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sagealphapapabear · 11 days ago

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Bloodlines, Bibles, and the Forceful Rejection of Whiteness: How I Found My Calling at the Intersection of Queerness, Class, and Kinship.

🖼️ Title: Evening Watch – Allison Hill , 2001

✍️ Caption:

A richly detailed digital painting rendered in the style of traditional portrait oil painting, this image captures a contemplative moment on a porch in Harrisburg's Allison Hill neighborhood. The subject—a middle-aged man with long, gossamer auburn-gray hair and a streaked beard—sits with quiet resolve, flanked by family photos, a worn Bible, and the whispered presence of his ancestors. One figure, bearing the familiar look of an old Quaker patriarch, evokes the layered inheritance of faith, silence, and self-definition.

Above them, dusk begins its hymn, softening the houses, deepening the sky, and hinting at a rainbow barely visible in the fading light.

Rendered by ChatGPT (OpenAI), 2025 , based on an original narrative written and curated by the subject himself. Style chosen to reflect sacred memory, queer reflection, and the reverence of everyday ritual.

🧹 A Bit of Housekeeping Before We Begin

Let’s start with a little housekeeping, shall we?

Before diving into the heart of this post, I want to take a moment to speak directly to the inevitable critics—the ones who wander in uninvited, full of opinions no one asked for, ready to tell this Gay Gentleman what he should and shouldn’t say about his own lived experience.

To be blunt: I’m tired. Tired of unsolicited nonsense from small-minded people who seem deeply threatened by thoughtfulness, tenderness, and truth.

And yes, I’m well aware that the internet has a surplus of trolls—many of them loudly overcompensating for shortcomings of both moral and, let’s say, biological proportions.

So in the spirit of efficiency (and the hope that they simply move along), I offer the following prebuttal to whatever weak rhetoric may be brewing in their shadowy corners of the web.

✨ A Note for the Critics (Before You Get Loud in My Mentions)

Let’s just get a few things out of the way before your pearls get clutched or your monocles fog up:

No, I don’t hate white people. I’m formally what most would call “White Bread American—100% of European ancestry, if you go back 100-405 years ago.. I simply reject the label of “White”—and yes, it’s just a label. I see it as toxic, fake and a fabricated construct of “Whiteness” that’s been used to oppress everyone—including pale people like me who refuse to weaponize their melanin.

Yes, I’m a gay man talking about sex, spirit, and social justice all in the same breath. If that makes you uncomfortable, good. Maybe it’s time someone did.

No, this isn’t reverse racism. Reverse racism is like reverse gravity. It’s not a thing. Look it up—preferably in something thicker than a tweet.

Yes, I talk about the Divine Spirit. Yes, I still love Jesus. And no, She doesn’t mind that I say “fuck” when the situation calls for it. My God has range.

No, my marriage isn’t broken because it’s open. It’s open because it’s secure. We trust each other, support each other, and still share the last slice of cake like good husbands do.

Yes, I refer to younger queer Black and brown men as ‘baby boy’ sometimes. Because for many of them, it’s the first time they’ve been cherished in a way that’s safe, respectful, and free of expectation. If that bothers you, unpack your baggage. Mine’s already been sorted and blessed.

No, I’m not grooming anyone—all of the men I’m referring to are above age 30. Consenting adults, that is all. I’m mentoring, listening, affirming, and occasionally canoodling. All with consent, clarity, and mutual care. If that threatens you, ask why.

Yes, I talk about my ancestors. No, I’m not clout-chasing the Mayflower.

First of all, I only discovered that connection in 2023.

Second? That and $11.45 will get me breakfast at the local Roy Rogers—and they’ll still throw in packets of Mayo and other condiments, even as I once again asked them not to.

I’m not flaunting a pedigree. I’m showing how history winds its way through our lives—sometimes sacred, sometimes redemptive.

Even when it shows up wrapped in lace cuffs and dripping with hypocrisy.

No, this post isn’t for everyone.

It wasn’t meant to be. It’s for my people. For the ones who see themselves in these words—or see someone they love. Or want to learn how.

And if that bothers you, take it up with my 14th-great-grandfather. He’s in no position to care.

And finally…

You don’t have to be here.

This is my space, and you are free to scroll, click away, or rage-comment into the void.

But know this: Your approval is neither requested, required, nor relevant. It is however welcome from allies and friends. If you feel compelled to argue, I invite you to first ask yourself: “Why?” Because I argue in good faith, with no agenda beyond sharing truth from my lived experience.

Well… one agenda item:

Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

Pet the cat. Her house. Her rules. She bunts and that claims ownership of everything here. I can't.

Now that the air is clear, the door is open. Come in, take your shoes off, and bring your whole self. There's cobbler on the stove and stories to tell. . 🕊️🐾

Opening: Plymouth Surprise Edition

It all started when I was between jobs, poking around for new opportunities. I found a posting with the Cherokee Nation in the DC area and remembered something my mom once mentioned—she thought my father might have had Cherokee ancestry.

I never got the chance to know him, and he died when I was just 20 years old. Nearly 40 years have passed since then and I’m the lone survivor of that family now. I have no kids and certainly won’t at this point. But something about that moment made me wonder: “Is there a way to confirm it?”

That question sent me to Ancestry.com. Just to look. Just to see. Turns out he didn’t have Cherokee, but rather had ancestors who were largely from Germanic nations, but also Russian on his mom’s side—something I never knew. But that’s apparently where my high cheekbones, full head of hair and other features in me came from .

One quiet afternoon in 2023, I opened a genealogy site without much expectation—first to trace my own tree, then Tigre’s, and eventually my best friend’s. What began as casual curiosity turned into something remarkable.

Because what I discovered in the DNA of myself, my husband, and my best friend—three queer souls bound not by blood but by choice—was this:

American history lives in us.

And not just in fragments. I’m talking castles and colonies, old gods and new lands—a lineage stretching all the way back to the 14th century, weaving through places both close and far, familiar and sacred.

My bestie's roots? They reach deep into the soil of this continent, through the noblest families of nearly every First Nation along the East Coast. Their legacy is just as well documented as any British landed gentry—every name preserved, every bloodline honored.

🖼️ Title: She Who Stood Between Worlds Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

📝 Notes:

Believed to represent a Mohawk matriarch of the 17th century, this image honors a woman who served not only as a queen within her people, but also as a diplomat and cultural bridge during the earliest collisions between Indigenous nations and European settlers. Her influence reached from longhouse to colonial court, wielding power not through conquest—but through presence, poise, and unshakable purpose.

The Matriarch and the Reckoning

The Mohawk Queen in her lineage wasn't just royalty—She was a diplomat. A bridge between her people and the Dutch who founded New Amsterdam…And the English who renamed it New York.

Yes, that New York. The Big Apple.

She was fierce, historic, and deeply respected. And she is also the 14th great-grandmother of my dearest friend.

That same friend is now a matriarch herself—

Raising a beautiful blended family with a husband whose ancestors were once enslaved on Virginia plantations, mostly in the central part of the state. The same state where some of her direct ancestors owned different plantations, with different slaves—and the same evil mindset that sets her teeth on edge as much as it does mine.

The very system my ancestors fought against was found in her ancestry—And when I had to gently break the news of what the ancestral records revealed, it nearly broke her.

She wept and felt so utterly ashamed. I hugged her and then told her gently:

“My dear, even though none of my people held slaves, we all still benefitted from slavery. That legacy angers me—and it angered them too. But it’s a painful truth we don’t get to opt out of.

Those people lived and died long before our time,

and now? We’re left to walk through the wreckage and try to heal what we can.”

Then I reminded her of something just as true:

“Look at your family. You are living proof that love is the fiercest rejection of what they built.

You turned generational violence into a legacy of joy. And that, my dear… is beautiful beyond words.”

An unexpected treasure trove of Native American history is in her ancestral tree.

As I examined that rich and complex history of her Native American Ancestors, I saw they weren’t faceless names on a page. Some had drawings. Others, stories. And through those, I felt like I could see them—not as distant ancestors of my friends, but as real people. Whole, proud, dignified.

They weren’t forgotten. Not in this house. Not ever.

We’d met by pure chance 21 years ago at the same workplace and became instant soul siblings. Neither of us could’ve known that her Mohawk ancestors and my English ancestors—actual lords and ladies—would’ve crossed paths centuries ago.

🖼️ Title:

“Coming Back Home from Visiting My Best Friend’s Ancestors for a Nice Dinner , April 1640”

✍️ Caption:

An homage to a day in the life of the Howland family , early settlers in Plymouth Colony. Rendered in the style of early 17th-century colonial portraiture, this moment captures the family of John J. Howland II and Elizabeth Tilley around 1640, 20 years after their arrival on the Mayflower

At the center is Elizabeth, matriarch and quiet powerhouse. A woman whose resilience built the foundation for generations to come. Their daughter, Abigail Howland —my direct ancestor—is in the middle, inviting us to join their extended family.

The family is bathed in light and warmth, their expressions lively and full of spirit. To the side, three glowering Puritans lurk, sour as a half-turned apple—ever judging, never dancing. Their God demanded punishment; the Howlands' faith celebrated presence, purpose, and grace.

This image honors not just ancestry, but the choice to live joyfully. Because as it turns out, my family didn’t come here to frown.

Art rendered by ChatGPT, 2025, in loving tribute to a life well-claimed.

Why? Because in 1620, my people boarded the Mayflower. They gave up privilege, land, and comfort in England to help found Plymouth.

Now, anyone with even a hint of American education knows that boat name: The Mayflower. It’s shorthand for Thanksgiving stories, buckled hats, and a mythology too thick with whitewashing to see clearly through.

But here’s the real twist: My ancestors weren’t Puritans. They were Quakers.

And that makes all the difference.

Where the Puritans judged harshly—especially themselves— The Quakers loved openly. Where the Puritans condemned, the Quakers welcomed. They didn’t wield religion as a weapon. They offered it like bread.

And knowing that? That I came from them—from people who led with conviction and compassion—meant everything.

Especially when I learned that Plymouth had fewer than 600 settlers in its earliest days. The odds that my ancestors knew hers, broke bread with them, maybe even saw one another as kin despite the vast cultural divide… are high.

And now? Thirteen generations later?

We found each other again. And just like back then—we break bread, we share stories, and we see each other as family.

That’s not coincidence. That’s homecoming.

What I found ended up reconfiguring everything I thought I knew—about my ancestry, my queerness, and the role I was born to play in this moment we’re all living through.

Part I: The Forgotten Matriarch and the Hidden Line

Growing up, our family history was held in fragments—scraps of stories, names that floated through holiday dinners, and a few yellowing photos tucked into family Bibles.

My maternal grandmother was our primary storyteller. She didn’t have the full picture, but she gave me just enough to trace things forward. What she didn’t know was that through her father’s line, I descend directly from a rather distinguished family—one of the few whose names appear in history books. A family I’d read about but never imagined any connection to—let alone a genetic one, spanning 14 generations from them to me.

One of the middle daughters, Abigail Howland, is my 13th great-grandmother. She set in motion a lineage of abolitionists, farmers, and beautifully stubborn souls who made it their mission to mind their own damn business and treat people right.

Her parents, John J. Howland II and Elizabeth Tilley, were passengers aboard the Mayflower in 1620. Elizabeth was just a teenager when she made the journey with her parents, while John came as a servant—but both would survive, fall in love, and build a legacy that helped shape the early fabric of this nation.

That line runs straight through me—where, in the biological sense, it ends. I never had children of my own. But I became a godfather. A mentor. A steady hand in the lives of the children of my friends, who I’ve loved and guided like nieces and nephews.

And until I went looking, all of this was nearly lost.

Part II: Old America, Real Roots

I am fiercely proud of this heritage.

Because it reflects a legacy that rejected Whiteness and all its manufactured cruelty—not just in theory, but in action. My people knew it was wrong. They stood against it, and some paid the Ultimate Price to defeat slavery and preserve our Democratic Republic.

That defiance lives in me.

I descend from some of the first European settlers of what became the United States—and not one of them was an enslaver. My ancestors were working-class, grounded, and real. They lived simply, worshipped humbly, and treated others with dignity. They didn’t believe in hierarchy; they believed in humanity.

Meanwhile, my husband Tigre’s family helped build Puerto Rico from its earliest Spanish-speaking settlements. My best friend? He descends from a Mohawk queen who married into one of the founding families of Plymouth—the very same settlement my ancestors helped establish.

All three of us are connected to America’s First Families. Some show up on maps. Others in ledgers. A few even have portraits in museums. But most? Just names in ancestral records now.

Names I now carry forward—with open eyes, open hands, and a spine made of ancestral steel.

I am fiercely proud of this heritage.

This is NOT AI generated, but rather a REAL Photo of one of my Ancestors.

Pictured is Samuel Galbreath (Maternal 3rd Great Grandfather, center front) with his friends, taken on the morning after completing their US Army basic training at Camp Curtin, Harrisburg PA was completed in 1861. He was killed in action on 20 Dec 1861 at Dranesville, Fairfax, Virginia, USA. Gallant men going to fight against Slavery, putting their very lives at grave risk.

That defiance lives in me, as I come from the mightiest ancestors imaginable.

Meanwhile, my husband Tigre’s family helped build Puerto Rico from its earliest Spanish-speaking settlements. My best friend? She descends from a Mohawk queen who married into one of the founding families of Plymouth—the very same settlement my ancestors helped establish.

All three of us are connected to America’s First Families. Some show up on maps. Others in ledgers. A few even have portraits in museums. But most? Just names in ancestral records now.

Names I now carry forward—with open eyes, open hands, and a spine made of ancestral steel.

I am fiercely proud of this heritage.

Because it reflects a legacy that rejected Whiteness and all its manufactured cruelty—not just in theory, but in action. My people knew it was wrong. They stood against it and some paid the Ultimate Price to defeat Slavery and preserve our Democratic Republic. And that defiance lives in me.

NOTE: AI rendered images include typographical errors in text as a sort of "Watermark" to signal to the viewer it's not rendered by any person. The bottom line was supposed to read "These labels were never mine to carry."

Why I Reject the Label of “Whiteness”

Let’s talk about Whiteness—that label I’ve never accepted and never claimed.

“White” was never a word that felt like it fit.

I’m taupe with a hint of pink, thank you very much. I don’t blend into a white wall. And white clothes? They actually make me look surprisingly tan— an inheritance from my maternal grandfather, a Croatian-Hungarian immigrant whose family came to the U.S. just before he was born in the early 1900s.

And according to the standards set for categorizing Immigrants of that time? He wasn’t considered “White.” He was labeled Slavic—a classification that, while not enslaved or colonized like others, still marked him as inferior. Not quite white. Not quite welcome. Not quite worthy.

The same was true for my Scots-Irish ancestors, who’d arrived decades earlier. They weren’t “White” either—listed as Celtic or some other variation, and treated with equal suspicion by the ruling Anglo elite. They were free, yes—but not full. Not in society’s eyes.

Let that sink in.

The U.S. government—just a century ago—maintained official racial classifications that assigned social value to a person based on ancestry. These were applied to everyone who came through places like Ellis Island in New York and Philadelphia PA, the two main ports where all of my ancestors first touched the soil of North America. It was measured, charted, codified—as if human worth could be graphed like rainfall.

These charts existed. I’ve seen them. And though I’ve tried in vain to locate them again, their legacy lives on in the architecture of American systems—legal, social, and cultural. My ancestors—now casually grouped under “White”—were once explicitly excluded from that label.

So when I say I reject Whiteness as a concept, it's not out of rebellion. It's out of historical accuracy . It was never mine to claim.

📎 Notes & Citations for the above referenced history:

🔎 Curious about these racial classifications? You're not imagining things. Scholars like David Roediger (Working Toward Whiteness) and Matthew Frye Jacobson (Whiteness of a Different Color) offer deep dives into how groups like Slavs, Italians, Jews, Irish, and Greeks were once considered racially distinct from "White Anglo-Saxon" Americans—often tracked in census data and treated as second-class immigrants.

🧠 Explore More: • Jacobson via Harvard Press: https://www.hup.harvard.edu/catalog.php?isbn=9780674004726 • Roediger via Basic Books: https://www.basicbooks.com/titles/david-r-roediger/working-toward-whiteness/9780465090205 • PBS – Race: The Power of an Illusion: https://www.pbs.org/race

�� If you're new to this history, I encourage you to explore it. Because when you understand how Whiteness was invented, you begin to see how powerful it is to live outside of it.

Or, in my case—walk away from it entirely. That's why I reject “Whiteness.”

🖼️ Title: Rejecting The Filing Cabinet of Whiteness Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

✍️ Artist's Note:

This image serves as a metaphor for the artificial construction of racial identity in the U.S.—a musty filing cabinet long forgotten, yet still shaping lives. Its partially opened drawers and aged metal texture evoke the bureaucratic roots of Whiteness: invented, archived, and selectively applied. Damp, outdated, and impersonal—just like the concept itself.

What was once weaponized classification is now just… paperwork, rusting in history’s shadows.

Because it rejected my people until the 1950s—within living memory of my mom and grandparents.

Skin tone aside, the whole concept has always felt… Gross. Inaccurate. Empty. Like something damp and musty, pulled from a filing cabinet no one's dared open for 70 years or more.

And yet, somehow, it still lives—just rebranded. Today it’s not on paper, but it’s baked into algorithms. The sorting and valuation continues… only now it’s done by code instead of clipboard.

How they sorted my ancestors and created a “mixed race” person in me—who is now labeled White, and hates it for being so incredibly stupid.

This country didn’t just label my people—it engineered us. Invented categories, assigned values, and handed out privileges like ration cards. They took culture, kinship, and story... and turned them into census boxes and boarding passes to power.

And yet here I am, product of that system—and holy hell, have I got things to say about it.

It wasn’t just that my Slavic and Scots-Irish ancestors were seen as “less than”—they weren’t even always called White.

Slavs and Celts in the early 1900s were often seen as racialized subgroups. Their names didn’t appear under “White” in official Immigration tables. They were tracked by national origin—Slavic, Celtic, Italian and so on—and ranked socially and politically as partial Americans. Not with literal fractions like the Three-Fifths Compromise applied to enslaved Africans, but with functionally dehumanizing math all the same.

So, when I say “Whiteness felt gross and inaccurate,” I’m not being poetic. I’m being precise.

Roughly a third of my ancestors weren’t considered “White” until long after they and their children fought, worked, and bled for this country. And by the time the government decided to grant them Whiteness? They were already Americans in every way that mattered.

So, I choose them. The rebels. The outliers. The ones who said no when everyone else said yes. The allies who stood their ground—and stood with others. Not the Whiteness that once rejected them.

For the record and to be clear: no—I’m not “White.” I’m a descendant of the almost-but-not-quite.

That infamous 3/5 formula? It may have legally applied only to enslaved Africans, but it culturally applied to at least two sets of my great-grandparents—and to over a third of my family tree.

They came from almost every corner of Europe, bearing names that were once too foreign, too swarthy, too Scottish, Irish, Hungarian or Croatian—Celtic or Slavic—to be accepted.

And while I may now carry the label “White” on forms and drop-down menus, I reject it every chance I get.

🖼️ An homage to the Patriarch--"Pap-Pap", as the grandkids dubbed him years after this moment.

An AI-rendered homage to my maternal grandfather, based on a real photograph of him during World War II—likely around age 33. This is how I pictured him growing up, shaped by the stories of those who loved him. I was named after him, and now, later in life, I bear more than a passing resemblance.

He never made it to 60, but lived a life that most men of his generation would have envied—graceful, magnetic, and full of quiet strength.

You might see a “White man” here.

But just 100 years ago, he and his family weren’t viewed that way. They were Other—Slavic, to be exact. Too foreign. Too Catholic. Too different.

He and my grandmother were both beautiful people—inside and out—and the world only caught up to that truth far too late.

Call me Ecru. Call me Taupe. Call me Light Tan with a splash of Croatian Olive like my Grandfather's in old color photos.

But don’t call me “White.” Not when that term was forced onto people who never asked for it, never needed it, and never wanted what came with it.

So, no thanks. I didn’t order this identity. Please send it back to hell where it came from—thankyouverymuch.

Oh, and about that italicized phrase? I don’t watch much in the way of passive viewing, but when I do, it’s BritBox—and their shows are where I picked it up from. Those 4 words strung together as one? Another way of saying “We’re done here, you can show yourself out.”

“What Whiteness Feels Like to Me”

Whiteness—at least as I've known it—feels like this:

Sitting on a hard, metal folding chair at a cookout where no one dances. The sky is gray, the air is damp and heavy— hot, humid, and lifeless . No breeze, no fans, just the smell of overcooked meat and the stagnant weight of silence. Where love isn't really in the air and certainly didn't go into the cooking of what happens for food around here.

Muzak pouring over stolen rhythm like paint over stained glass—stripping it of soul, spirit, and swing. An instrumental version of something once beautiful, now boiled soft. Volume too loud for conversation. Convenient, really—because the hosts don't want to talk. I've always asked the questions they fear most. Gently, but pointedly. And their answers? Sometimes they shocked me more than I ever want to admit. I still carry some of those silences.

Empty beer cans stuffed with cigarette butts balanced on every flat surface. A sun-warmed tray of egg salad and deviled eggs that's begun to turn. They get drunk. The jokes get cruel. Laughter rings out from mouths twisted with spite— vulgarity parading as wit. And I sit there, again, remembered why this has never been my culture.

That sad little vignette? Real memories from my childhood and teenage years, as rendered by AI taking these words and making them art. That's about how warm and welcomed I felt because they weren't my people.

It is a nearly perfect snapshot of most family gatherings with my stepfather’s so-called “Redneck” relatives—their word, not mine. How they felt and how they looked, generalized in one image.

And yes, they were every bit as stereotypical as you're probably imagining. Only worse. So much worse. In ways that still haunt me—ghosts in tube socks and trucker hats, trailing the scent of domestic beer and casual bigotry.

They’re mostly just specters now—faded memories from a part of my life I didn’t choose, and thank the Divine, no longer have to revisit. I left that table long ago.

I survived those occasions by arriving armed with thick novels—usually Stephen King— a silent signal that said: "You are not my people. I am here against my will. Kindly leave me the hell alone."

But these days? Put me at a Black or Brown queer cookout— honey , I'm home. In the corner, peach cobbler in hand, sweet tea on deck, watching joy unfold like a Sunday service with no sermon—just spirit.

And not a single deviled egg floating in beet juice infused vinegar nearby. Bless.

Part III: The Invention of Whiteness (and Why I Rejected It)

From a young age, I knew better. I knew that skin tone was, for the most part, irrelevant—a superficial variation, now proven to be just a tiny tweak in one tiny strand of DNA. So small, in fact, that scientists call it biologically unremarkable.

And yet... look at what the world built on it.

I didn’t need science to prove it—my experiences did. I remember reading the most quoted parts of Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech on a poster in my friend Willie’s house. We were six. He was dark-skinned and had a smile that lit up the room. That kid could make me laugh so hard I couldn’t breathe. That day, those words made perfect sense. They still do.

“White” was never a real identity. It was a mask. A wedge. A tool. Created by the powerful to divide the working classes at all income levels. To keep Black, brown, and pale folks too suspicious of each other to rise up and take back what was stolen from all of us.

Ai rendered visualization of the following text:

So, here's what I know: My people aren't “White”…and I'm not, either. I'm Alabaster or Tan perhaps, but not White.

My people are the ones who stood in fields, in pews, in kitchens and sanctuaries—and said, “We're not doing this anymore.”

They're the Quakers who walked side by side with those labeled “Colored” and called them equals. The same folks who showed up to mark with them for civil rights, as steady allies and full-throated supporters. Working together on a shared cause, a work we're still doing even now. They are my ancestors and I stand in their place, and on their shoulders today.

They’re the Black and Brown queer men who message me now with admiration in their eyes and softness in their voices. Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

And they're the baby boys no one hugged long enough . The queer kids who left church just to survive. The ones who didn't know love could come in a form that sees all of them —and stays.

Part IV: Why I'm Writing This Now

I've spent the last six weeks watching the Divine rearrange the furniture of my soul.

I've stepped into a new season—one of Gay/Queer mentorship and sacred flirtation—mostly through spaces like the DaddyHunt App. There, to my quiet astonishment, young caramel and chocolate-skinned men began reaching out.

Not just with desire. But with curiosity. With reverence. With hope.

And in time, I realized: They weren’t just looking for a hookup. They were looking for a place to land. For someone to say: “You are enough, baby boy.”

That’s when it hit me. This wasn’t just connection. It was ministry.

It was dinner and deep conversation. If the chemistry was right, it might be followed by naked canoodling—then dessert. Not just flesh meeting flesh, but two queer souls opening to one another in the way only we know how to: with bodies entwined, yes— but spirits, too.

A listening ear. A tender word. A safe lap to rest a tired head.

And the Divine made one thing clear:

“You are the vessel. I will work through you.”

Even if it’s just one night of comfort. One meal. One message. One moment where a hurting soul feels seen. The Divine Spirit—how I see God—will work through me and love on these men in the way they need, organically and naturally. In the right time, and in the most reverential manner possible.

This work has rewired me. It’s reawakened parts of myself that were waiting for this kind of calling—and I will not apologize for it.

I don't care who scoffs. This is sacred. And those who don't get it can kindly fuck in the direction of off , thank you very much.

🖼️ Title: "A Dream They Dared Not Speak, Now Spoken Freely" Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

✍️ Caption:

In an imagined Washington D.C. where 1910 embraced what history tried to erase, this portrait captures a moment of dignity and possibility. A gracious host introduces two young men at a gathering not unlike a cotillion—except this one honors queer love, cultural pride, and the quiet work of legacy.

Here, elders arrange introductions with purpose, offering blessing rather than judgment. The house is grand, the air warm with music and conversation, and every glance carries layers of meaning.

This is the world the ancestors hoped for—even if they never saw it. This is the dream they whispered. And finally, it is being lived.

Part V: The Legacy I Choose

I may wear jeans and untucked button-downs instead of robes. I may say Baby Boy and Papa instead of Beloved and Blessed. But make no mistake: this is pastoral work.

I didn’t build a church. I am the church.

The sanctuary lives in me. It walks beside me in the grocery store, the train platform, the bedroom, the chat thread. And it reminds me that I may be called upon to offer grace anywhere.

Sometimes that's buying someone a hot meal. Sometimes it's holding a hurting man in my arms and letting him weep out the grief on my shoulder, as I tell him It's Ok, I got you. So does the Divine, who works through me. They hold us close now. Just rest, it will be OK Sometimes it's simply saying, “You matter.”

And always, I hear the whisper of my Quaker ancestors:

🖼️ Title:

“The Church I Carry”

✍️ Caption:

Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025 An imagined oil painting that captures the quiet sacredness of chosen purpose. Here, a modern-day spiritual guide stands in still reflection—not behind a pulpit, but beneath open skies. No steeple. No altar. Just the presence of grace, walking with him through the ordinary and the divine.

This is not a church made of stone and doctrine. This is a church made of presence. Of listening. Of witness. Of love.

Because he didn’t build a sanctuary. He became one.

"Be still. Be kind. Be a witness."

Closing Blessing

I’m not here to shout over anyone. I’m just here to speak the truth as I’ve lived it.

If you’ve read this far, maybe you’re one of the ones I was meant to reach. If not? That’s okay, too. I’ll keep writing anyway.

Because silence was never going to save us. And storytelling always did.

Peace be with you. Walk in loving grace. See the face of the Divine in every person who crosses your path. And remember: we are all distant cousins, members of the same family— the Human Race.

All other labels? Can—and should—be rejected without hesitation.

This is how I see the world. And it’s how I choose to live.

Because I've found that holding these values makes life on this broken, beautiful planet... a little less hellish. And a whole lot more heavenly.

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finallyinthemoment · 2 months ago

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And this is juxtaposed with Flint, who is also very aware he's a fictional character, but he created himself with a purpose, to destroy England and English civilization and then revert to his former self. Silver created an indispensable sidekick survivor who becomes a figurehead for survival of this little counter culture utopia they've created. Whereas, Flint created a charismatic wartime leader of destruction who threatens to destroy the very things he is trying to protect with said destruction. And when people start trying to unmake him before he accomplishes his goal, he fights back and tries to destroy them.

And the upshot of it all is that Jack and Max essentially succeed where both Flint and Silver failed. Jack and Max both created new characters for themselves, but they created them to be permanent rather than temporary. Jack wants to be known and remembered as a pirate with the notoriety that Flint only wanted to have temporarily. And Max succeeds in being the silent partner with true power over the continuation of Nassau which Silver only wanted temporarily to become passively rich and disappear into obscurity.

a lot of people say "Silver *knows* he's in a story" as in he knows he's a fictional character in the show Black Sails. imo what he really does is actively turn himself into a fictional character that he inserts into other people's stories, and that's so much more fucked up, like John Silver only exists bc John Silver made him up

....until other people start to put him into their stories on their own

#james flint #john silver #black sails #max black sails #jack rackham #if piracy is an allegory for queerness. survival and longevity is tied to acceptance of your identity and role in that society #Flint and silver are apolitical romantics at heart who engage in politics to secure their personal happiness #Jack and Max are the society minded storytellers who want to create a safe community for piracy/queerness to survive

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granvarones · 10 months ago

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As Pride Month winds down and all of the corporate rainbow “support” goes into hibernation, here are 9 songs by LGBTQ+ artists to add to your playlists to jam to for the rest of the year.

This multi-genre list a celebration of the growing visibility and reach of LGBTQ+ artists. Something that only 10 years ago seemed unimaginable. But look at us now!

Shae Couleé “Divine” (Initial Talk Remix)

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Season 5 champion of Rupaul’s Drag Race All Stars continues their bop streak with the jubilant and 80’s feeling “Divine,” remixed by the brilliant Initial Talk.

Pet Shop Boys “Dancing Star”

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Pioneering synth-pop dup, Pet Shop Boys re-enter the Latin Freestyle genre with “Dancing Star.” The song is inspired by the life of ballet dancer Rudolf Nureyev, who defected from the Soviet Union and became a global star.

Thiago Pantaleão “O Que Eu Ganho”

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Up-and-coming LGBTQ+ Brazilian musician Thiago Pantaleaõ has been making waves internationally and proves the hype is well deserved with this gem.

Jamar Rogers “Sweeten My Body”

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American Idol and The Voice alum Jamar Rogers, with featured vocalist Òlah Bliss, has released one of the most magical singles of 2024 with the introspective “Sweeten My Body.”

Tokischa + Sexyy Red “Daddy”

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Queer Dominican Sensation Tokischa and emerging Hip-Hop provocateur Sexyy Red team up for the ass-shaking “Daddy.” Produced by Yeti Beats and El Guincho, “Daddy” is a pulsating fusion of reggaeton, dance and Hip-Hop.

Kevin Abstract + Lil Nas X

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The lyrics and accompanying music video for Kevin Abtract’s “Tennessee” is a sentimental nod to gay love. Featuring fellow out rapper Lil Nas X, “Tennessee” follows Abstract’s critically acclaimed 2023 album “Blanket.”

Monifah “Testify”

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Monifah emerged in the mid-1990s with a string of R&B hits including “I Miss You (Come Back Home)” and the monstrous pop hit “Touch It.” Monifah returns with the rousing House/Gospel anthem, “Testify.”

Jamie XX + Honey Dijon “Baddy On The Floor”

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After teasing “Baddy On The Floor” in 2001, and playing it as part of his DJ set at this year’s Coachella, the Jamie XX track featuring Honey Dijon was finally released in April and has been setting dance floors on fire ever since.

Kehlani “8”

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Kehlani is on a roll with the just released album “Crash” which features song-of-the-summer contender “After Hours.” She ups the ante with the Kwame & The New Beginning’s 1990 hit “Ownlee Eue” sampled clever ode to fellatio.

jeremy o’brian + Sideeq “deviant”

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Mississippi born and Brooklyn-based award-winning playwright, songwriter and vocalist jeremy o’brian beautifully evokes all of the sensuality found on a dark room dance floor with this throbbing track featuring the multi-hyphenated Sideeq.

#granvarones #gay #storytelling #latinx #queer #pride #lgbtqia #trans #black music history #afrolatinx #music #pridemonth #Youtube

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jasmeentoyou · 1 year ago

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Yoooo!

If y’all are interested in guided meditation, community and self healing, space to imagine a new reality, & collective divination, check out my sisterfriend’s events this weekend.

Saturday, Dec. 2nd: The World: EjeSMR Storytelling Meditation and World-Building

Sunday, Dec. 3rd: BITTERSWEET: Dreaming Amidst Grief and Revolution

Tickets are 1 for $15, 2 for $25. If you buy a ticket, you’ll get $5 off the second!

No one will be turned away because of lack of funds. Sponsorship donations are always appreciated!

Did I mention that they’re both virtual events? 🤭 yes, there are!

We hope to dream with you soon ✨

IG: @ejetheartist

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threadbareturnbacks · 2 months ago

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For real though, what was in the water at Starz in the mid 10's?

I think Starz should return to its era of historic shows with queer characters unleashing hell on people that wrong them. It could be healing.

#like damn dude youve got two wildly different time periods #and manage to tell two incredible stories about queer resistance to empire with a diverse cast shot in the southern hemisphere?#not to mention the wild dialogue and writing that uses historic syntax and references the contemporary literature and culture of the time?#not to mention the running theme of myth storytelling survival and identity?#not to mention the homoeroticism deeply entwined in each story for both men and women??#and the casting??? of local actors from south africa and new zealand??#idk something was going on w starz i need to know #spartacus #black sails

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madefortherain · 2 months ago

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february fic recs ⋆ ༘⁀➷

the end of february means it’s, once again, time to shout about my favourite reads of the month! (same as last month, tagging authors i know the blogs of, but feel free to lmk if you want anything changed/removed) <3

multichapter:

Astronomia Nova by sreka (@smodernlife) - T, 35k. sirius raising harry, meets beautiful librarian remus and subsequently ruins a priceless book (meet-ugly everybody cheer!!). absolutely adored this!!

Be My Baby by pixelated (prettyremus) - M, 21k. dirty dancing au!! enough said just with that, really, but also the way queer themes are woven into the original story is so cool!

The Proctor House by @eyra - M, 5.2k, MCD. i honestly think it’s best to go into this one fairly blind. just let the beautiful writing take you where it wants to, it’s so so worth it. this one has stayed with me since i read it.

you don’t have to be alone (when you’re the place i wanna go) by @quiethauntings - E, 37k. remus reunites with his friends on a trip to the scottish highlands. nostalgia bottled into a fic! a very lovely depiction of loneliness and rekindling friendships. really beautiful!

Of Prefects, Pretence, and Precedent by Whoops_E - M, 121k. shouting this one out again because it’s now complete!!! i’m immediately diving in for a full reread. i go insane for this fic and specifically think about the grape jam chapter approximately 30 times a week.

oneshots:

nightlights by sadgeminimoon - T, 9.2k. single parent remus raising teddy, & sirius who helps out far too well. the pining!! adored this. i, too, would lose it if i came home to find sirius black doing a load of my laundry.

The Best By Far Is You by orphan_account - T, 13k. padfoot and moony are tumblr mutuals, while blind remus hires sirius as a reader for his classes. i believe this one is fairly well-known, but i only just got to it and it’s so so wonderful! there are also 7 more shorter oneshots (ratings vary) following this, all of which i subsequently inhaled. really recommend the entire Tumblr Trash series! (E, 35k total)

Perfect by wanderingdonut - T, 3.7k. ace4ace wolfstar learning to love each other :’) such a wonderful acespec story, i adored this <3

A Cup of Sugar by MsAlexWP (@languagelessonswolfstar) - T, 5.3k. harry pov feat. disabled harry and disabled remus (bonding!!). so sweet, such great disability rep, and adorable little peeks of wolfstar! loooved this!!

WIPs:

Let me Believe (Ever After) by @brigid-faye - M, 6/12, 47k. ever after: a cinderella story (1998) au! sad-eyed prince remus, riches to rags sirius. such great characterisations, relationships, and storytelling. i devoured these chapters so quickly!

Brave Face by @zoemillinwrites - M, 28/?, 252k, MCD. a canon-divergent, sirius-centric fic starting in hogwarts first year. such real and raw characters, being a little in love with your friends, and some of the cleverest, most unique magic explanations i’ve ever read. seriously, can’t emphasise enough how SO insanely cool the magic is!! (also shouting out the accompanying Story Shards WIP (E, 1/?, 4.3k) for some brilliant extra character studies!)

four thousand holes by aeridi0nis (@steelycunt) - E, 2/5, 41k. pride (2014) au. lesbians and gays support the miners; sirius is part of the organisation, remus is the son of a miner. truly so so obsessed with this premise. and the writing!! incredible, incredible prose.

As You Walk On By (Will You Call My Name?) by @imsiriuslyreading - M, 6/15, 23k, jily!!!! royalty au AND university au in one! royal james and eat-the-rich lily, creating such a fun jily dynamic. + a lovely dose of background wolfstar, too :)

#fic recs #wolfstar fic recs #+ one jily!#recent reads #wolfstar fanfiction #wolfstar #marauders #monthly rec lists #rain’s recs

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rafedarling · 7 months ago

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queen have u seen the new photos of Drew. 🤭🤭

dad!Drew x reader where like it’s the blue suit red carpet and the whole family is in italy together and reader thinks drew looks so yummy so it’s like smut where they get back to the hotel and they have to be quiet AF

yass girl and not gonna lie, he looks fucking hot !

𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐤𝐲

pairing: dad!drew starkey x mom!reader summary: at the venice film festival 2024, drew and you, both acclaimed actors, make a stunning appearance on the red carpet for the premiere of the new movie, ‘queer’. your two-year-old twin daughters, ophelia and olympia, accompany you and drew, captivating everyone with their sweet presence. after the event, the starkey returns to their luxurious hotel suite, where, after putting the girls to bed, you and drew indulges in a passionate, intimate moment, trying to keep quiet as your daughters sleeping in the room next door. | word count: 2,8k warning(s): english is not my native language. 18+, smut, piv, creampie, cum play, sexual content, language, MINOR DNI!!

au: fill this form if you want to be tag. like, reblog & reply or much appreciated! tagging: @rafeyslamb

As the sun was setting over Venice, casting the city in a warm, golden glow as you and Drew Starkey arrived at the Venice Film Festival. The air buzzed with excitement as stars from around the world gathered to celebrate the premiere of QUEER, a film that had garnered significant attention for its bold storytelling and representation. Tonight, you and Drew were not just co-stars but partners, sharing the spotlight with your two-year-old twin daughters, Ophelia and Olympia.

As you stepped onto the red carpet, the cameras flashed, capturing the perfect image of a beautiful family. Drew looked stunning in a deep navy suit, the black lapels adding a sharp contrast that highlighted his chiseled features. His hair was styled just so, a little tousled, giving him an effortlessly handsome look. You wore a flowing, elegant gown that complemented Drew’s suit perfectly, the fabric shimmering under the lights as you walked hand in hand.

Ophelia and Olympia were dressed in matching white dresses, their blonde curls bouncing with every step as they clung to your hands, their little faces a mixture of awe and curiosity. They had been to events before, but nothing quite like this. The sheer scale of the festival, the grandeur of the venue, and the attention from the media were overwhelming for anyone, let alone two toddlers. Yet, they handled it with the grace of seasoned professionals, waving shyly at the cameras, their innocent smiles melting the hearts of everyone watching.

As you posed for photos, Drew leaned down to whisper in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “You look incredible tonight,” he murmured, his voice filled with genuine admiration.

You smiled, feeling a rush of affection for him. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you teased, glancing at him from beneath your lashes. “But I think the girls are stealing the show.”

Drew chuckled, his eyes softening as he looked at Ophelia and Olympia. “They are, aren’t they? Just like their mom—beautiful and captivating.”

The interviews followed, and as usual, Drew handled the press with charm and ease. The reporters were eager to hear about your experiences on set, the dynamics of working together as a couple, and of course, how you managed to balance your careers with raising your daughters. Drew’s answers were thoughtful and sincere, emphasizing how much he valued the time spent with his family, both on and off the set.

“They’re the reason I do this,” he said, glancing at you and the girls with a smile that made your heart skip a beat. “Having them here with me tonight makes it all the more special.”

The night continued with more photos, more interviews, and a palpable sense of anticipation for the premiere. But as much as you enjoyed the spotlight, the most important part of the evening was the shared experience with Drew and your daughters. You could see the pride in Drew’s eyes every time he looked at you or the girls, a silent acknowledgment of the journey you had been on together.

After the screening of QUEER, which was met with a standing ovation, the four of you were whisked back to your hotel in a sleek black car. The night air was cool and refreshing, a welcome contrast to the heat of the cameras and the lights of the red carpet. Ophelia and Olympia, who had been little stars all evening, were starting to show signs of fatigue. Their little eyes drooped, and they leaned heavily against you and Drew, their tiny bodies growing limp with exhaustion.

Back at the hotel, you and Drew worked together to get the girls ready for bed. The suite was spacious and luxurious, with a separate bedroom for the twins. After helping them out of their dresses and into their pajamas, you read them a story, your voice soft and soothing as they snuggled into their beds. Drew sat beside you, one arm draped around your shoulders, his other hand gently stroking Olympia’s hair as her eyes slowly closed.

Ophelia was the first to fall asleep, her hand clutching her favorite stuffed bunny. Olympia held out a little longer, her eyes fluttering open and closed until finally, she gave in to sleep. You and Drew sat there for a moment longer, watching your daughters’ peaceful faces, their soft breathing filling the room with a sense of calm.

Finally, you and Drew quietly left the room, closing the door behind you with a gentle click. The suite was silent, the only sounds the soft hum of the air conditioning and the faint noise of the city outside. You leaned against the door, your eyes meeting Drew’s across the room.

“They were amazing tonight,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips.

Drew walked over to you, his gaze intense as he cupped your face in his hands. “They take after their mother,” he said softly, his thumb brushing your cheek. “You were incredible too. I’m so proud of you.”

You felt a warm blush spread across your cheeks at his words. “Thank you,” you murmured, leaning into his touch. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Drew’s eyes darkened with desire as he leaned in, his lips hovering just above yours. “We finally have some time to ourselves,” he whispered, his voice low and husky. “What do you want to do?”

A shiver of anticipation ran down your spine at the implication in his tone. You slid your hands up his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. “I can think of a few things,” you replied, your voice breathless as you closed the distance between you, capturing his lips in a passionate kiss.

Drew responded immediately, his arms wrapping around you as he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing yours as he pressed you against the door. The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you and the intense need that was building between you. His hands roamed your body, expertly undoing the zipper of your dress and letting it fall to the floor in a soft rustle of fabric.

You broke the kiss just long enough to help him out of his jacket and shirt, your fingers trembling slightly as you undid the buttons. Drew’s hands found your waist, pulling you close as he kissed you again, more urgently this time, his need for you growing with every passing second.

He backed you towards the bed, his hands never leaving your body as he guided you onto the soft mattress. The cool sheets contrasted with the heat of his skin as he hovered above you, his gaze raking over your body with a look of pure adoration.

“You’re so beautiful,” Drew whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he kissed a trail down your neck, his lips leaving a burning path on your skin. “I can’t get enough of you.”

You arched into his touch, your fingers threading through his hair as he continued his descent, his mouth hot against your collarbone. “Drew...” you moaned softly, your voice trembling with need as you felt him reach for the clasp of your bra, expertly undoing it and tossing it aside.

He paused for a moment, his eyes meeting yours as he gently cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure straight through you, making you gasp. Drew smiled at your reaction, clearly pleased with himself as he dipped his head to take one of your nipples into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud.

Your back arched off the bed at the sensation, a moan escaping your lips as you clung to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders. The pleasure was almost overwhelming, every nerve in your body on high alert as Drew lavished attention on your breasts, his hands and mouth working in perfect harmony to drive you wild.

After what felt like an eternity of blissful torment, Drew continued his journey downward, his lips trailing kisses down your stomach, his hands guiding your hips as he slowly pulled your panties down, leaving you completely exposed to him. He paused for a moment, his eyes darkening with lust as he took in the sight of you, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

“God, you’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe as he gently spread your legs, positioning himself between them.

You bit your lip, anticipation building as you felt the heat of his breath against your most sensitive area. “Drew, please...” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need.

He didn’t make you wait any longer. With a low growl of desire, he dipped his head, his tongue flicking out to taste you. The sensation was electric, sending a jolt of pleasure straight through you, your hips bucking involuntarily as you moaned his name. Drew’s hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he continued to pleasure you, his tongue and lips working together to drive you closer and closer to the edge.

You clung to the sheets, your body trembling with the intensity of the sensations as Drew brought you to the brink of ecstasy. Just when you thought you couldn’t take it any longer, he pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours as he inserted a finger inside you, the sensation of his long, skilled fingers pushing you over the edge.

You cried out, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm as Drew continued to work you through it, his fingers and mouth never stopping until you were completely spent, your body going limp with exhaustion.

Drew climbed back up your body, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss as he positioned himself at your entrance. You were still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm, but the feel of him so close, so ready, reignited the fire inside you.

You wrapped your legs around Drew’s waist, pulling him closer as he hovered above you, his breath warm and ragged against your lips. His eyes locked onto yours, a mixture of love, desire, and admiration swirling within them. He held himself there, just at your entrance, teasing you with the promise of what was to come.

“Are you ready?” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.

You nodded, unable to find the words as anticipation coursed through your veins. The look in his eyes was enough to send another shiver of pleasure down your spine. You could feel him, hot and hard, pressing against you, and the need to have him inside you was almost unbearable.

“Please,” you breathed, your voice trembling with need. “I need you, Drew.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. With a slow, deliberate movement, Drew pushed forward, filling you inch by inch. The sensation was exquisite, a perfect blend of pleasure and pressure as he stretched you, your bodies fitting together like they were made for each other. You both moaned as he entered you fully, the feeling of him deep inside you almost overwhelming.

Drew paused, his forehead resting against yours as he took a moment to savor the sensation, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. “You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

“So do you,” you replied breathlessly, your hands gripping his shoulders as you adjusted to the feel of him inside you. The connection between you was palpable, an unspoken bond that had only deepened over time. Every touch, every movement felt like a promise, a testament to the love you shared.

Drew started to move, slow and steady at first, his thrusts deep and measured. Each movement sent ripples of pleasure through your body, building a delicious tension that made you gasp and cling to him even tighter. His hands roamed your body, one settling on your hip to guide your movements, the other brushing the hair away from your face as he kissed you deeply.

The kiss was passionate, filled with the kind of raw, unfiltered emotion that only came from years of love and trust. You could feel the intensity of his feelings in the way he kissed you, in the way he held you close as if you were the most precious thing in the world. It was more than just physical; it was a connection of souls, a merging of hearts.

As Drew’s thrusts became more urgent, the pace quickened, and you could feel yourself teetering on the edge of another orgasm. He seemed to sense it too, his movements becoming more purposeful, his hand slipping between your bodies to find that sensitive bundle of nerves that he knew would push you over the edge.

When he touched you there, the sensation was electric, your body responding instantly as pleasure exploded within you. You cried out his name in silece, your back arching off the bed as the orgasm ripped through you, your body trembling with the force of it. Drew didn’t stop, his movements relentless as he continued to drive into you, prolonging your pleasure until you were a quivering mess beneath him.

Finally, with a few more powerful thrusts, Drew followed you over the edge, his own release coming with a guttural groan as he buried himself deep inside you. You could feel the warmth of his release, the pulsing of his body against yours as he collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving with exertion.

For a moment, the two of you lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, both of you trying to catch your breath as the aftershocks of pleasure continued to ripple through your bodies. The room was filled with the sounds of your breathing, mingling together in the stillness of the night.

Drew finally lifted his head to look at you, his eyes soft and filled with love. He reached up to gently brush a strand of hair from your face, his thumb grazing your cheek as he smiled down at you. “You’re amazing,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but filled with sincerity.

You smiled back at him, your heart swelling with love. “I love you, Drew” you replied, reaching up to cup his face in your hands. “I love you, Drew.”

“I love you too,” he whispered back, leaning down to press a tender kiss to your lips. It was a kiss filled with all the love and affection he couldn’t put into words, a promise that he would always be there for you, no matter what.

He rolled over, pulling you with him so that you were lying on his chest, your legs still entwined. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, a comforting rhythm that lulled you into a state of contentment. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as if he never wanted to let you go.

The two of you lay there in silence for a while, simply enjoying the closeness, the feel of each other’s bodies pressed together. The world outside might have been filled with the glitz and glamour of the festival, but in that moment, it was just the two of you, wrapped in each other’s love.

Eventually, Drew shifted slightly, his hand running up and down your back in a soothing motion. “We should probably get some sleep,” he murmured, though there was a note of reluctance in his voice. “The girls will be up early.”

You chuckled softly, knowing he was right. As much as you wanted to stay in this moment forever, the responsibilities of parenthood would call soon enough. “Yeah,” you agreed, though you made no move to get up just yet.

Drew smiled, tightening his hold on you. “We’ll have plenty of nights like this,” he promised, his voice filled with certainty. “Plenty of moments where it’s just you and me.”

You nodded, feeling a warm sense of contentment settle over you. “I’m looking forward to it,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his chest before finally, reluctantly, rolling off of him.

You both moved slowly, the exhaustion from the day and the intensity of your lovemaking catching up with you. Drew helped you pull the covers up over your bodies, his arm wrapping around you once more as you settled against his side. The bed was warm and comfortable, and you could feel yourself drifting off almost immediately, the events of the day a pleasant blur in your mind.

As you closed your eyes, you felt Drew press a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Goodnight, my love,” he whispered, his voice the last thing you heard before sleep claimed you.

“Goodnight,” you murmured back, a smile on your lips as you finally surrendered to the peaceful darkness.

And with that, you both fell asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron imagines #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x y/n #drew starkey #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey imagines #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey x you #drew starkey fluff #drew starkey one shot #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey fanfic #drew starkey smut

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the-crooked-library · 3 months ago

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Blurred Lines: Agency and Victimhood in Gothic Horror

Seeing as Robert Eggers' Nosferatu has just breached a cool $135M at the worldwide box office, it might be as good a time to talk about this as any. I believe I echo the sentiments of most diehard fans of gothic horror when I say this: while we are glad to see this masterpiece meet with well-deserved success, these numbers also mean that a significant proportion of its audience has been previously unfamiliar with the hallmarks of our beloved genre; and the resulting disconnect between the viewers and the source material has been the driving force behind the great majority of the online discourse that surrounds it.

The tools and conventions of the gothic, as a genre, are essential to Nosferatu's primary narrative arc. Its central character, Ellen Hutter, cannot be discussed outside of her literary context. Textually, she balances between heroine and damsel in distress - blurred, in many ways, from mainstream understanding.

That is done entirely on purpose. There are numerous reasons for it; I could go into heavy detail about it; and I will - under the cut, of course.

The main thing I must make absolutely clear (before delving any deeper) is that the gothic genre is fundamentally non-literal. It deals heavily in metaphor, allegory, allusion, obfuscation - and, indeed, the blurred lines that have recently caused so much controversy online. This is by design. It is not a flaw of storytelling or interpretation. The gothic affronts the rigid, black-and-white, mainstream forms of morality because that is what it has always been designed to do; and the newer installments like Nosferatu do the same, being built upon those traditional foundations.

The historical background is therefore essential to the understanding of a gothic narrative. In this, the film does provide the viewer with a relatively easy starting point; its period setting amplifies its connection to its predecessors, as well as the societal pressures and systemic violence that it aims to challenge. It allows the audience to perceive the story through a historical lens that comes pre-installed, as a sort of short-cut to the genre's original social context.

The context, in this case, consists of misogyny, queerphobia, xenophobia, and ableism - which, while rampant even in the modern day, were that much more blatant in 1830s German Confederation, where/when the story largely takes place. Every human character, regardless of who they are, is influenced by these oppressive aspects of their society; and Ellen Hutter is hopelessly entrapped within all four.

Her social situation, as we are given to understand, is precarious. Though she was originally born into wealth, she married down to escape her abusive father. She is an eccentric - her "wild" inclinations (such as having a sense of dignity or loving the outdoors as a child) are enough to cause almost vitriolic disapproval; but on top of that, she was born with a psychic gift, which manifests in a way that is not dissimilar from a mental (and sometimes physical) disability. She and her husband are also English immigrants, and thus perpetual outsiders in Wisborg (this is also one of the reasons Thomas is so anxious to prove himself at Knock's firm, and so keen to emulate Harding in all things); and, finally, she implied to experience queer attraction - which, though non-explicit, repressed, and never truly indulged, still affects her and the way she is continuously treated throughout the film.

Overall, Ellen's existence is perceived, at best, as an inconvenience - and at worst, a scandal. With that, she fits seamlessly into her story's genre.

The "immoral," the forbidden, the taboo is a cornerstone of all gothic fiction. It exists in the doubt between light and dark, harm and desire, love and abuse. It is the domain of sympathetic villains (e.g. Heathcliff, Wuthering Heights), of imperfect victims (Bertha Mason, Jane Eyre), of heroes who are deeply flawed, who cause their own tragedies, and often fail to save anyone at all (Victor Frankenstein, Frankenstein). Within the gothic genre, there are no absolutes; and its contradicting balance of dichotomies provides a reference point - or, more accurately, a cultural triangulation - for exploring the same complexities that a binary puritanical mindset strives to eradicate. These include sexual desire, female autonomy, physical and mental disabilities, classism; in short, anything that gets people wincing.

The popular discussion of these topics is frequently cruel, often avoidant, and rarely straightforward or productive. As stated above, it makes people uncomfortable. It's not pleasant. However, for Ellen (and many people in the real world), it is, quite literally, impossible to avoid. It defines every aspect of her daily life.

What this means for her and for the story is that within a narrative that refuses to gloss over the imperfections of her surrounding society, her victimhood is not thrust upon her by a shadowy figure, emerging from the night. Instead, she is a victim - of an ongoing and systemic, rather than individual, abuse.

This aspect of Ellen's characterization lies at the core of her behaviour throughout the film. She is an unstable chimera of Brontë's Jane Eyre and Bertha Mason - in the sense that her actions are informed, in great part, by her acute awareness of her own disenfranchisement. She alternates between anguished raving and phlegmatic practicality, used to her pain but unable to entirely ignore it; and, the same way that Jane sees all the rage she feels (but cannot afford to express) manifested in Bertha, Ellen finds her counterpart in Orlok.

This is where the ambiguity begins.

Even though Orlok is most certainly a gothic villain, his relationship with Ellen cannot be interpreted as strictly adversarial. Naturally, it would be easy to ascribe their dynamic to grooming and PTSD; however, as previously mentioned, a gothic narrative is never surface-level - and the film itself never furnishes any information that would definitively limit it to that.

Firstly, to get the primary discourse point out of the way - yes, when Ellen and Orlok first meet within the ether, she is indeed young; and later, she is said to have been a child. However, at the time, the term "teenager"did not yet exist; Ellen's younger self is not portrayed by a child actress; and later, in 1838, she is referred to as a child multiple times - despite being an adult, married woman. Overall, within the film, the term is more often used to describe innocence and inexperience, rather than age; and her initial age is never specified. Granted, a multi-century age gap is not exactly "healthy" anyway - but this is a vampire story. It is per the course; and it complicates their relationship beyond a simple victim vs abuser narrative.

Secondly - and perhaps, most importantly - the overall impact of Orlok's coercion tactics falls flat in comparison to Ellen's human-world alternatives. Yes, he argues and threatens; but her social circumstances have never allowed her agency in the first place. Her father abuses, isolates, and threatens to institutionalize her; Thomas dismisses her concerns as "childish fantasies"; Harding and Sievers tie her down and drug her; Harding again kicks her out of the house. Her marriage, her friendships, are therefore all transactional; they grant her an escape from her father's house, relative financial stability, social support - on the condition that she represses her true self, pretends to be normal, doesn't threaten anyone's masculinity or heterosexuality, and acts like she's happy to be a deferring, obedient, settled wife. Being a daughter of a landed gentleman, she would never have been given a working woman's education, and evidently has no income of her own; and so, she has no options except to upkeep her end of the bargain - which means that her continued survival within mainstream society relies on constant background coercion.

Compared to this mundane, socially acceptable horror of her existence, the vampire actually offers her more autonomy than she is ever otherwise accorded. The terms of his covenant never threaten Ellen's own well-being; so on one hand, she has benevolence - and on the other, the dignity of choice.

This contrast lies at the heart of her dilemma. Ellen is torn between what she believes she should be and what she knows - and Orlok knows - she is.

One is "correct," moral, Good; the other is "wrong," sinful, Evil. However, at the same time, the first is manufactured; it is artificially designed, and must be continuously enforced. The second is primal. Natural. In accordance with gothic tradition, the appeal of Orlok is that he is forbidden, yet instinctive. By design, he is a reflection of everything that Ellen is forced to repress on a daily basis. That includes her rage, her ostracism, her abnormalities; but also, her desperate need to be respected, understood, and desired. He is both grotesque and alluring, both a lord and a beast, both cruel and reverent.

"He is my melancholy!.." cries Ellen.

"I am Heathcliff!" whispers Cathy.

Still, while Cathy and Heathcliff are primarily divided by class and racism, Orlok and Ellen are separated by moral considerations. In the explicit sense, Ellen cannot choose the Evil that Orlok represents. Within the surface narrative, she is obligated by her society, her morals, and the story to choose Good - in this case, by nobly sacrificing her individual expendable life to save her husband and a city full of people. Her primary storyline, like everything else, has already been decided for her.

For the Trekkies among us, this is Ellen's own Kobayashi Maru. A no-win scenario. As such, within the context of character analysis, her destination does not matter as much as the little things she does along the way; and it is no accident that, as the film progresses, the subtler, seemingly insignificant choices she makes within that framework just happen to bring her closer - and closer - to Orlok.

All of them are just innocuous enough to almost pass. She places a lock of perfumed hair in a locket that she gives to Thomas - and upon his arrival to the Carpathians, the same locket is immediately claimed by Orlok, who recognizes the scent of lilacs. Before making her sacrifice, she puts on her wedding dress and finds a bouquet of the same flowers - which is the sort of effort she didn't have to perform, especially given that he cannot resist her blood regardless. When Orlok arrives, she chooses to undress them both, and leads him to the bed, even though her previous sex scene with Thomas was entirely clothed; and in the morning, she pulls him close and holds him through the sunrise - even though he was already dying, and would not be able to escape. There was no need for her to touch his rotting flesh at that point, much less caress it.

There can be a "moral" explanation for all these actions; but the lack of direct obligation involved in them becomes increasingly blatant over the course of the story, and the doubt festers.

This sort of lingering ambiguity is precisely where gothic horror thrives - and intersects, scandalously, with romance. Gothic horror, much like bodice-ripper novels, noir thrillers, or "dark romance," builds much of its romantic intensity on the dichotomy of shame and desire. Imagine it, if you will, as a loom; warp and weft. It may even be described as literary BDSM - a continuous, mutually-agreed-upon act of roleplay between the author and their audience, and sometimes the characters themselves (though that depends). The point is to create an outlet for female, queer, or disabled sexualities, all of which are still heavily medicalized and restricted, derided, or denied entirely; and within these often intersecting genres, the violent or coercive intensity of the dominant lead (be it a vampire, a mafia don, or simply a more experienced lesbian) provides their repressed, seemingly passive counterpart an excuse to act upon their demonized erotic urges.

Between the page and the mind, everything that normally complicates a romantic or sexual encounter in the real world (subliminal hints, aggression, repressed and involuntary responses) becomes set dressing - serving to place a particular scene or dynamic within its fictional universe. The resulting Watsonian uncertainty is, naturally, part of the appeal. It is what allows the viewer/reader/listener a sincere emotional and sensual immersion; and for Ellen and Orlok, it provides an appropriately dramatic pretext for a night of tender vampire sex.

The discourse around their joining is painfully similar to the same that drifts around online every winter - in regards to the classic holiday hit, Baby it's Cold Outside. The song, written during an era in which extramarital sexuality was heavily restricted, follows a couple brainstorming excuses for the lady to stay the night; this intention was explicitly stated by both members of the original duet; but that hasn't stopped thousands of people from interpreting it as a "rape anthem." It is unsurprising, then, that an element of horror (guilt, shame, repression, coercion) muddles the water even further.

It's oddly apt, considering that the film premiered on Christmas Day.

Granted, I am not denying that there is an abusive aspect to Ellen and Orlok's connection, romantic or otherwise. However, to reduce Ellen to merely his "victim" is extremely inaccurate to her actual portrayal - because, within the framework of the film, her interactions with Orlok are the few in which she is actually able to exercise some form of agency. She never defers to him, their wedding-death hinges on her free will, as coerced as it may appear; and, in a fascinating subversion of a popular vampire trope, she is the one who summons him.

In gothic media, "Come to me!.." is invariably spoken by a vampire (or a vampire derivative like Erik, Leroux's titular Phantom of the Opera); their counterpart follows helplessly, without question; and giving these lines to Ellen is a dramatic deviation from tradition that fundamentally alters the underlying context of their power balance. By maintaining this call-and-response dynamic throughout the story, Eggers asserts that Ellen isn't helpless; and neither is she "in over her head." She is intelligent, powerful, and she has a tangible influence over Orlok, who is her only equal - which is why, ultimately, she is the one deciding where that relationship is headed.

That is not to say that any alternative readings of the film are entirely incorrect. As I have stated above, the abusive/toxic narrative is definitely present, and even essential, in gothic media. On the Doylist level, it is the equivalent of a whip, or a solid pair of cuffs - essentially, a divestment of responsibility; though, to continue the metaphor, not everyone shares the same kink - and those who do might not all enjoy it the same way, so there's definitely significant variation. What I am trying to say, however, is that each story does come with a central conflict; and Ellen Hutter's victimization - much like Jane Eyre's, like Thomasin's (The Witch, 2015) - is systemic.

She is ostracized, disrespected - infantilized if her oppressors are feeling benevolent, demonized when they are inconvenienced - and still expected to always prioritize her husband/friends/community by default, regardless of how she is treated by them. Her surrounding society, morality, religion, culture all insist upon the same; and this is why, despite knowing that she has done nothing wrong by following her nature, she carries an enormous amount of guilt in regards to those "unacceptable" aspects of herself. It is also the same reason why Orlok - the sensual, cruel, utterly devoted monster - is the answer to her lonely call; and the reason why everyone around her is so eager to see her as his victim, rather than a victim of anything they may have perpetrated themselves. Ellen's is a rich complexity, fed upon centuries' worth of gothic tradition, and she cannot be forced into a flat, genre-inappropriate simplification.

Like The Witch, like NBC Hannibal, like Interview With the Vampire before it - Nosferatu (2024) is a story of self-indulgence being so unfamiliar that it feels like a sin; or, like dying.

I, for one, would not deny her that.

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