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whipplefilter · 7 years ago

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People keep mentioning Lightning calling Doc "dad" by accident, and I like that idea, but.. I wonder what the very first time that happened was like? Like, what even brought it on? What was Doc's reaction? I bet it was after a win or something, sometime when he was either very emotional or very distracted. I bet Lightning must have been pretty tired to have let that slip.. like me right now.. Sorry, the ramblings of a tired fan here xD

Oh my god, anon, I got stupidly carried away with this… /O\ APOLOGIES. Here is my ridiculous thousands-of-words response. I’ve always wanted to write something that could explore a little bit of the high-pressure atmosphere of professional racing, and some of the aspects of the profession that might be somewhat maladaptive for a young racer, and figured the path to this hc might be the place to do it. But ultimately, this is Doc’s story.

Fanfic: Your Name in Lights

Summary: Racing’s changed a lot. Or maybe it was always changing, change pouring from the racers, the race itself, and into the fringes of sponsorship and spectator and spectacle. Maybe this is where it was always headed.

At the start of his first season as Lightning’s crew chief, Doc reflects on how the sport has changed, and what he and Lightning will need to be for each other. The aftermath of last season’s tiebreaker race presents new challenges–challenges Lightning’s not quite ready for.

* If longposts on Tumblr are death to you (as they are to me), vision/attention-friendly versions of this can be found on AO3 & Fanfiction.net!

They’re still learning each other.

Lightning’s ability to listen, while much improved, remains variable.

And Doc’s ability to teach–and this is according to Sally, whose tetchy ‘maybe don’t talk like you’re from Mars’ was then vetted and seconded by Sheriff–doesn’t always help. Maybe one in twenty of Doc’s directions, Lightning loses his line for thinking so hard, as though he’s convinced Doc’s words are an enigma he must first unravel.

But when Doc says “hit it with your purse” he means exactly that. Plain and simple.

Granted, in retrospect, that sort of direction makes less sense if you’d never known the woman Doc learned it from. Nothing has ever made Doc feel quite so old as that.

All this notwithstanding, at the pole qualifying for Florida Lightning posts just shy of the top. It means he’s got a good angle on that third slot if he can nail the Duel. Doc’s not concerned about the racing.

Before that, though, there remains the hassle of the start-of-season publicity junket. Naturally, Doc declined all invitations; he’s not here for the crowds or the rumor mills. Never has been. But he might have reconsidered–shared the burden–if he’d known Lightning was going to say yes to every single one.

“You got brakes, son. You’re allowed to use 'em,” Doc points out.

Lightning just says–as though he’d never once considered saying no, and isn’t sure why he’d need to defend this–“Yeah, but they asked!”

Maybe he simply hadn’t anticipated the onslaught.

Whatever fame Lightning had enjoyed as a promising rookie’s got nothing on his Year 2 as proven contender–especially not with last year’s tiebreaker and the enigma of the Fabulous Hudson Hornet still very much on the racing world’s mind. Harv, whom Doc has recently come aware of in all his bombastically East Coast glory, has Lightning’s week scheduled solid:

- Monday 5AM-10PM

- Tuesday, 6:07AM-11:15PM

- Wednesday, 9AM-2AM

- Friday, 8:30AM-11:45PM

Wedged into the fray is one empty Thursday, which is “TBD, see Cup practice lap schedule.” Which all sounds like hell to Doc, but hey, the kid’s got energy to burn.

–

Sometimes, when answering questions for the press, Lightning’s gaze will shoot toward him. Never for long–Doc suspects Lightning never means for him to see–but long enough for his eyes to speak loud and clear.

Lightning is embarrassed by how much he still enjoys this part.

The captivated reporters, the ardent fans; he eats it all up.

Shouldn’t he be above this, though? Now that he knows what real love feels like? Shouldn’t this feel superficial now? That’s what his eyes say. Or perhaps they’re only reflecting what Lightning thinks he sees in Doc’s.

But if the kid ever found the guts to ask, Doc would say no. No. Cherish that feeling. You never know when you might lose it.

–

After the first day, Lightning passes out in his trailer immediately upon re-entry.

Old habits die hard, and under the blaze of camera flashes it’s easy to reach for certain unbearably cocky personas. Certainly, he’d given the cameras some of that. But other times he was Lightning–just Lightning. Which was harder.

Still, he reached.

The novelty of that does him in, and he sleeps like the dead.

(“Oh, don’t worry,” Mack assures him, when Doc is unable to rouse him. “He always sleeps like that.”)

–

Day 2 is easier. Lightning settles some, and Doc determines that even if he’s personally refused all speaking engagements, the least he can do is show up for the photographs. It takes some of the heat off Lightning, and spares him from the more probing lines of questioning. (Even the most aggressive tabloids back down if they have to look you in the eye.)

Then Doc loses an entire afternoon to a commercial spot, wherein Lightning spends four hours reading the same four lines as gaffers swarm around the outskirts of the shot. Apparently certain things will only read on television, and they need something a little different for their MySpace audience. (Whatever that is.) And Apple, Inc., of course, has purchased exclusive rights to something or another, so they need to do a full redesign if they wanna advertise with them.

Heretofore Doc hadn’t been aware that someone could give a performance best described as both wooden and exuberant. Lightning manages this feat. His acting ain’t worth the film it’s printed on. Doc finds this endearing in its own way.

Regardless, Lightning is obliging enough and not difficult to work with, which surprises the AD, who is obviously a veteran of past McQueens. On their way out, the sun having long since set, this year’s McQueen’s only gripe is a hushed, “You know how long it should take to film a twenty-second commercial? Twenty seconds! In twenty seconds I could be done with an entire–”

“Hey, look at you!” someone shouts from across the intersection. Doc notes with some amusement that Lightning automatically assumes they’re talking about him.

To Lightning’s credit, they are. The stranger blows the stoplight and maneuvers an absurd U-turn to end up in the lane adjacent. “Huge fan,” he explains. “Huge huge huge huge!”

In the span of a signal pattern, one red light holding the world in abeyance, he then proceeds to tell Lightning his whole life story. This is how it ends:

“And like, hit-and-run, you know? We couldn’t have known. Us all chasing after the guy, figuring you know, Alonzo’s gonna be okay, he always okay. We got a good set-up, working at the garage–all kinds of parts, all kinds of tools, you know? But after we lost the dude we go back and Alonzo’s just gone, man. He’s just metal. And that was it. So I guess I just wanna say like, thank you, you know? I’m not saying it makes a whole lotta sense or nothin’ but I dunno, like. Mad props, I guess. What you did in that race like. I just thought that was tight.”

“Thank you,” says Lightning, a little stiffly. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to say more. Then he adds, “Sorry to hear about, um, Alonzo.”

“Don’t sweat it, bruh,” says the stranger, dead Alonzo’s cousin. “Mad props!” he repeats, before speeding off when the light before them flicks blue-green.

Lightning jerks off the road and pulls into a nearby parking lot, visibly shaken. “That’s–” he starts. “Uh, never happened before.”

“You’re real to them now,” says Doc, though he doesn’t remember that happening to him before, either. “Congratulations.”

But Lightning doesn’t throw the look for the rest of the evening. He’s quiet and restive and it’s as though he’s either witnessed a crime or drive in on two cars in a scandalously intimate moment, or maybe both.

He has absolutely no idea what to do with a stranger’s personal business.

Mack asks him if he’s okay, and he says yes.

Lightning asks, “Hey, d'you think Sally would pick up if I–”

Then he trails off. Turns back to Doc to give him a funny look. Doc’s not sure if the question was directed at him, or at the empty air. (He knows the answer, though: Yes, yes she would.)

“Nah,” Lightning decides, independent of the facts. “It’s late.”

–

Doc’s not sure why, but it echoes. Not the life story of faceless cars, the names of whom he has already forgotten, but Lightning. The look on his face as he realized that caring is not always pleasant. There’s a lot of damage in the world.

Caring can hurt.

By the next morning, Lightning has forgotten all about it. Which is fortunate, because if Harv scheduled things any tighter he’d strip a lugnut. Lightning needs to be good to go.

–

Lightning’s fading. It’s working hour 33 on Day 3 when he stops trying to answer questions well and instead repackages what he’s already said, and said again, and said again. This isn’t at all a failing; it’s strategic and–finally–something actually smart, but it also doesn’t have the blazing excitement of Day 1, which is what sustains Lightning in the first place. And so it becomes a self-defeating cycle, and more often than not Doc finds Lightning staring down the clock as the hands make their slow and deliberate way around the field. His eyes beg them to move faster.

They’re far from done, though. Next up, sponsor appearance.

Lightning doesn’t do or say much, just last year’s lines, now flavored by his palpable shame at his past behavior, but none of the rust buckets seem to notice. For some reason, they love him, and always have. They have a golden vision of Lightning in their minds and that’s all they’ll ever see.

Rusty–or maybe it’s Dusty–winks at Doc. These two are Bostonians, unflappable, and Doc respects them. They knew Lightning was a child–and frankly, still is–but they were willing to be patient about his growing up. They weren’t surprised when eventually, he did. Which means they’d read him better than Doc had. They’ve got the knack.

As Lightning prepares to take his leave of the stage, Dusty (or Rusty) whispers, “Here, kiddo!” He slides a can toward Lightning with his back tire. “You’re gonna need to eat something before the meet n’ greets. It’s a long-haul!”

Lightning’s eyes widen, as though he’d forgotten sustenance was a category that existed. “Oh! Thanks!”

But when the two are out of eyeshot, Lightning throws the can in the trash.

“Not hungry?” Doc asks.

Lightning looks around him, dramatically surreptitious. “Are you kidding me? I can’t drink that out here. I’m not sponsored by that. Someone will see!”

Doc looks back at the Rust-eze tent, where Rusty and Dusty are still hamming it up on stage. “Aren’t they your sponsors?”

“Uh, yes,” says Lightning. “But I think sometimes they forget how this works.”

–

Doc thinks he, too, must have forgotten how this works, because “meet n’ greet” is a misnomer if ever there were one. There’s nothing at all casual about the autographs Lightning’s firing off, and it’s a wonder he can see anything at all with all the camera flash. “Kachow,” indeed.

One after another the queue of meet n’ greeters comes, exchanges a word or two or gaping silent awe with meteorological sensation Lightning McQueen, gets an autograph for his trouble and a picture for his scrapbook, and is shepherded right along to make room for the next car idling in line, assembly line quick.

Racing’s changed a lot.

Or maybe it was always changing, change pouring from the racers, the race itself, and into the fringes of sponsorship and spectator and spectacle. Maybe this is where it was always headed.

–

Millennium Club dinner. Some corporate thing, so upper-crust exclusive that Lightning’s sponsors are not actually invited. But Lightning is.

“Actually, you are,” Lightning notes. “It says here I’m just your plus one.”

They don’t stay. They have another dinner to get to, anyway.

–

Sparklers on the ground. Cars popping wheelies as they dance away from the leaping colors, which leave thin trails of smoke in their wake. Guitar. Truckbeds filled to the brim with all manner of confection–mostly Dinoco Lite, but also festive lookalikes, for the children.

The children, to speak of them, are playing a made-up game that involves hurling small chunks of broken asphalt at each other. The smaller ones are playing with tire marbles.

This feels more like home.

Here, The King presides, looking hale and gleaming, which is good to see.

“Heard you were lookin’ for me back in town,” Doc says when Strip Weathers idles up to them.

“Paying my respects,” Weathers says. “You did the sport a world of good. Made it into something worth keepin’ alive.” He smiles at Lightning. “Long day?”

Lightning laughs faintly, and Doc turns to him. He does look a little shaky.

“I’d stay away from Claude’s homebrew,” Weathers warns, very seriously. “It’s turning everyone silly, as always.”

Lightning’s gaze darts to Doc. Kid’s not sure what to make of the fact that he’s been suddenly inducted into the club where The King makes casual jokes. It doesn’t compute, it doesn’t compute, and then it doesn’t compute.

Ultimately, however, the strangeness isn’t enough to hold his interest. As Weathers heads back to Lynda, Lightning confesses, “I, uh, really need to eat someth–”

“THERE HE IS.”

Photos, ecstasy. A distinct lack of personal space. Lightning could run, but he doesn’t. Or maybe he can’t without his engine seizing. He probably needed more oil a good long while ago.

Doc shakes his head. He is not in the habit of delivering drinks to people, but as one of Lightning’s fans begets another it appears he might have to.

He rolls through the crowd like an untouchable force, eliciting wide eyes but none brave enough to approach.

–

Of course! I can’t believe I didn’t see it before! You’re the Hudson Hornet! The Fabulous Hudson Hornet! Oh, you gotta–

–

So far, returning to the track is easier than Doc had ever dreamed, because–and perhaps this is ironic–of how precious little there was to return to. He doesn’t miss it because he’s never known it; you can’t yearn for rules you’ve never bucked, asphalt you’ve never burnt. It’s all-new, right down to the smells and sounds of the track, vibrations through earth and the motion of the guy next to you. Never mind all the hoopla off the track, the business side of which has grown up even quicker than road.

And perhaps more surprising than all the change is Doc’s utter lack of nostalgia. He doesn’t wish all this around him were otherwise, or quail at the thought that it isn’t. His racing world is hermetically-sealed and six feet under and when he speaks of it, it is another beast entirely. Somehow, this makes is unpainful to speak of now.

The track doesn’t wrench him back those fifty years; it does not unbury that pain and betrayal; it does not validate the bitterness he’s spent so much of his time since curating. Lightning does not remind him of any of that, the way he surely had in the courtroom that first day. Teaching Lightning does not feel like a poor substitution for what should have been. This is different. This is something–

And that, Doc had never dreamed.

–

When he returns with a quart of oil balanced on his hood, Lightning is exactly where he’d left him, surrounded by a new constellation of fans. He’s wearing a look of extreme distress, masquerading poorly as something other than, and the Mitsubishi nearest him is weeping.

As Doc draws nearer, he understands why. More crash stories. More dead loved ones. More trauma, more pain, more loss. Stories without happy endings–or without endings at all. The Mitsubishi is still crying.

This goes on for hours. It seems everyone has some dark and metal-rending history that they would like for Lightning to know. That tiebreaker was a standout; it clearly shook a lot of feelings loose. Now Lightning has become their outlet.

Lightning is not handling it well. He’s only just learned how to listen, how to care; he doesn’t know how, or when, to stop.

That night–if it can be called that; it’s 3AM, and Lightning drew his first practice round for 7–Doc learns that Lightning does not always sleep heavy. Sometimes he does not sleep at all.

Doc has three regrets, as they pertain to docking his trailer next to Lightning’s:

1. The blare of Lightning’s television, which has been advertising hemorrhoidal tailpipe lotion for the past hour straight.

2. All the pacing. Just when Doc thinks he’s settled for the night, Lightning’s engine blares to life, and metal creaks softly as his weight shifts up and down the length of his trailer. His is not a quiet engine.

3. All the shouting. Forget the engine; Lightning’s just all-around loud for a sleeping car. Keeps yelping himself awake.

For his own self-preservation, Doc moves his trailer. For Lightning, Doc figures the best kindness he can do him as his crew chief is not expect much from their 7AM.

–

“Sleep well?” Doc asks. “Handling it,” Lightning scowls (or maybe he’s just squinting. It’s a bright morning).

Lightning posts a 196.349 average.

One of this season’s rookies, yellow bumper strip blending well with his purple paint job and gold highlights, whistles in appreciation. “I’ve definitely made it to the big leagues now,” he whispers to himself. “Hot dang!”

But Lightning all but flinches away when the rookie shouts “HEY!” Lightning swerves and mutters something incomprehensible as he drives past without making eye contact.

“Oka~y! Whatever then,” the rookie shouts after him. “Guess I’ll have to smoke you on Sunday, cupcake! Then we’ll see who gets ignored!”

“You all right?” Doc asks, when Lightning draws nearer.

“Is this over yet?” Lightning asks back, again without making eye contact.

“Sure,” Doc says. “Ten months and thirty-six races from now.”

Lightning brakes–he keeps forgetting someone is here now, to answer his rhetorical questions. Then he glares at Doc, lips pursed sour, and speeds away without another word. For the next eight hours, he’s nowhere to be found.

–

Doc must admit, he’s only half-expecting Lightning to show up for their 4PM. He hadn’t felt the need to read back on Lightning before they’d met–he figured he could guess at his behaviors well enough. After all, he’s said it before: Racecar.

And he knows from personal experience that Lightning has a tendency to go missing, and that he also has a predilection for nearly missing things that he probably shouldn’t. All behaviors a crew chief won’t typically abide, even if his racer doesn’t beat him to the punch and fire him.

If you want to race with the pros, you need to act the part. There are no exceptions.

Doc own crew chief would have shown him the door if Doc had ever given him lip. There’d have been hellfire and fury. But it’s been a while since Doc’s thought about any of this, and in a moment of deep personal honesty, he has to admit: Oh, he gave plenty of lip, and Smokey plenty of fire. They don’t call him Smokey for nothing. It had been different, though–he and Smokey were nearly contemporaries, grown men and good ol’ boys together. Lip and fury were part of the dance. It’s what they’d needed from each other.

Whereas Lightning–

For the first time, Doc thinks about what Lightning actually needs in a crew chief. It’s not that the list isn’t a mile long–the kid is undeniably talented, and undeniably smart; but he’s also undeniably stupid, and if Doc starts contemplating Lightning’s many contradictions he’ll be here all day. But maybe it’s not what Lightning needs so much as who.

Doc sighs. He’d hoped he could have stepped to the role with only a modicum of soul-searching. Clear out the cobwebs, beat the nostalgia, focus on the racing. But who’s stupid now? he chastises. The rules and the smells and the crowds can change like no tomorrow but at the end of the day, the heart of the sport will always be the same. And real racing? You race with everything you got. Everything you are. It don’t matter if you’re on the track or the infield. In this sport, there is no room for reticence. There are no exceptions to that, either.

So, Hud, he thinks. Who are you gonna be?

–

At exactly 4PM, Lightning does show up. The first thing he says is, “I’m sorry.”

It’s the only thing he says.

When Doc asks again, “You doin’ okay?” Lightning takes a rolling start from the road up to the track and he’s off to the races.

–

You’ve been here how long? And your friends don’t even know who you are?

–

Lightning’s driving sloppy. Extremely sloppy. Which isn’t a trouble when you’re alone on a track, but they’re not here to practice bad habits. When Doc tells him so, Lightning’s only response is to drive worse, and faster. Faster. He cracks 200. 201. 203, for consecutive laps. And again. Then a fourth.

“Control,” Doc reminds him, but Lightning’s past the point of responding even recalcitrantly. He’s pure, raw force, swinging around the turns, every atom blazing forward. There’s nothing left for anything but power and speed. It’s terrible but beautiful, but terrible.

Lightning leaves the track gasping for breath and on the verge of tears and absolutely every other part of him left on the asphalt behind him. The forklift posting the times does a double-take.

Doc’s not thinking about those, though.

“Come here,” Doc says, but Lightning is as insensate now as he was at 200 miles an hour. He mumbles something Doc finds incomprehensible, only willing to wheel himself in any direction but Doc’s.

Lightning closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, but immediately lets it out, sharp, and continues to dance away. 'Calm’ isn’t really an available gear after a run like his.

“Come here,” Doc repeats, and this time all but herds Lightning in the appropriate direction.

“Oh, stop,” Lightning mutters, as he shies away from Doc’s bumper taps. “I can drive myself, Dad.” But the second Doc stops prodding Lightning stops moving, so Doc keeps on.

Dad, huh? Doc mulls this over. Interesting choice, Mr. I-Can-Drive-Myself. The way it had slipped out, Lightning probably didn’t even realize. Certainly, he won’t remember.

That train of thought stretches long across the circus that is the Florida Speedway, but eventually they end up at Doc’s trailer, quiet and plain-painted and unassuming.

They don’t talk much. First it’s just Lightning muttering incoherence, as far as Doc’s concerned–likely a continuation of some long epic he’s been self-narrating for the past year or so. Then genuine silence. Lightning dozes, waking long enough between bouts to look extremely annoyed with himself.

When the ratio of rest to annoyance turns in castigation’s favor, Doc intervenes.

“You wanna tell me what just happened, kid?”

“Don’t turn this into a life lesson,” Lightning snaps, still surly. Lightning knows, and he knows Doc knows. No one needs a play-by-play. That’s why Lightning’s so annoyed–he knows what he should be able to handle. Sponsors, commercials, interviews, spotlight after spotlight after spotlight–he can dig in, he can do it. He excels at it. His name in lights? Bring it on.

But this time, he’d been wrong.

Doc tries to be less pedantic. “You can’t keep making yourself sick over this stuff.”

Nope, still pedantic. Maybe it’s just his way; Doc’s his crew chief, after all. He’s supposed to be pedantic.

“But I can’t just make them stop,” Lightning protests desperately. “All these horrible things– and then they tell me– and then their friends tell more– why would I wanna hear about all these crashes? Even the press guys will– I’m just– and I can’t–”

He reigns it in. “I can’t take that,” he summarizes, now sedate. “I can’t sit there, listening to all these horrible things that have happened to all these cars and all their entire families, and then just be okay. I can’t.”

You have to, is something Doc might say, as a crew chief. Are you made of steel or not? You have to. Just shut it out. And if you don’t know how, then you’re gonna have to learn. You’re a professional, and this is the game.

But Doc doesn’t think he can say that to Lightning. Lightning, who feels so young because this care and all its pain seems so new, so surprising to him. Lightning, now old enough to know that caring is professional.

Lightning, who is more than just his racer.

You can’t control the game, or what it sees in you. Be it an underestimate of what you’ve got left, or an overestimate of how many stories you’re able to bear, it’s all the same.

“So give 'em something else to talk about,” Doc says finally. “If you love this, then show 'em joy. Give them a win. Give them a hundred more things to remember you by.”

There’s that look again–Lightning thinking very hard, wondering if Doc’s advice is a puzzle. Trying to solve it just in case. Then his brow unfurrows. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “That makes sense.”

Doc’s expression must convey doubt, because Lightning clarifies his epiphany. “Surpass yourself, right?”

Then he grins devilishly. “Consider it done, old man!”

–

On Friday, Lightning wakes up for his 8:30. It’s a morning show–not RSN, but Florida local. They have to drive out to the studio. There will be sound stages and harried PAs and several hundred thousand cars watching from the comfort of their own garages. There’s an in-house audience as well, the hopefuls for which were wrapped clear around the building before they arrived.

Lightning yawns wide, says something about getting it out of his system before they head inside. But he hesitates at the threshold of the studio. For the briefest flicker of a moment, Lightning looks up at the glinting neon above the door and becomes betrayal incarnate. This thing had wronged him, this thing had hurt him, this thing he loved so much, it had–

Then he lets it go.

He doesn’t bury it.

He really, truly, lets it go.

And only then does Lightning roll through that door.

–

At 8:30 on Friday morning, just before the cameras start rolling, the Fabulous Hudson Hornet joins his protege Lightning McQueen on the stage of the Daytona Daily Dose–a tiny channel that only broadcasts as far as the county line. It is his first public speaking engagement since 1954.

They won’t be talking about 1954, though. It’s 2007. Doc has a hundred more things he’d like to be remembered by.

Doc glances at Lightning, who seems even more delighted by this development than the staff of the Daily Dose, and he thinks, And then some.

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rivahadi · 6 years ago

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The Hate U Give, A Teen’s Political Awakening while in search for her Identity

The Hate U Give (2018) is an incredibly powerful contemporary epic that offers a diverse view of what it’s like to grow up black in America. It also connects to the themes of family, identity, race and justice. The use of these themes result in a narrative where the main character is brave enough to stand up to an unjust system and explore her own identity. Starr, the main character of the movie, is a young black student who is effectively living a double life. Her dad is a proud Black Panther who lives in a tough black neighbourhood, but he has now settled down to running a store profitable enough for him to send his daughter to a posh private school. It is here that Starr has learned how to pass for white culturally: nice, hardworking Starr hangs out with the Insta princesses who appear to accept her with no reservations and she has a really nice white boyfriend. Although in school she is always careful to keep any threateningly “black” mannerisms in check, when she goes to parties in her own neighbourhood, she has to avoid any “white” phrases.

Insta princesses … Megan Lawless, Amandla Stenberg and Sabrina Carpenter in The Hate U Give. Photograph: Erika Doss/AP To visually mirror the experience of switching between the worlds of Garden Heights, her home where her own family grew up and Williamson Prep, the affluent white private high school, the lighting and color of the scenes also change from warm, familiar tones (Garden Heights) to washed out blue hues (Williamson). The scenes in the Carter household look inviting and well lit, bringing to mind the comfort of a loving family. When Starr is at school, her face looks washed out and pale, as if the screen was trying to mute the colors of everyone’s skin to look the same. She tries so desperately to fit in this environment, she sacrifices who she is in more ways than just avoiding using the slang terms. The issue of racial tension—and how to deal with it— extends throughout the film. Starr and some of her white friends struggle with racism, though only Starr seems to recognize it and makes efforts to move past it. She's also willing to confront others at times regarding these issues. At one point, some white kids go around spewing crude slang. An angry Starr puts some of them in their place, stating, "You all want to act black, but keep your white privilege." It is at one of the parties in her neighbourhood that she runs into Khalil, a boy she once knew when they were both kids. Khalil disappeared for a while and ended up selling drugs for the local gang, the King Lords, in order to take care of his cancer-ridden grandmother. When a fight breaks out at the party, Khalil offers to take Starr home to make sure she gets there safely. A cop pulls them over for some unexplained reason, and Khalil gets defensive. Starr tries to coach him through her father’s warnings: hands on the dashboard, do what they say. Khalil is shot and killed by a white police officer after reaching into his car and pulling out a hairbrush. The officer then handcuffs Starr next to her dying friend. He had mistaken the hairbrush in Khalil’s hand as a weapon and shot first before asking any questions. Starr finds that she has to testify under oath in front of a grand jury, meaning that she, Khalil and her whole community will be on trial. The crisis of loyalty means her whole “white/black” identity goes to pieces, along with friendships with people who “don’t see race”. The issues confronting black Americans today are reflected in the wide-ranging ensemble, as Starr is conflicted about what to do. It challenges clichéd ideas like “not seeing color,” as Starr emotionally confronts her boyfriend by saying, “If you don’t see color, you don’t see me.” As Starr works to find her own identity, we’re exposed to a variety of diverse identities along the way. No two black experiences are the same, but the refusal to recognize the validity of any black experiences is part of the reason the racial divide in the United States of America remains so intense. Both of Starr's parents take every opportunity to protect their kids. Mav, her father, comforts his emotionally wounded daughter after Khalil's death. Mav also physically places himself between his family and drug dealing thugs as well as two cops with guns drawn. Starr's mom is willing to do the same. It's obvious that the whole family has a close, loving bond. The movie feels instructional without getting too preachy, taking time to explain various inequalities that black Americans face, typically in exchanges between father and daughter. In learning the ways of this unjust system, Starr decides not to accept things the way they are. Her outlook reflects the kind of youth-led movements that have sprung up from Black Lives Matter and the marches against gun violence in schools. An activist declares that police shootings of blacks are all equally unjustified. "It's impossible to be unarmed," Starr proclaims, "When our blackness is the weapon they fear!" The film repeatedly shows one protestor cry that, "The whole darn system is corrupt!" Starr gets angry when a friend says, "Cops' lives matter, too." For all the declarations we hear about innocent until proven guilty, the film questions why people of color so often seem guilty until proven innocent. Amandla Stenberg in the film adaptation of Angie Thomas’s best-selling book, “The Hate U Give.”Credit Erika Doss/Twentieth Century Fox

Even though this film attempts to be fair-minded, it still comes off feeling one-sided in its treatment of controversial issues. Viewers who agree with its perspective may cheer its messages. Those who don't may very well be offended by them. And for many, the film's foul language and violence will only add to that discomfort. For the other side, swearing could be seen as something powerful. When chosen with deliberate consideration, they aren't a cop-out; they're a strong way to make a statement with a particular audience. Together with the emphasis on speaking truth to power, language thus becomes the ultimate means to spur meaningful societal change. The title The Hate U Give is derived from a Tupac Shakur interview, and if you hadn’t already guessed, an acronym for THUG. But in Tupac’s original words, the full acronym was for THUG LIFE: The Hate U Give Little Infants Fucks Everybody, which is repeated throughout the film. As he said in the original interview, “What you feed us as seeds, grows and blows up in your face.” And if the seeds that are being sewn within Generation-Z are that we live in a society that stands up, like Starr, and become the voice for the voiceless, then maybe in the future we’ll have fewer needs for films like this.,but until we do, films like The Hate U Give are important. These stories haven’t been given the platform like this to be told, and they desperately need to continue to be told; very well could save lives. This movie ultimately presents blackness itself as a multifaceted identity, complicating the stereotypical assumptions thrust upon Starr, her family, and Garden Heights at large. Families who watch this will have plenty of big issues to discuss afterward; hopefully teens will also appreciate the movie's messages about standing up for what they believe in, being proud of who you are, and communicating honestly with their parents and friends.The Hate U Give forces viewers to recognize the characters as fully human and to reckon with them on their terms. With heroines like Starr at the fore, viewers can imagine not only new possibilities for black girls, but also new visions of our collective humanity. Rising out of a space of being policed at home, at school, and on the streets, Starr carves out an identity of her own where she is no longer confined to the prison of silence and complacency. In fact, she’s found a sense of freedom in being a voice for a young black generation — even for those that are long gone.

Dear Dr. Shea, Writing a Pop culture analysis paper is something I’ve never done before, but it’s something I found myself quite passionate writing about. I really like the fact that you gave us the freedom to pick and analyze a pop culture artifact of our choice, as it gave me the opportunity to write about something I truly care about. The activities we did in class really prepared me to write this paper and make it something I was proud of. Connecting the movie I critiqued to our class themes helped me understand and see the movie from a range of perspectives. It also pushed me to educate myself more about the issues that are portrayed in this film. I included film analysis terms because ever since we did the film analysis paper last semester, I often notice the lighting, music and camera angles when watching a movie. Noticing these things has pushed me to think deeper about the meaning of what’s being portrayed on screen. I think the strongest part of my paper is the way I played with grammar and how I connected this movie to our class themes, as well as issues around the world. A weaker aspect of my paper is my conclusion. I’m not quite sure if it’s enough but I did think about it, and it did evolve into something better in my final draft. I found the writing process enjoyable as I loved this movie and even went back to watch it for a second time half way through writing my paper. I hope you enjoy reading my pop analysis paper on The Hate U Give. Sincerely, Riva

#27 the final draft and letter for each of my four pieces I completed this semester #Pop Analysis Paper

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