with what you said wholeheartedly (ill have to look up the poc agree, though, not very familiar with that). i think people assume that just because a space is far left it is automatically exempt from racism, which is just. factually incorrect.

i mean, to begin with, there is no community in the whole world that is fully exempt from any sort of bigotry. that just doesn't happen. there is no community like that. not the trans community, not the queer community, not the radfem community, that's just not real. the thing is that bigots are everywhere. sometimes they do it out of malice, "infiltrating" those spaces aware that what they're parroting is harmful but uncaring, but more likely it's just ignorance, completely unaware that what they're saying is Actually Bad because they've been trained to not question their own thoughts ever.

so whether it's malice or ignorance, it is a lie to say that (x) community is completely free of all bigotry, which is a feeling that i have seen, whether implicitly or explicitly, in a lot of rad-whatever spaces. i mean, have you fucking browsed the "radqueer" tag over here on tumblr? that shit has more intolerance than fucking fox news and it's all completely masked under "radical acceptance", "positivity" and "equality". that is not what you'll find in their communities, though. and though not as extreme or as obvious, the radfem community is like that in many ways.

the fact that your community has a common goal of equality does not mean that your methods are sensible or justified, and it definitely doesn't mean the members of your community are somehow magically exempt from being the sort of people that actively goes against equality.

my problem with the radfem community specifically goes a bit further than just the general lack of awareness and accountability about and to the occasional bigot hiding in plain sight. i believe the entire community is built on a narrative that ends up being a type of "slippery slope" that very often leads to bigotry. so more than the occasional bigot, i think a lot of what is in the radfem community actively leads people to be less tolerant and accepting of others, in many ways.

one of them is the fact that a lot of classic and even some modern radfem writers and activists were and are incredibly racist (and sometimes homophobic as well), which is a fact that is rarely acknowledged in radfem spaces, if at all. and it shouldn't be just acknowledged, there should be some sort of active work to push the ideas influenced by that hate out of the community.

i also believe that when put in practice, a lot of radfem beliefs make people assume that women are the most oppressed group there is, automatically putting them as winners in the oppression olympics and completely disregarding how being negatively affected by one axis of oppression doesn't erase the fact that you can still be privileged in other ways. if women are the True Oppressed Class, then they can't oppress anyone else in any other way. maybe they can acknowledge that certain women can oppress other women, but anyone outside of their class? unfathomable. and this perpetuates many harmful rethorics.

another big problem i have is, naturally, the transphobia, leading radfems to more often than not become terfs. the unwillingness to accept that someone that wasn't Born A Woman(tm) can find genuine joy and comfort in womanhood - it must be a lie to hurt women, or a mental illness acquired through degeneracy, or a mockery, because women are the True Oppressed Class, after all, that's the opposite of joy and comfort. or the unwillingness to accept that someone that was Born A Woman(tm) might not find womanhood suit for them for many reasons, not all of them born from misogyny. but i know that we're talking specifically about the racism in that community and that is fine. im just making a link to how hate is often "intertwined", and one will feed the other.

regarding racism specifically, i do think the radfem community needs to do better in acknowledging and fighting it, more than most communities considering the aforementioned points. unfortunately, the only radfems ive seen on tumblr actively work for that were menalez and another one who's url i cant remember right now.

regarding bigotry in general, i think most radfems need to rethink a lot of stuff and see where their priorities lay. i think all communities would benefit from that, truly, specially left leaning and far left ones that believe themselves to be Truly Good And Pure (free from hate) - including the trans community, for the record.

and i think people of color aren't listened enough in society, which results in us being shut down when speaking about how that reflects in our respective communities, which results in people like redberryterf feeling comfortable enough to share her horribly racist opinions freely and without a care. i personally had already gotten into a debate with her before in which i told her she had to rethink some stuff but naturally i was ignored. which is why i referred to her as a well known person in the community: i don't interact that often but i had already stumbled across her posts multiple times and a lot of them have a LOT of likes. she isn't as big as menalez or that pineapple blog, but she was definitely influential in some way. and yet no one called her out on her bigotry until it was as obvious as it can be. i mean, it doesn't get any clearer than "i don't care that im being racist". she was spoonfed so much hatred that her perception of reality was altered to the point where being racist was probably a bad thing, but it was fine as long as it was towards men. then it's warranted. she's a woman, after all, the supreme oppressed class, she could never oppress anyone else.

anyways, this was a long fucking way of saying To Fight Bigotry You Have To Study Your Roots, Acknowledge Nuance And Different Points Of View, Listen To And Spread Awareness About Marginalized People and Never Ever Assume That You Are Exempt From Bigotry. That's A Sign That You Are Parroting Bigotry.

thank you for your ask. i think it's super important to find common ground with people you disagree with, and fighting racism is always important. im sorry for the long fucking reply, i hope it was at least a little bit coherent. sorry for occasional grammar mistakes or poor english in general, it isn't my first language. and have a good day!

[skyheld]

you look beautiful. from maxima to shianni, little whisper in a ballroom maybe? ;)

LAVISH BALLS, PARTIES, AND SECRETS | not accepting | @mercysought

The ball is both like and unlike any one Shianni's been to back home. The room is different—less animals furs on the walls, fewer tapestries depicting ancient wars—and the music has a sound she's never heard elsewhere, a low drone underneath the quirk of stringed instruments. The guests are dressed in a lighter, more delicate sort of finery, though dripping with jewels; the food is just plain strange. Much of it is the same, though. The same people, the same veiled smiles, the same hidden insults.

She's welcomed warmly. She will face no bigotry here, she has been assured. A mere Bann of Ferelden, lowest in the order of nobles in what's already considered a lowly nation, would hardly find themselves welcome at any upper class ball in Minrathous, no matter how powerful their friends. An elven Bann—she wouldn't even entertain the thought. Whatever the reason, she wouldn't force herself to endure it. And neither would Maxima.

But there are those in Minrathous, in all Tevinter, occupied with change. They work from the shadows, but they work up here too, in the light. And though they still employ servants to carry trays and serve refreshments, Shianni can at least look at those servants and know they are paid.

She still feels.... inadequate, in her best dress, the main feature of which is its full skirt and the little glass beads—glass, not real jewels; she could never afford them—sewn into the neckline. With her short hair and her freckles and her straightforward manners, her hands which still do laundry and wash dishes. As she walks through the room, she catches sight of her reflection in a window, and falters.

She doesn't belong here.

Maxima moves to her side. She's radiant, even as a reflection in a window; she belongs here, she was made to be here. But her hand touches Shianni's briefly, and she leans down to whisper in her ear. "You look beautiful."

She smiles. Compared to Maxima she doesn't, but then again, Maxima never cared. And that's all she cares about. Why would it matter how she compares to these people?

The most beautiful woman in Thedas loves her. And she has better things to do than worry about the rest.

"Maybe we could... tonight..." She catches a servant nearby, maybe listening, maybe not, and bites back the words. Doesn't matter. It's better not to say it out loud. It will taste sweeter later. "Nevermind." '

She's just thinking about that soft bed, and how it may not be so bad after all.

[interactyouth]

Intersex people are also impacted by anti-trans legislation, but too often we are the unmentioned casualties.

We are constantly caught in the crossfire of culture wars or used as the “gotcha” moment in arguments to uplift others’ humanity, even as the painful discrimination our community faces—and the authentic beauty of our presence—remains hidden in plain sight.

Long a vital element in the case for someone else’s truth, we are also tasked with defending our own. Intersex people are human beings too and deserve dignified lives beyond just proving bigotry wrong. We don’t exist to prove a point; we exist because we do.

[carneirinha]

You know, one thing I've found interesting about listening to Tyler's old work is there is actually some nuance in, for instance, how he used homophobic slurs. Like, I don't agree with him using "faggot" exclusively as an insult and even if it's not intended to have anything to do with gay people it still often has the connotation of "unmasculine" or pathetic and so on. But his usage of "dyke" surprisingly comes off as more benign to me, as it's clear he uses it to refer specifically to lesbians or at least women who bend gender conventions, and yet I don't think they're ever really insulting or threatening.

(Btw I read your Wolf fic the other day and I liked it a lot! 🙂 I'd be excited to see you explore more of that story if you want to.)

the genuinely fascinating thing abt tyler is that he genuinely had a whole weird internal system 2 how his use of shock value n bigotry worked. his use of slurs was, unironically, some 'homophobia is gay' shit. he said all the slurs he wanted in any abstract ways 2 mean 'uptight' or 'unattractive' WHILE peddling a "be whatever you want, identify as whatever you want, piss off people, confuse them" message n having one of the most effeminate stage presences i've ever seen in rap (it's genuinely not a rare sight 2 see comments from the OF era saying she like "oh he's gay" just bcuz of the specific way he acted on stage which was a hectic mashup of a 5 yr old, a white teenage girl n a punk rocker in one person)... weird man!

it'll genuinely never ever cease 2 amaze me how much he just wanted 2 do plain social critique at times but he always just ended up making it fall somewhat flat bcuz of a stronger middle school mentality of wanting ppl 2 say 'no tyler don't say that!!'. a case study 4 the ages

side note: smth i've noticed is that since he's begun 2 b honest w/ himself abt his sexuality he actually got 2 saying slurs w/ actual meanings tied 2 sexuality (whole 'book' six-bar tangent in BUFFALO, "never raise a hand, the strap on em like a dyke bitch" on rah tah tah, "all these women is a habit, boyfriends mad cause they thought i was a- hey now" in his hey now freestyle). i don't understand what is up w/ his thought process. i wish i could!!!!!

(ALSO THANK U SO MUCH!!!!! 🥹💗🫶 i do think a lot abt wolf trilogy in an actual story sense since it rlly appeals 2 me in multiple ways - see the WEIRD amount of character analysis i do here - i'm just tremendously bad in putting shit out 4 a general public in a more digestible manner that doesn't make me sound like a maniac!! buttttt i do have some writings in store so...)

[myddle]

How Would Vampires Work In The Undertale Universe?

This is something I've wondered about ever since I saw Dalv in Undertale Yellow, although it's a question the fangame doesn't answer itself (which is fine, it wasn't trying to), so watch me just freeball on this question for a few paragraphs if you're interested.

Content Warning: Long Post, Opinions, Fictional Bigotry

Part 1: Biology

Now, as a mythical creature, the rules for vampires are pretty malleable, so we can pick and choose whatever best fits Undertale's setting and vibe, but generally vampires are monsters that hide among humans and parasitically feed on them, whether out of neccessity or for power, and can turn humans into vampires with a bite. Very different from your standard UT monster. In what scenario would a vampire deal with hiding when they can just steal a human SOUL for power?

Well, that depends on a few details regarding how this all works. Firstly: how manageable a monster with a Human SOUL actually is. Asriel's transformation implies it's fairly easy to spot, and while they are described as having unfathomable power, a village of humans brought Asriel to the brink of death (he wasn't fighting back, but whatever), so a vampire could get immedately ganked if they tried it. It's a thin tightrope though, as 7 SOULs apparently allows you to be invincible and control reality (unless Asriel was exaggerating, and Mr. Deletes-your-save-file-but-not-really definitely does that sometimes).

Second issue: would vampires even count as monsters with all these human-unique interactions? Answer: unclear, but probably. We can just drop the human-turning aspect in an UT implementation if we have to, and turning into dust on death is already something that vampires do, so they'd fit in just fine in that regard. The typical power level of vampires is a bit above most UT monsters other than Boss Monsters, but there is one variation that fits our purposes; vampires that only become powerful after feeding on humans, and are fairly weak otherwise. This helps them fit in with the rest of monsterkind while letting them keep their potential power, and also dodges the issue of vampires sealed under Mt. Ebott just starving to death immediately.

Part 2: Culture

Alrighty! With all that bullshit out of the way, we can get onto the baseless headcanons I actually care about; the question of how vampires would interact with Undertale's world, and it's themes of descrimination.

The big point I'm circling is this: Vampires are monsters that look like humans. A lot of UT monsters are at least somewhat humanoid, but a vampire is just a pale guy with fangs. The only other monster types that even come close are werewolves - only sometimes looking the part (and also notably absent from UT) - and skeletons - Sans & Papyrus are clearly human skeletons, but also clearly skeletons without any human on them, so that doesn't work. In contrast to most other monsters, vampires could feasibly hide in plain sight in human society, and therefore, could be outside the Underground when the Barrier was formed.

Just think about that for a moment. Monsters outside their prison, able to blend into the world of their jailors. What would they do with themselves? Would they simply play along, hiding among humans and living quiet lives? Would they take advantage, utilising the psychological powers vampires often have to gain wealth and status? Would they stay loyal to the Kingdom of Monsters, and form a resistance to try and break the Barrier from the outside? Would they walk away entirely, living out in the wilderness away from any civilisation? A mix of all of these and more, differing between each individual? The possibilities are colossal in scope.

Of course, not all Vampires would have this position. Some would undoubtably be caught in the initial war and imprisoned with the rest of monsterkind, or caught later on and simply pushed in (remember, anything can enter the Barrier, it only stops leaving). These vampires might just live the same as the rest of monsterkind - peacefully but struggling - but I have a darker yet darker thought. Hold on to something, this gets a bit heavy.

Part 3: Batthew the Vampire

Let me set the scene. The royal children have died. The humans have once again taken everything from monsterkind. King Asgore has declared war on Humanity to unify his people. Anti-Human sentiment is through the roof right now.

You have a vampire neighbor. Let's call him Batthew. You haven't seen him outside as much since the news dropped, and when you do, you see other monsters giving him dirty looks.

Monsters know what humans look like at this point in the timeline. Some of them probably met Chara. Their new source of hope, the war, has filled them with hatred for humanity, but they have no outlet for it. Batthew isn't a human. But he looks like one. And bigotry makes people do stupid things, because bigotry is inherently pretty stupid, lets be honest.

One day, Batthew's house has a broken window. A few days later, it has a "FOR SALE" sign out front. You don't know where Batthew went. Maybe he moved to some other corner of the caverns. You've heard rumors of the RUINS of the former Capital, maybe he found a way in there. Maybe he "fell down".

You no longer have a vampire neighbor.

[fanbynature]

"Smosh might have set to genuinely hire people with different personalities, backgrounds, ethnicities, etc. but perhaps can't actually handle the responsibilities that come from the cast not being all the same." THIS is what I was thinking about when I made the ask about Jackie. Like making a space for POC in the workplace doesn't mean JUST hiring, you have to include them in discussions, putting effort into highlighting their qualities just as much as any white worker, just generally making them feel welcome and having a plan for dealing with any bigotry from the fanbase/workplace or, cough, not breed bigotry in your fanbase/workplace in the first place, which Ian editors-have-to-censor-my-bigoted-jokes-lol Hecox and Anthony swaztika-funny Padilla evidently can't do. I can think of a good amount of times where people were outright disrespectful towards Jackie and (admittedly less) Chanse in plain sight in videos. Your own damn boss acting like they don't know you and not bothering to even learn what your name is.... is just not cute

Completely agree anon

[runthepockets]

Most of my experiences with emo subculture (as young kid in the late 2000s - now) was seeing a bunch of white people with admittedly cool hair and nice shoes who were sad about society and me as a black dude being like "hey, me too! Lets hang out!" and then immediately getting treated like scum of the Earth cus those little cocksuckers were not only just sad about not being able to be ignorant little kids with no responsibility forever rather than, like, being mad about poverty or world hunger or anything, but also because my presence as a black dude shook them from their lame delusions that they had it worse than anyone else in the room at any given time. Even the few black emo kids I knew (I was best friends with an emo black girl in middle school, we watched anime together and I read her chibi yaoi comics cus I like seeing black girls happy and successful even when I don't fully understand / relate) were always seen as lower on the caste, just completely expendable, cus they were easy and acceptable targets in a crew full of what was otherwise cookie cutter carbon copies of white fragility.

So yeah when I say I hate emo subculture it's not cus I'm a wet blanket who hates gender expression or vulnerability or whatever, I understand that that aspect was important and formative for a lot of people, I just know for a fact it's all encompassing of white American Protestant circlejerk that I'm always on the receiving end of it. And I single them out over most other white people because these environments foster this kind of attitude. It's a very insular, consumerist, cliquey subculture that prioritizes perpetual victimhood over self advocation, and white people eat that shit up. Emo subculture is, by nature, nothing but a huge circlejerk over who has it harder and then getting scared of outsiders on sight, cus, ykno, white people and perpetual victimhood.

Also, most of the music just plain fucking sucks. There are a couple of emo bands I cape for, but the genre as a whole is not good enough to be caping this hard for and probably never will be. I don't understand the hype, it's all fully grown men just complaining about their ex girlfriends, getting gassed up over their Metal and Hardcore and Punk counterparts via being less "barbaric" cus the former group is made up of suburban college kids who whine instead of being pissed off? They made Pete Wentz straight his fucking afro to be more accessible to white teenagers, dude. Like what the fuck. Is this classist, racist culture that's integral to these outfits only ok because the racism and bigotry is more "passive" than other music subcultures? Cus the people enforcing it went to college and have nice families in nice white picket fence neighborhoods? Cus that's whack as shit.

[delafiseaseses]

You probably don't care, but people earn my respect through actions I approve of. Acting in a way I think is a good way to act. The way I intend to act.

Those actions am quite simple, these am in the order they pop into me head:

Not letting people walk all over you.

Knowing when to drop a topic and move on.

Learning from and admitting your mistakes and shortcomings.

Practice self-examination. Nothing is more dangerous than refusing to scrutinise oneself.

Don't dismiss other's struggles. Even if they sound strange to you or you think you've suffered worse.

Oh, that's a big one. Suffering is not a contest, don't treat it like it is.

Not starting fights over personal taste differences.

Understanding not everyone is like you and being good with that.

Understanding that people know themselves better than you know them.

Not expecting apologies to be accepted (I don't actually believe an apology you expect to be accepted is a real apology).

General politeness (you can be rude with people who aren't being polite themselves, there's leniency here).

Not name-calling and otherwise insulting people (again, leniency for when the other side isn't followin' this rule).

Slurs are a no-go (this don't apply to self-identification, words with numerous contexts that can be slurs or using terms when discussing said terms in conversation).

Basic respect is a big thing with me. Respectin' pronouns, gender, sexuality, nationality.

Be considerate of others.

General weariness of generailsations (especially of immutable things like ethnicity, place of birth, etc.)

A subcategory of that: Be very weary of being nationalist, even as a joke (I dislike people who insult French people for instance, nationalism is not quirky or funny).

Just don't be bigoted in general. You'll fail at this, because this is a very bigoted world, but strive for reduction of bigotry from yourself everyday.

Don't put words in other people's mouths.

Giving benefit of the doubt to a reasonable degree (there's a lotta nuance there to what 'a reasonable degree' is).

Just, generally don't jump to conclusions.

Don't dilute terms and generally try and use things properly (example: using the term 'TERF' as just 'transphobe' since that's a specific category of transphobe and transphobic ideology).

Knowing when to argue and when to simply block someone (like when you see a TERF, for instance, just remove 'em from your sight).

Listen to a wide-variety of people, hear numerous sides of a discussion. Then form an opinion. Gut instincts and knee-jerk reactions are often unhelpful (and full of bias).

Understand that nobody speaks for everybody in a category and treatin' people as ambassadors for their demographics is a bad thing to do.

Don't make assumptions about others lives or capabilities.

Oh, don't act like your views are all unequivocal 'objective fact' and everyone else is 'subjective' or use 'subjective' as a negative.

At the same time, both sidesing is not always sensible. There are sides that are just plain wrong (TERFs are a good example of this)

Generally think before you speak.

Know you don't need to share your opinion on everythin' or act like your views are somehow better than other people's views.

Don't be mean about spellin' mistakes or poor-wording. At best you'll be being mean, at worst you'll be being ableist or nationalist.

Uhh... I can't think of anythin' else of the top of my head. Why did I even write this? Felt like it. I know basically nobody is gonna be like "Oh boy, I really don't want to lose the respect of Delafiseaseses.". Now, living up to all these standards is kinda impossible, but striving for such things is a good idea. We're all everchanging, complex and contradictory creatures.

And that's good.

[imspardagus]

Suffer, little children

"Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven".

I had always taken these words to be Christ’s expression of his wish to welcome children into his presence and to protect children from harm: his recognition that children were precious and to be cherished. It seems that the religions that have built up power bases around his name had a different interpretation: one that could be summed up in just three of his reported words and given clarity by the insertion of a comma:

“Suffer, little children.”

I am not trying to make light of the awfulness of what we are now beginning to realise but should have known for a long, long time. But sometimes revelations come dressed in their own satire.

As a nominal Christian in a nominally Christian family in the fifties – we were “Church of England”, that monument to despotic expediency erected by Henry VIII – I had grown up with salacious tales of the alleged iniquity of the Catholic Church: its appetite for punishing young women for being raped, the assertions of laciviousness on the part of priests and nuns, all down, according to my parents, to their attempts to practice the unnatural pursuit of celibacy. But it was implicit, even for my parents, for whom religious observance amounted to little more than packing me off to Sunday school so that they could have a bit of down time to themselves, that these things didn’t happen in the Church of England, at least not in the common form of it, which did not aspire to waving incense around and indulging in the ritualised, and frankly cannibalistic fantasy role-play of eating bits of Jesus in the form of unsalted cheese biscuits and drinking “his blood” in the guise of cheap red wine. We were indubitably a wing of the Son of God death cult, but in a very restrained and suitably English way.

How wrong were they? And how wrong, by induction, was I? Apparently we did not know the half of it. Apparently a significant proportion of whichever part of the cult you choose to look at was happily using the cover of religiosity not only to abuse children in the most egregious ways but also to stifle any attempts to bring this conduct into the open.

“There are some upon this earth of yours,” returned the Spirit, “who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us.” From A Christmas Carol

I have said elsewhere, but I will not refrain from repeating here, that the way in which sexual abuse, whether of fully grown people or of children, is conducted naturally reflects what we all claim to know – that it is wrong. Why else would it take place in dark corners and secret places or in the company of friends and enablers who can be trusted to join in or keep quiet. If it was ever “okay” behaviour, it would be practised in plain sight. Instead, even someone as wealthy as Epstein or Weinstein – even Savile and Edwards and Harris - went to considerable lengths to keep their depraved activities from the public gaze.

I note, and believe it to be noteworthy, that all these people, so far as we know, are men, with the possible exception of Ms Maxwell. But that may prove to be false optimism when the truth comes out. But there is more to it than that.

And the “more to it” in this case is the complicity of people who know or ought to know better. And nowhere, I suggest, is that more true than in the so-called Christian Church.

Did these enablers not get Christ’s memo? Or did they just think that preserving their own ill-gotten wealth and status trumped looking after the most vulnerable, the “children of God”.

I think it goes without saying that it should never have come to a point where one Archbishop has resigned, one former Archbishop has stepped away and one is under threat, along with a number of unnamed bishops and priests.

I am not saying that any of these people actually abused anyone personally. But the responsibility doesn’t end there. It starts there. Because without the complicit support of enablers and facilitators, of apologists and blind eyes, none of this awful abuse could have gone unnoticed and unchallenged.

When I was studying Criminal Law, fifty years ago, it was explained to us that the reason receiving stolen goods carried such a heavy penalty was because without the fences there would be much less reason to steal. I suggest that the same is true with child abuse. Without the indulgence of the enablers and their kind, the incidence of child abuse would be much less. The perpetrators would be much more aware of the dangers of being caught And of the opprobrium it would bring.

It seems to me that we need to make it a lot easier for people to blow the whistle on inappropriate behaviour while at the same time coming down hard on those who, whether out of misguided loyalty or for other reasons, choose to cover things up or “see no evil”. The last thing we want is more witch-hunts so perhaps we need to invent a process, akin to a grand jury, where allegations can be tested out away from the public gaze before going to public trial.

We can do this. But we have to want to. You’d think the damage done to children would be enough incentive for that. But maybe we really don’t care that much about our children. When supposed Christians can comfortably look the other way for decades, it begins to look as If we are comfortable with letting them suffer.  

[jackoshadows]

It almost feels like Catelyn’s desire to have a Stark looking kid clashes with her notions of beauty. For example, one of the reasons for why Catelyn loathes Jon Snow is because he looks like Ned unlike most of her kids.

“She might have overlooked a dozen bastards for Ned’s sake, so long as they were out of sight. Jon was never out of sight, and as he grew, he looked more like Ned than any of the trueborn sons she bore him. Somehow, that made it worse.” – Catelyn, AGoT

Okay. However, there is still Arya Stark! One would assume that Catelyn would appreciate that at least one of her kids has the Stark looks that she so envied in Jon Snow. Granted, Arya is not a son and the future Stark Lord of Winterfell and maybe she wants all her daughters to look like her. I wonder if Robb ended up looking like Ned, if her POV chapters would be peppered with descriptions of him being plain and long faced.

And then there is Sansa...

Sansa could never understand how two sisters, born only two years apart, could be so different. It would have been easier if Arya had been a bastard, like their half brother Jon. She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring. And Jon’s mother had been common, or so people whispered. Once, when she was littler, Sansa had even asked Mother if perhaps there hadn’t been some mistake. - Sansa, AGoT 

Sansa: Jon and Arya must look this way because they are bastards!

Her disparaging of Jon’s looks based on his class and common mother completely ignores her own father 😂😂 !! How does she not connect Jon’s looks to that of their father’s given that they are supposed to look very similar? And yet Sansa inexplicably goes straight for that bigotry.

Tyrion just met Jon Snow and he sees it!

“whoever his mother had been, she had left little of herself in her son." - Tyrion, AGoT

I wonder if Sansa thought her father to be homely and plain like she did all the other Stark looking Starks - all two of them.