#but why then make sweeping statements about topics you are less educated on than the average cis man!

[sevens-evan]

diy hrt is obviously a net positive for the world and i think it's fine to promote information about it but it is crazy how a) a lot of the people who do promote it have an insane superiority complex about how much better and braver they are than people who go through a medical institution and b) how many of them actually know nothing about it. saw a diy person on here the other day talking abt how finasteride "is well known to literally only affect hair loss and not do anything else" and it's like. it's true that finasteride use in trans men is not studied and anecdotal reports vary wildly but if you know Literally Anything, Even A Single Thing about what finasteride actually does in the body and what dht does as a hormone you would know that's a stupid thing to say. which leaves one to conclude that that person Thought they knew what they were talking about without doing even a single second of googling. not good!

[consumeconstantly]

Small Buff Girl Sightings Ch. 2

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | ao3

It’s now the end of Damian’s first week in Paris, and everything is ready for him to transfer into Francois Dupont. He really thought he had dodged the pointless education bullet by coming to France, but of course his father wouldn’t let that slip. However, if he has to continue getting an education he doesn’t need, he will at least get something productive done during the hours of his experience; he will explore the so-called akuma class that he has read up about. One Caline Bustier’s class, the same class that the Ladyblogger is in. The same class that Marinette is in.

He hopes it’s the same as it was in Gotham, or at least similar enough. He expects his reception to be a little different, since his last name has been changed to Grayson to avoid any unwanted attention. Maybe this means that his classmates won’t try to talk to him solely for the purpose of connecting to his family. That doesn’t mean that he wants to talk to any of them. Unless they’re all like Marinette; his brief interactions with her have been bearable, bordering on pleasant. He doubts her class will be similar, though, judging by the quick sweep that he does on all of the student’s social media accounts and the hours that he’s spent on the Ladyblog. From what he has gleaned, the social situation in the akuma class leaves much to be desired. Lila Rossi, who appeared on the Ladyblog multiple times two years ago in rather ridiculous interviews that have since been taken down, seems to be the crux of the class currently. The rest of the class, other than Marinette, who hasn’t appeared in most of the group pictures that her classmates take for the past two years, seem to have little common sense.

When he walks into the classroom, there is a huddle around Lila Rossi, who sits near the front of the classroom and looks astonishingly bored as her classmates talk to her. The members of the class don’t even look up at him when he comes in, instead looking at Lila with almost cult-like devotion, despite the awful shade of lipstick that did not look good on her-- seriously, who wore orange lipstick on a day to day basis? He spares them a moment of observation, decides that he’s not going to get along with his classmates at all, then takes a seat in the back. There is only one desk that has both seats empty-- or is at least currently unoccupied, judging by the lack of items on it. The desk in question is near the back of the classroom next to an exit. He prefers this to sitting in the front, at least.

Right before class starts, a girl drops into the seat next to him, the one that’s closer to the aisle instead of the exit, but the way that she pauses for a moment makes him think that she typically sits where he is, now. 

“Damian?” 

What luck. Marinette is his seat partner. One of the only people in Paris that he’s talked to that seems to be fairly tolerable. With the added bonus of her being fairly intelligent and able to hold her own. There isn’t much more that he could ask for in a seatmate. 

He is confused as to how such a girl is still in this seemingly god-awful class, but small blessings. He’s not going to complain about having Marinette by his side.

“Oh, you must be the transfer from America.” She pulls out a binder from her bag, sends a quick glance sent to Lila, then settles into her chair. Lila sends Marinette a look that Damian can’t quite decipher, but it’s not unfriendly. “If you want to get acquainted with the school, you can ask Lila or Alya. Lila’s the one with orange lipstick and green eyes. Alya’s the one in plaid with glasses. They’re the class president and deputy this year.”

Damian takes a few more moments to observe the class dynamics, particularly how Lila and Alya interact with those around them. The former holds a blonde boy that Damian is fairly sure is Adrien Agreste, and while he seems accustomed to having Lila hang off his arm, he doesn’t exactly look comfortable either. Lila’s eyes unsettle Damian. They look eerily similar to his mother’s, though there is much less ill intent held within them. Alya looks spineless and clingy, clearly uneducated about topics that she brings up one after another. He can’t hear what they are saying clearly from this distance, but he is certain that the small blonde girl was asking Lila to tell the story of how she saved Jagged’s kitten one more time, even though that story’s years old because Lila’s just so humble and modest and amazing. Surprisingly, Lila turns down the girl’s request, and continues to barely interact with her classmates while she continues to hold onto Adrien’s arm.

Jagged as in Jagged Stone, Damian assumes, and though he’s no fan himself, factoids about the rock star’s life have been shoved down his throat by Tim and Dick for the past five years, so how the hell could he not know that a) the star’s manager was deathly allergic and b) the star said that Fang was the best pet that could ever be and he could never want for anything more. 

“You can tour me around instead.” To be completely honest, he doesn’t need a tour around the school at all; Damian did do reconnaissance before starting this mission. He knows the school’s layout like the back of his hand after pouring over maps and information about Francois Dupont. However, he is particularly interested in the dynamics of the akuma class, and he might as well get insider information while he still can.

Marinette looks at Damian appraisingly. “I don’t know about that, Damian. Lila and Alya are fine at giving tours. You’d be in capable hands.”

“Hands capable of what?” Damian can’t imagine that Lila’s claws are good for anything except skewering people who tried to disprove her seemingly outlandish tales. He almost feels bad for Adrien, then thinks better of it; he doesn’t seem that uncomfortable with Lila, he just doesn’t seem to like her hand on his arm.

Marinette laughs, softly, focusing on the group. She moves her mouth so little that if anyone looks, it will appear as though he is talking to her without response. “Very funny. Seriously, if you want a tour, ask Lila or Alya. I’m really not the best person for the job.”

The teacher comes into the room, and the students slowly disperse back into their seats. 

#

When lunch comes around, Marinette packs her stuff up and gets out of the classroom so quickly, he wonders if she’s not some sort of athlete. 

“You’re Damian, the transfer from America!” Lila puts a manicured hand on his arm, and Damian almost thinks that he sees her lick his lips as his forearm flexes at the unexpected contact. He restrains himself from his initial thought to deck her, but barely.

He takes a deep breath and gets his disgust under control. He can control himself. Alfred and Dick have spent years ensuring that he knows what a normal reaction is to someone touching him. When his eyes aren’t seeing red anymore, he turns his attention back to the hand on his arm. Her nails are the same garish orange as her lips, and it’s the case of the chicken and the egg all over again. No matter which came first, though, the color looks bad on both. Jason will say that Damian can’t criticize the girl because of his own awful sense of color coordination, but there’s a reason why he doesn’t have any color in his wardrobe besides his Robin suit. 

“Come, sit with us.” Orange’s voice is nauseatingly fake.

Damian doesn’t outright refuse, but he does shake off the girl’s hand. She feels too similar to Talia up close. Her eye shape is eerily similar. She must be manipulative and cunning to have such a hold on the class. But, he might as well see exactly what the akuma class is all about.

He is escorted into the cafeteria, pushed next to Adrien, then given a lunch tray that has foods that look decidedly less than nutritious and possibly stale. At Gotham Academy, the food was always prepared by the best, so this is unusual for him.

“My name is Adrien. It’s nice to meet you.” Damian thinks the blond boy is nice enough, but he sounds tired and worn out. 

Moments later, Lila comes back from the bathroom and squeezes herself between Damian and Adrien, looping her arm through Adrien’s and then attempting to do the same with Damian. But his arms are so tightly at his side, that it’s impossible for her to wiggle her hand through. Damian is glad that he trained himself to eat with both hands, and quickly takes up a fork with his left. Her laugh is high and breathy, like she’s changed her voice to sound different.

He has to say that it feels disgusting, because it feels like she’s treating him as some sort of arm candy. For the first time in his life, he actually thinks about his gender and is very glad that he was born a boy. Had he been born a girl, there is no doubt that this kind of situation may have happened more often; Damian knows he’s attractive. His mother and father both have very good genes both look wise and talent wise.

Not even ten minutes go by, and Damian sees why Marinette high-tailed it out of the classroom so quickly. He wishes that he went with her instead, though he gets the feeling that he isn’t welcome to do so. 

The stories that Lila weaves for her life as of late are more convincing than the ones that his classmates have told him of her heroic deeds in the past. Damian can almost believe that they’re true-- helping out with food drives, volunteering with the Red Cross occasionally-- but he doubts the validity of any statement that comes from her mouth after finding the cache of interviews from three years ago. She’s focusing more on friends, she says as she tries to catch his arm again. She leans closer, and Damian can smell the floral perfume on her so strongly that it makes him nauseous. His mother never wore perfume. Nobody from the League of Assassins did. Perfume is something that’s traceable. After he was introduced to Gotham City, all of the women he came into contact with rarely wore perfume and when they did, it certainly wasn’t this floral fruity-fresh fragrance that Lila was drenched in.

She leans on him, and Damian’s pretty sure by the curve of the girl’s smirk and the glint in her eyes that he’s supposed to find the slight touch of her cleavage on his arm attractive. This paltry attempt at seduction is laughable. Even as a nine year old, his mother had him training against attacks like these. He was taught never to give into lust, and after living in a family like the Waynes, girls and boys alike threw themselves at him. If he wants a relationship, physical or otherwise, he can have one. He certainly doesn’t want a relationship with this Lila Rossi. Still, he doesn’t see why she has so much control over the classroom and certainly doesn’t see why Marinette is so excluded from their class. 

It’s the longest hour of his life, but Damian makes it through and nearly flees for the safety of the back seat in the classroom. Nearly, but not quite.

#

By the time Damian gets into the room, Marinette is already sitting at the desk again. She looks up, looks at Lila who has looped her arm with Adrien’s and is smiling at Damian like a cat who got the cream. Damian reads sadness and maybe a touch of concern when she looks at Adrien.

“Lunch was awful.”

“Was it.” It’s phrased like it should be a question, but it doesn’t sound like Marinette is curious.

“You could have told me.”

Her lips purse. She’s copying notes from the last class over again, making them neater and more organized. “That’s not my place.”

“You’re my seat partner.”

“So?”

“Somehow, you seem a lot more morally righteous when you’re out on the streets.”

“That’s different. Paris is Paris; class is class. There’s a time and place for everything.”

From the cacophony near the front rises Lila’s high pitched voice. Damian thinks that she’s modulated it in order to seem more innocent, more believable. “Oh, Adrien, I’m so happy that we’re going to have dinner together with your father tonight.” 

Marinette’s eyes raise from her paper. They search for Adrien. Adrien, whose shoulders are hunched in a way that speaks of tiredness and defeat. Adrien, who has eye bags that even concealer cannot fix. Adrien, who looks down at his hands and refuses to meet Marinette’s eyes and their soft, sad questions. 

Slowly, Marinette’s eyes lower. She blinks at her paper, then continues copying her notes. 

At the very least, Damian is glad that he’s sitting back here with the only sane person in this class. It isn’t like Damian is here to make friends anyways. It might have been helpful, but he doesn’t need other people’s help. He can manage on his own.

#

Scratch that, he could not manage. 

Damian now understands why Hawkmoth had not been captured even though it had been three years since his appearance. Magic is really annoying. 

He reports back to the Justice League that yes, the reports were true and no, he did not think it was a good idea to send anyone in yet and yes, he would continue to work on reconnaissance and figuring out who Hawkmoth was.

Despite three more akuma attacks(of increasing intensity) and hours prowling the internet, clues about Hawkmoth’s identity are few and far between. Early on in his mission brief, he was encouraged to not make contact with the Paris superheroes unless the situation got really bad and not to go patrolling the rooftops as Robin at all. They didn’t want to destress the Parisian heroes who had, at first, asked them for help, and then pleaded with them to not send anybody. All of the lack of information and lack of action gave him undue stress, more so than when he was back in Gotham. At least back there, the high stress situations he encountered would promptly be worked off by fighting a villain, sparring his brothers, or patrolling. He can’t do any of that here. 

The coffee he ordered finally arrives, and he downs it in one shot, surveying the streets in front of him. Parisians are weird. His classmates have one collective brain cell that resides with the orange monstrosity, Lila, and the people he meets on the streets are way too open and friendly for people who have been terrorized by a supervillain for three years. They should be more like the citizens of Gotham-- keeping their heads down, minding their own business. Instead, he’s been approached by countless people as he wandered around the city-- unsurprisingly, mostly from girls sent by a larger pack in attempts to get his number or ask him on a date-- and also by random people who want to cheer him up. What kind of person tries to cheer up random people on the streets? Apparently it’s something that many Parisians have taken to doing, in attempts to prevent more akumas. Damian doesn’t think it’s very successful on that part, and is more just an excuse for people who want to stick their noses where they don’t belong.

Marinette is the only Parisian who was better than decent at holding her own Damian’s seen so far; in the past week, he’s stopped three bag snatchers, two stalkers, and two random fights. It’s surprisingly lively for a city that is plagued by a villain who takes advantage of strong emotions. He asks one of the people he saves why this is so.

“Well, it’s been three years. For the first year, yes, we very much lived in fear. But Ladybug and Chat Noir always come to save the day, and they told us that holding in our emotions is even more unhealthy.” This, a man he saved from his stalker. “That talk came after they fought off a stream of very strong akumas that totalled the city, all because they had been repressing their emotions until the breaking point.”

That is useful information. It definitely explains why the city is the way it was, though with the number of tourists that Paris has, he’s surprised that this hasn’t become headlining news internationally. He finds a few threads on Twitter talking about it, but most people are convinced it’s some ongoing stunt for attention. Apparently there’s a movie out about Ladybug and Chat Noir? Damian knows that Mayor Bourgeois put an initial block on information about the akumas from getting out, but that shouldn’t have stopped the Justice League from getting their hands on information about the situation in Paris. However, the teams that have been looking into the situation since they found out have had very little luck finding anything other than conspiracy theories. If Damian hadn’t seen an akuma battle with his own eyes, he’d have thought he was sent on a wild goose chase. 

Damian feels a cross of pity for the Parisian superheroes and a brief moment of anger at Hawkmoth. From what he’s gathered, the Ladybug and Chat Noir are largely on their own. In that first year, there were a few other heroes in the mix-- a fox, a bee, a dragon, and a snake-- but their appearances became sparse and after a mass akumatization, they never appeared again. Ladybug and Chat Noir definitely stepped up their game in that second year, with Ladybug taking the lead so strongly that Damian isn’t sure that he can call them a pair of superheroes. 

Sure, the battles end more quickly with Chat Noir there, but there are plenty of occasions where he doesn’t show up at all and other fights where he stays out of the battle entirely. Oftentimes, in the second year, both heroes looked extraordinarily tired and peaky. Then, something had changed, and Ladybug no longer seemed to be bothered. That was when Chat Noir started staying out of more and more battles, and the few times that he showed up, he always ran off first. Their media appearances, which had been rather heavy in the first year, dwindled down to a few periodic and important announcements. Other than that, they never gave more interviews to smaller blogs, like the Ladyblog. He has to say that he’s not surprised; even though Alya has taken them down, Lila’s interviews were still riddled with lies and she had posted them. Ladybug must have felt that the blog's integrity decreased. 

All of this meaningless information leads him nowhere. The Ladyblog and several other news sources have contemplated Hawkmoth’s identity and purpose, but they all seem far fetched. Motivations include everything from world destruction to believing that this is all just a ploy to get Ladybug and Chat Noir media attention. There’s not even any concrete conclusion on Hawkmoth’s gender, though the majority opinion holds that he is a man.

He sees Marinette from the coffee shop windows. It’s amazing that this girl seems to be everywhere all at once. She always ends up near the akuma attacks, but he never spots her during them, which is curious. There’s only so many reliable places to hide. Today, she’s facing down some adult while holding a child behind her. The lady looks furious, red-faced and spittle flying. In contrast, Marinette looks calm and cold, and addresses the woman cordially, though not with respect.

A crowd gathers, but as in all things that might be dangerous, they form at a distance, with phone cameras at the ready. Damian joins them and watches the situation unfold.

“He’s my child. I get to decide how to discipline him.” The lady is wearing an expensive looking suit that is a little over the top. Her hair is perfectly coiffed, and her handbag costs at least two thousand dollars. 

“Even if he is your child, that doesn’t mean you can hurt him like this. Mademoiselle, I suggest that we go to the police station now.”

“I don’t have time for that. This brat already cost me an hour of my time to pick him up from school because he was misbehaving, and I have to get to the office now.” The lady hisses, draws closer, ready to push Marinette and grab her child. Marinette side steps, pulling the child behind her. 

“You’re a mother. Make time for your child. We are going to the police station, Mademoiselle, or I will call the police here.”

“I am one of the head managers of Silverstein and Company’s Paris branch. You are just a teenager. You have no place arguing with me over parenting tactics.”

“I am only a teen,” Marinette conceded, “But even a child knows when something is wrong and should be stopped. And abusing your child, Mademoiselle, is very clearly wrong.”

Marinette brings out her phone-- she must have the station on speed dial. Now, the woman approaches Marinette with a heavy hand, ready to slap her. The kid is hiding behind Marinette and quivering, very much afraid of his mother. He’s holding Marinette’s hand so tightly that Damian can see her fingertips have begun to turn blue. 

Damian figures this is as good a time as any to intervene, so he puts himself between Marinette and the lady. Marinette backs up a little more, bends down to the kid and pats his shoulder. 

“It’ll be okay,” Marinette says to the kid soothingly. She seems like the type to babysit. Good with kids, creative enough to keep them out of trouble, but with enough of a backbone to make sure they grow up right. 

The police show up in record time, and Damian wonders whether Marinette has Special Privileges that make officers show up more quickly. It would make sense, since she always seems to be getting people out of trouble. Too bad she seems too much on the side of the law to ever become a vigilante. The world could use more people like her, active in helping others.

The four of them are instructed to go the police precinct; the woman says that she’ll take her car, and looks expectantly at her child, thinking that he’ll come with her. Marinette pushes the boy even further out of the woman’s view and meets the lady with a glare. 

“Do you mind if we ride with you in the back, Officer?” 

The three of them pile into the back of the cruiser, and Damian feels like this is some sort of twisted irony. He’s sent many a villain to jail, but he himself has never been in the back of such a police car. In the back of a high security one, once, when he was on an infiltration mission, but the back of such a normal one? Never. It’s an interesting experience to say the least; there’s mesh between the officer and themselves, and no way to get out from the back themselves. It’s also decidedly hot in the back, with plastic seats and no air conditioning. 

Marinette is cooing at the child now, who is gripping her hand only slightly less tightly. “Don’t worry, Renee, we’re going to make sure that you don’t get hit like that again.”

The kid’s eyes are glassy, then he’s all tears, and he’s crying into Marinette’s shirt. She just pats him on the back, slowly, and lets him cry it out. It’s very different from the approach that Batman, the Nightwing, Red Hood and Robin take with their victims. Most times, they just let the victims be ushered wherever the police need then to be, and then, they never see them again. Damian justifies this with the fact that fundamentally vigilantes and regular people are different. It makes sense that Marinette has a more human touch to her. She’s not wearing a bodysuit. It’s all Marinette, and that makes the whole situation more powerful.

It only takes a few more moments for the boy to cry himself to sleep. 

“I want to file with Child Protection Services.” Her voice is soft, low. She speaks carefully so as not to wake the kid up. 

“Yes, we should file with CPS, but if this is just a one time thing there’s not really much that we can do about this.” The officer sounds sad, like he’s dealt with situations like this before.

“As long as we have proof that this isn’t a one time thing, we can make sure that Renee doesn’t go back with her unless he wants to?” There’s a flash of steel determination in Marinette’s eyes, and it almost makes Damian uncomfortable. It’s the look Barbara gets when one of them get really badly injured. 

“Yes, but that kind of proof is hard to get.”

“I see,” she says, like she really does see all of the situation and knows exactly what needs to happen next. She says it like she’s going to make Renee’s mother go to jail if it’s the last thing she does.

They arrive at the precinct, and Marinette carries the boy like its nothing. Damian offers to help, but he’s shaken off. Renee is already asleep in her arms, after all, and she doesn’t want to risk waking him up. She’s sure that he's tired, after all this. It’s a curious thing, how softly and lovingly she looks down at the boy, even though Damian suspects that Marinette has never met the boy in her life before this fiasco.

Their party arrives more quickly than the mother, so they take seats in a small office, Renee still on Marinette’s lap. She’s now scrolling through her phone, assessing whatever’s on her screen with a clinical eye. Damian pulls out his phone as well. To be honest, he’s not quite sure what he’s doing here. He only stepped in at the last second, though he doesn’t have any real complaints about being here. His father would say it’s an experience, and his siblings would joke that he finally ended up in the hands of the police.

When the lady arrives, she looks nothing like that woman he saw on the streets earlier. She looks every inch a professional. Her makeup has been touched up, and there is a smile plastered on her face that screams dealing with an unpleasant situation. 

“I’m so sorry about that,” she says to Marinette like she’s an old friend. “You know how it is-- sometimes it’s really hard to keep a level head with all that goes on in the city. I was so scared for my little boy-- I heard there was an akuma attack near his school, and rushed out to get him, but he wanted to stay with his friends.”

Marinette has a polite smile fixed on her face as well. Her face doesn’t show the slightest bit of reaction to the lady.

“Kids, am I right?” The lady tries for a joke, tries to sway Marinette and the officer and Damian to her side. “So just let me pick up Renee here, and I’ll bring him back home.”

The lady reaches for Renee, and Damian stops her because Marinette has both her hands full with Renee, who has woken up with shuddering sobs. 

“Officer, is it possible if Renee can wait outside of the room while we talk? Surely there’s somebody who can watch him out there.” Her voice is still kept soft and soothing. She looks at Renee and smiles, doesn’t bother looking at the rest of her surroundings. “Is that okay, Renee? Do you mind waiting outside for a little?”

The little boy nods, and he is swept up by some other person who works at the precinct, and then it is only the four of them in the room.

The lady looks frustrated, but she keeps her mouth shut as the officer goes through the proper procedures that they must follow, and that CPS is getting involved. 

“But officer, there’s no need to get CPS involved. I take very good care of my darling Renee. He gets to go to all the classes he could ever want to and I love him very much. I’m so sorry that he got bruised. I’ll make sure that it never happens again.”

Marinette’s hands are carefully laid on her pants. Her fingers are splayed open and the entirety of each palm rests on her thighs. A gesture that makes her look relaxed, were it not for the slight tremble that Damian detects. She is holding her hands in that position so tightly that Damian has good reason to believe that she is withholding herself from hitting the woman. 

“Madame DeVries.” Marinette’s voice is clipped. “CPS must be involved. I insist. It’s very clear to me that this is not the first time that you have hurt Renee, nor will it be the last.”

“How can you say that?” The lady wails. She is an okay actress, but not able to fool any of those present in the room. “I love my darling boy. I would never hit him. Never!”

“Regardless of whether this is the first time you hit him, there are more ways to hurt a person than just physical abuse. Renee’s fear of you makes it clear that you have induced some sort of psychological trauma on him.”

The lady’s face contorts into a sneer when she realizes that nobody in the room is on her side. “You have no evidence. You can’t accuse me like that. I’ll call a lawyer.”

“Go ahead and call a lawyer, Madame. I think that would be for the best. Don’t worry about the evidence. There’s plenty.” She turns to the officer. “Please call someone from CPS here. I don’t want Renee going home with her until the trial is over.”

“You can’t do that to me.” The lady is standing now, towering over Marinette and trying to intimidate her. “I have a reputation to uphold. You will not sue me for child abuse. You cannot.”

“Any parent who truly cares for their child would care more for their child’s well being rather than their own reputation. I wonder what that says about you, Madame. There is no reason why I can’t sue you and too many reasons that I should.”

She lowers herself to Marinette's ear, whispers in soft tones that she’s certain will not be caught by any recording devices. “You will not take me to court, or I’ll make sure that you are blacklisted wherever you want to work. You underestimate how much power I have.”

“Madame, please move away from me. I was only going to attempt to remove Renee from your custody, but please be assured that I will now pursue you for threatening a minor, abusing a child, and whatever other charges that I can come up with. I will refuse to settle. The trial will go public, and the reputation that you care so much about will be ruined, even if you win.”

Celia Devries’ face shifts to an almost cattish grin. It looks like she’s won. “Please, I understand that you’re distressed, but I haven’t threatened you at all.”

Marinette simply pulls her phone out again and plays back a recording of the exact threat that Celia just made to her. 

She splutters. “I never agreed to be recorded! It’s illegal under French code.”

“Madame DeVries, when you come into the precinct, you agree to being recorded. This recording might be from my personal phone, but it is still within legal jurisdiction. In addition, the code is different for gathering evidence against a crime. Everything that is said and done in this office can be disclosed during trial, and there are cameras and voice recorders in here. Please, return to whatever you had to do, and you will be served your court orders soon enough.” Damian is impressed. Has Marinette done this before? She’s too prepared to know this just by spending a few minutes on her phone.

Celia pales, then storms out of the room, frightened that she’ll say something else that will incriminate herself. 

“At least Hawkmoth has already filled his daily quota,” the officer jokes. 

“There’s that much, at least,” Marinette smiles, but there’s something frigid behind it. 

“You’re always getting caught up in something,” Damian says.

“I really am. Some day I’ll become a recluse.”

“And let the world’s horrors move without you?”

Marinette shrugs and all of the tension that was holding in her hands and shoulders dissipates. 

“Since this is a child custody case, it will be the government against Mademoiselle DeVries. The two of you can come to testify, and if there’s any evidence that you have, you can go ahead and give it to me now. If you want to sue her for threatening a minor, you can do that as well; I’ll get you in contact with a lawyer.”

“I don’t have any evidence.” Right now, at least. When Damian goes home, he’ll do a little digging about the woman, see what he can find. 

“I do. I was recording the whole encounter on the street, and I also have several eyewitnesses who have recorded as well. Let me send them to you.” Marinette fiddles with her phone. “And if it’s possible, I think it would be a good thing for Renee to talk to a psychiatrist. In the interim before he goes home, who will he be staying with?”

“He can choose to stay with his next of kin, or can stay in a  temporary foster home.”

“Please email me the date that I should come in to testify, and give me the lawyer’s contact information as well. I’ll email him any additional evidence that I can get.”

“I’d like the email address of the lawyer as well.” Damian might only have a moral conscience because his family beat it into him, but Renee seems like a sweet kid. He’s willing to help.

They’re out of the precinct in another half hour, after Marinette pulls the person from CPS in so they can talk to Renee about what’s going to happen next. The kid takes it surprisingly well, saying that he doesn’t want his mom to get hurt, but that he’s excited to see his Nonna and Nonno again. Marinette tells him that he can contact her any time he wants to talk at her cell phone number, and if he ever wants him to visit, just call.

#

All the buzz of the world seems to die down when they get out of the precinct, and Damian asks whether she’s done this before. 

“I haven’t done anything like this before, but I’ve certainly dreamed of it.” Her eyes look off to a distance. “Abusive parents are the worst.”

“Yours?” Damian can’t imagine this girl’s parents as being abusive, but he should have known better to believe that. Just because someone is stable and competent doesn’t mean that they have a good family-- just look at him and his brothers. They’re competent and stable on good days.

She gasps and looks shocked, verging on offended and embarrassed. “Of course not! My parents are both very sweet people. I love them so much-- I can’t believe I gave you that idea! No, I was talking about a friend’s parent. Anyways, thank you for stepping between me and that woman. You always seem to help me right when I need it.”

Damian doesn’t really think that Marinette needed his help much in any of the situations that he’s seen her. He doesn’t mind the false gratitudes, though it does irk him that he’s never actually helped her. Odd, considering that what little morality he had mostly pertained to life threatening situations, and Marinette’s issues were more in line with everyday annoyances. “And yet you refuse to help me out with Lila.”

Her face immediately sours. “Like I said; class is class. It’s different at Francois Dupont.”

“And why is that?” 

“If you want help catching up or something, I don’t mind helping you outside of class, but you can’t tell anyone. It’s better for you if you’re not seen with me.” Her hand is tight on her purse.

At the risk of feeling like a whiny child, Damian asks again. “But why shouldn’t I be seen with you?”

Marinette sighs, heavily, then looks around at the people on the streets, almost like she’s looking for somebody. “Let’s just say that Lila and I have come to an agreement. The rest of the class isn’t the fondest of me, and if you’re seen talking with me, that will be bad for both of us. I don’t want any problems.”

“Tt. I see.” It seems as though he will also spend some time tonight looking into the history of his class. 

[strikearose]

Uncovering Passione's Underside (1/1) GIOMIS

What one can learn by listening to what the secretive Passione's staff have to say about their Don... One-shot, GioMis, Post-canon, Humor, G+ You can also read it on ao3 here!

For as long as many Passione members could recall, Agnese Bianchi had always been there, grumbling as she would mop the hall floor and nagging at fellow cleaning employees and ruthless gang members all alike. It didn't matter how long their felonious resumes were, she simply couldn't stand slackers. Years of working within that specific industry had forged her strong character - she was honest, hardworking, and probably a tad too outspoken too about her aversion for mobsters, but she still knew better than to ask silly questions like some other people did.

The housekeeper glared at the man who'd been chatting up the new cleaner (and therefore, preventing her from mopping up the floor as she had explicitly urged her to) for the last half hour. His name was Trado, Trattore, or something that sounded way too much like Tradittore anyway: he was one of the Don's many henchmen. Ever since he had started working there, he had taken that annoying habit of snooping everywhere, making idle chitchat with the household staff during rush hour.

The old maid cleared her throat, grabbed her cleaning cart handles, and pushed it unceremoniously between the pair. "Is that what you call cleaning the reception room? Signore Giovanna wants it sparkling clean: go fix it now or apply for another job already!"

Her harsh tone worked just fine: the young employee, caught red-handed slacking work, gasped in surprise and mumbled a brief apology before leaving in a hurry. The man, however, didn't seem the least concerned about her admonition. He simply smiled and raised his hands in self-defense - and lord if there was a way he could possibly piss her off even more.

Agnese chose to simply disregard his presence and rummaged through her pockets to find the key she needed.

Click.

As it opened, she began to push her cleaning cart over the door sill with some difficulty.

"Need some help?"

Agnese sighed when she realized he was still there. Who the hell was he taking her for?

"I don't. As always, I'm doing just fine on my own."

To her dismay, it seemed that her sharp answer didn't manage to get rid of the gangster. For God's sake, couldn't he just go bother someone else, literally anyone but her? There was nothing Agnese hated more than to have someone watch her every move.

...

Or perhaps slackers.

Slackers who intended on watching her every move.

"So, for how long have you been working there? They say you'll bury us all..."

Agnese rolled her eyes as she finally managed to get her cart through the doorway.

"Long enough to have seen my fair share of slackers come and go..." The cleaning lady truly wished he'd get the memo this time. She had seen it all: louts in suits with fake good manners and scarred faces, but also men that seemed to be way too nice and curious for their own good. To her, that last species was the worst: they were wolves in sheep's clothing.

But of course, Trado (or Trattore or whatever was his name) didn't appreciate the subtlety of her response, and he continued his questioning: "You've been there long enough to have known the former boss, right? The one before Don Giovanna, a real freak apparently... "

Agnese tensed at that: she didn't like where the conversation was heading. She was unfortunately all too familiar with those office gossips. A little over five years ago now, Passione had gone from having no official face, to Giorno Giovanna's gracing every streets' corners. Rumors had it that the young, brilliant, man had brutally murdered the Original Don in the span of a week. Others thought that Giovanna's was his son and that the boss had simply granted himself a well-deserved retirement.

She couldn't care less about what had truly happened: Don Giovanna gave her a monthly salary as well as direct, concrete instructions. And those were the two things that mattered to her. He was good at that, giving clear orders to the people to his service. And it was nicer to serve him than to obey blindly the weird requests she'd receive by mail like before.

"Don't you really have anywhere else to go?", the cleaning lady suddenly turned to the man she had heard approaching but was relieved to see that he had not dared to enter the Don's office. He was looking at her, peering at what she was doing, from the door's threshold. "If you want a piece of advice, stop being so damn noisy."

The gangster laughed and at that, Agnese wished she could just sweep him out of the room.

"Relax! I'm new here, I'm just curious. Don Giovanna's pretty nice, he won't murder us over some harmless chitchat."

The Boss of a criminal organization, a nice man?

It was Agnese's turn to snort.

Yeah, she guessed it was the kind of public image he was adamantly working on And some people seemed to believe it: newspapers were reporting less traffic, a decline in thugs harming citizens' and tourists' safety. The astounding sums of money he was giving to local shelters, hospitals, and public schools were also common knowledge: rumors had it that the city council was even thinking of naming the brand-new biological museum, founded thanks to his many donations, after him.

As a boss, Agnese considered him to be pretty decent  - well, as decent as being the Don of a criminal organization could possibly allow him to be considered. After all, he was well-educated enough not to leave clothes and magazines scattered everywhere like the previous boss and some of his most favored underlings did.

But as a man, there was no way she could possibly tell if he was nice. Agnese was just an old, tired cleaning lady: she never pried into the Don's private life even though she guessed there were things that couldn't escape her lack of malicious curiosity. Details such as notes and silly doodles scribbled on his desk, scraps of paper (of extremely dubious content) discarded in the garbage can she needed to empty or sweaters which were at least two sizes too big for him lying on the normally spotless ground of his room...

Sighing, the old maid was about to close the door behind her when she noticed it: the stupid smirk on the gangster's face. The stupid knowing smirk they always had whenever they would bring up the one topic she had no desire to discuss.

How she wished she could just spray him with a window cleaner to wipe it out of his face.

"You know people say 'bout them, right? I'm sure it's complete bullshit but..."

The answer Agnese gave him was the same she would lecture her own underlings with: "One thing I know for sure is that the Underboss always carries his gun on him... And the Don sure doesn't need one to silence people. So just drop it and mind your own business."

With a last sigh, she finally shut the door closed and started her heavy work. However, even though the noisy snoop had left, Agnese felt her mind drift to her first encounter with the Don as she was dusting the ancient bookcase.

It had happened about four years ago, on a late December afternoon - was it because she had arrived too early or because he had stayed in his office later than usual, but the door had been left open so she had loudly pushed her cart inside. The old cleaning lady had instantly understood her mistake - after all, there was little mystery about whom that man was... Who else would dare to enter the big boss's office in his absence?

Golden locks, emerald eyes looking right at her with mild surprise: he obviously had not been expecting her.

"Oh, it's already that time of the day," his chin tilted high and proud, the mafia boss had flatly made that statement.

Not knowing what to say, Agnese had simply nodded and taken a discreet look at the massive clock behind him. 8:17 pm. He was definitely the one behind schedule, not her: she was just on time.

Not that she could say it aloud anyway.

"I didn't know you were still in there, Signore Giovanna," while her head was slightly bowed as a sign of respect, she had not apologized for her intrusion. She had nothing to apologize for: boss or not, he was the one messing with the established schedule. "I'll come back to clean your office later."

Don Giovanna had however soon dismissed her concern with a motion of his hand.

"It's fine, you can start working now. I was about to leave anyway."

The old housemaid nodded and was about to approach the bookcase when she had stopped right on her track, seeing the state of the ancient Victorian carpet. The boss had a rather keen hearing as he almost instantly turned his attention away from his papers to peer at Agnese, understanding what the problem was right away.

The blood hadn't just spattered on the carpet - there were traces of it on the sofa. And on the cushions. As well as on the desk's marble border.

And of course, the Don had to insist on furnishing his office with pristine white furnitures  - even the smallest stain could be spotted from miles away.

Well, at least to look at the bright sight, Agnese realized that she wasn't the one who had to take care of the body, to each, his own mess: scrubbing out the carpet was already going to be a real nightmare.

"I apologize for that," the voice of her employer was surprisingly gentle, and it had taken her off guard. "I'll make sure the floor is covered properly next time."

As unbelievable as it might sound, the Don had kept true to his word: she hadn't been able to find a single drop of blood in his office ever since.

And she had even gotten a raise in the following week.

**

Rumors had it that Don Giovanna was capable of prodigious deeds that a rational mind could not possibly explain: that dazzling smile of his could enchant things and bend them to his will. Some prominent figures from all parts of the world, whose identities shall remain hidden, had apparently come out of his office miraculously cured. But rumors also had it that the reason why his public appearances were becoming more and more scarce was because of a growing sensitivity to daylight.

So Agnese paid very little to no regard to them. Most of the time, like Tradutti had stated, it was indeed complete bullshit.

However, later that night, as she undid her bandages to observe the state of the burn on a forearm (a stupid domestic accident involving a boiling teapot), Agnese was amazed to find her epidermis completely smooth. There was no more blistering or dead skin: her forearm was of a softness that contrasted with the rest of her body:the astronomical amount of tiger balm and aloe vera used could not possibly explain that. So as much of a skeptic as she was, the cleaning lady was forced to admit that it had to be somehow related to her earlier encounter with the Don.

As soon as she had stepped outside his office after tidying it, she had spotted the mafia boss in the hallway. He was accompanied by five or six men dressed in equally expensive suits. Among them was a face quite familiar to her: the city mayor who was making it to the news because of yet another corruption scandal.

The last thing she needed was to get involved in this ugly mess, so the cleaning lady kept her head high and bravely pushed her cart forwards. What she wasn't expecting however was for the Don to stop her.

"Did you injure yourself?"

She had had no choice but to peer down too at her bandage and lie through her teeth: "It's nothing, Signore."

His face showed no emotion, but he took a step towards her and delicately grabbed the injured arm before she could protest. His grip was somehow gentle but tight: there was no way she could escape from it. It was a literal iron fist in a velvet glove.

Agnese could still recall feeling the gazes of the Mayor and his bodyguards on her, they had also stopped walking to stare at her. Her heart rate had momentarily quickened when the Don's hands had brushed over her wound, his emerald eyes never leaving her confused expression. A sharp pain had set her wrist on fire... And then nothing.

She no longer felt a thing - it was as if it had never happened: Don Giovanna had taken a step back and addressed his subordinates, and they all had resumed their walk, any concern about the poor old maid definitely forgotten. The only one who had graced her with something (a strangely amused smile) before leaving was Guido Mista.

The Underboss truly was something. He often reminded Agnese of her own son: way too careless and untidy. His room was a literal nightmare to clean: most of his cashmere sweaters (which he had no problem leaving on the floor for all that mattered) needed to be hand-washed, and he also had the specificity of returning several times a month completely riddled with bullets.

The fact that he was somehow still alive despite his many injuries was as much a real blessing to him that it was a curse for her.

After all, Agnese was the one who had to clean up after him: and there was nothing easier than to track him because with Underboss Mista came blood everywhere.

Everywhere.

From the pavement outside to the sheets of a certain person whose name shall remain unknown.

...

The kitchen timer rang and Agnese was brought back to reality.

She couldn't say for sure if the Don was responsible for this miracle, but she still wished he could have also helped with her rheumatism too.

━━━━━ ༻🌱༺ ━━━━━

Unlike Agnese, Rolfo Giardino was still fairly new at that whole managing-not-to-get-mixed-up-in-mafia-mess-while-working-for-them dilemma. This gardener may have had twenty years of experience, nothing could have possibly prepared him for what was about to come.

The headquarters' gardens themselves were very pleasant - they were spacious and ideally located. Starting from scratch, that is to say from an austere backyard where some pathetic trees were beginning to wither to this authentic example of Giardino all'italiana, adorned with classical sculptures, flowering shrubs, fountains and ornamental parterres, had not been easy at first but Signore Giovanna had agreed to pay the price without thinking twice and the result was worth it.

Now that it was done, now that Rolfo and his team only had to maintain the garden (meaning watering the flowers and cutting the hedges one or two times a week), he guessed the job would be pretty nice if it weren't for all those mobsters who, for some reason he still couldn't gather, enjoyed watching him work. That, as well as those dreadful echoes of gunfire and screams which would shatter from time to time the peaceful atmosphere of the garden.

The rustling of water, the birds' chirping, a loud explosion from within the building... A nice sunny day overall.

Some of his employees were still refusing to work there despite his best attempts to reassure them: for as long as they would stay away from the actual building, it was not like something could happen to them, right? Still, they were places where even Rolfo himself did not like to approach, near the window overlooking what he thought was the Big Boss's office for instance. He had been forced to come close (way too close) to it because of his client's special request to have ivy and white roses gambling along this wall.

He had started working on it on a day when the weather was so mild that the window had apparently been cracked open for once - and the uncanny noises and groans that had escaped through it had scared the gardener to death. He hadn't dared to peer inside to find out what was really happening: the last thing he needed to know was what the Don of Passione's private torture sessions consisted of. Ever since that unfortunate incident, Rolfo had not ventured any closer to the damn white rosebushes. The branches were becoming too long, they were clearly starting to block the path of light, but as long as the Don didn't make any complaint, Rolfo would leave them be.

But on that day, however, the poor gardener saw red as his eyes fell on the figure loitering near that damn window: who was that son of a bitch was stepping on his flower beds!

"Hey you fucking moron: Move! Can't you see you're ruinin' my work?" Rolfo's shout managed to hit the bull's eye. The criminal was startled by it and half a dozen of armed men (probably criminals too) suddenly burst out the building to see what the hell was happening. He sprinted in the direction of the jerk and threw his pair of pruning shears at him. The gardening tool narrowly missed him - it crashed against the window instead (which, thank lord, did not shatter after the impact), but still made him leave. The stern face of Giorno Giovanna soon appeared, his head comically peaking out the building.

The Big Boss frowned when he realized that five of his men were gathered outside, frantically looking for someone, and took a deep breath: "Did one of you just threw a rock at my window?" He sounded confused, and to his credit, that was quite understandable.

Rolfo felt all adrenaline leave him abruptly - he could feel on him the murderous glares of literal murderers, who would have probably murdered him on the spot were it not for the presence of their Big Boss. He had no choice but to come clean: "Uhh, I do believe it was my pruners, Signore. I apologize, I swear they weren't aimed at you. It was for that damn...- uhh, I mean, that employee of yours!"

The Don didn't seem the slightest taken aback by the choice of weapon. He ran a hand through his braided locked and motioned for the others to go.

"You're saying that someone was eavesdropping on me just now?"

Rolfo looked down for a moment before answering: "Uhh, probably? I mean, he was stomping on my rosebushes near your window, that's for sure. They're Blanche Moreau's you know? They took weeks to arrive from France, weeks to finally blossom in Italy's sunlight!"

The mafia boss frowned at that, and Rolfo just knew he understood how valuable these roses were. After all, the Don seemed to be pretty knowledgeable about plants and lots of stuff: rumors had it that they were going to name that new museum after him so...

Signore Giovanna looked behind him and seemed to be addressing someone in the room: "Make sure to find him."

Curiosity overcame his initial reserve: standing on tiptoe, the gardener finally peered at the window to see what was happening inside. The office seemed incredibly spacious and clean: a dark-haired man, behind the desk, was adjusting the position of his cap on his head.

"Kay, I'll climb down the window to catch him faster! The fucker must be hiding somewhere close!," as soon as the man finished speaking, Rolfo couldn't help but react straight away.

"No, you can't do that! You'll ruin the other bushes!"

Both mafiosi looked at him for a moment and the old gardener realized he might have spoken out of turn, but the Don settled the matter for them anyway:

"He's right, I do like these Blanche Moreau's: go around my office Mista. And please, your zipper." That last part had been uttered quietly, but Rolfo had still managed to pick up on it. His devout Catholic mind would probably have been offended by it were it not for the sudden realization which left him quivering.

How on earth was he able to peak so clearly at the window now...?

"That fucking son of a bitch!", at that the mafia boss frowned and looked at him quizzically, but Rolfo couldn't halt the stream of profanities coming out of his mouth. It was too late. "He chopped it off! The whole branch!! It's all gone!"

**

Rolfo had promised his wife he would never get too close to the mafia, even though those paychecks sure were quite weighty. And yet as he was now, comfortably sitting in a well-made leather seat, a cup of coffee in his hand, he thought that for a first time within the shady building he had tried to avoid entering for so long, things were actually looking pretty normal. A week had passed since the unfortunate roses incident, and he had been surprised to receive after a subsequent sick leave a call from the Don's office. He didn't really have much choice, so he had shown up on time and was now patiently waiting in the lobby.

"Don Giovanna will now receive you."

Rolfo followed without a word the pretty secretary - she too looked way too customarily pretty to be involved in that kind of business. It was only when he passed under the massive arch of the door that he became fully aware of what was happening: the head of the Italian mafia had summoned him here.

As expected, it was the Don's spacious office, the one he had managed to catch a glimpse of through the window free of rose branches. The room appeared to be spotlessly clean - hell, it even smelled like a mixture of disinfectant and fresh lemon. Definitely not what he was expecting it to look like. Oddly enough, the very first thing he noticed was the tarp on the floor: that gaudy blue plastic was seriously clashing with the rest of the pristine white furnishings.

"Good afternoon, Signore Giardino. Is that the man you spotted by my window the other day?," Rolfo met the gaze of the mafia boss who was calmly standing to what soon turned out to be a man in bad shape, feet and fists bound onto the chair.

On the other side of the suspect, nonchalantly propped against the desk, was the gangster who had wanted to hop out the window.

All three of them were looking at the gardener expectantly, and he heard behind him the sound of the door closing. Of course, the pretty secretary couldn't stay.

"I can't say for sure Signore. See, I was so focused on the combat boots trampling my bushes that I didn't pay too much attention to his face..."

He hated the bastard who had wrecked his work, sure, but to rush him to such a tragic fate...

"Cool, then check it out!," the underboss had spoken with a casualness contrasting with the cruelty of the angle in which he twisted the poor man's leg. Rolfo had no choice but to look at the sole of his boot.

...

The fucking bastard.

There were still manure and rose petals stuck to it. And those were no common rose petals - they were large, fluffy and creamy white. They had been violently snatched away from a Blanche Moreau's sepal.

The gardener hardly needed to speak up to convince the mafia boss - the lethal look he was giving the tied-up man was already enough evidence.

Umberto Tradduto's fate had just been sealed.

Rolfo couldn't say what prompted him to look outside, but after that he only overheard bits of the conversation whispered in front of him: what was he was seeing right now was far more chocking anyway:

"I leave it to you for now Mista. I'll dispose of him later."

"Another donation to the museum?"

"Not this time. I think he'll make a fine aphid instead, that way our gardener will be able to settle his score with him."

Rolfo wasn't even pretending to be listening to what was being said anymore. He couldn't believe his eyes. He took a step towards the window and the two mafiosi, deep in their discussion, didn't notice it immediately.

"Keep your evening free, we'll be paying a visit to the mayor tonight. I'm getting tired of the spies he keeps sending here."

"Tonight? Hey, do you know how much it cost me to book the entire restaurant?"

The Don cleared his throat as if suddenly reminded of the other two's presence: "The sooner the better. I'm sure she won't mind. You'll reschedule your date later."

Mista was about to protest, but he fell silent as he realized where the gardener was standing: "Hey man, what the...-"

But Rolfo overstepped his role again to cut him off. His eyes shining with emotion, he turned towards the mighty Giorno Giovanna and addressed him as if he was a true deity.

"How...- How did you...? This is prodigious Signore!"

Behind him, blocking the light from the window, were proudly standing three beautiful unscathed roses branches.

━━━━━ ༻ 🚗 ༺ ━━━━━

Alfredo waked up completely startled as he heard someone bang on his window: dozing off at the wheel was a rookie mistake, he was well aware of that - but still.

"Hey open up!"

The underboss' voice was agitated - something very rare for such an easy-going man, so Alfredo immediately unlocked the doors and got out of the vehicle to assist him. Mista was backing up the big boss, a hand wrapped under his shoulders to help him stand.

The driver shot a panicked look at the small cottage they had just come from: what the hell had just happened in there?

Alfredo glanced at the Don's patent leather shoes - he was dressed as reverently as usual - and then at the underboss' worn-out leather jacket: even though they were clothed as if they were going to very different events, they had asked him to drop them at the same address: the mayor's private country hous. He had followed the itinerary scribbled on the paper an informer had given him a few hours before. It was the driver's special talent: being resourceful. Even without a precise address, he always knew how to bring his customers to the desired place.

His clients never asked him how it worked, and in return, he never made any remark on the state they would return to the car in. Or to question why they seemed so keen to surprise the mayor at such a late hour of the evening.

Alfredo was even willing to give an extra hand if needed, occasionally overstepping his role of a simple driver if the client was likely to be a good tipper.

He opened the passenger door for the mafia boss, but to his great surprise the latter stopped him right there:

"I'm fine. Just open the trunk instead."

Alfredo tensed up but said nothing as he went back to his seat to retrieve his leather gloves.

It was another kind of extra service: helping them to get rid of incriminating clues. Well, it wouldn't be the first body dumped in the back of his precious vehicle, and certainly not the last. As long as they would pay for the subsequential cleanup, he didn't mind.

"How many bottles have you stolen?," The underboss had ushered that question to the boss not discreetly enough, and the driver allowed himself a relieved sigh.

No bodies on the horizon, then?

No scandal of the mayor's disappearance making the headlines on the next day?

Great, he'd be able to go back to bed sooner.

As he passed next to the two mafiosi to open the trunk, Alfredo noticed the two bottles of prestigious champagne that the Don was clutching tightly against his. chest. Oh wow. The underboss, on the other hand, was eyeing Giorno with a bewildered look, as if it had just occurred to him that the mysterious gigantic box he had been forced to carry from the cottage contained more bottles.

"Guido please, go fetch me a last one," the Don was less assertive than usual - you could hear the exhaustion in his voice.

Alfredo awkwardly stood next to them in silence as he waited for his next instructions. Charcoal and emerald eyes were engaged in a long, fierce battle of dominance, neither of them breaking contact. Hell, it even seemed to Alfredo at some point that the Don fluttered his lashes - but that could also be exhaustion talking.

Years of working within that specific industry had taught Alfredo how they would inevitably settle that growing tension between them.

Once again, for as long as they would pay for the subsequential seats cleaning, he didn't care. It wouldn't be the first indecent make-out session to happen at the back of his precious vehicle, and probably not the last.

A partition wall was always between Alfredo and his clients. Until now, he had never managed to catch them red-handed, but he had heard of those rumors. And he, better than anyone else certainly, knew for a fact that the Don had never sought to have good company brought to him. He'd always travel to his secondary residence alone while the underboss was the kind of man who preferred to drive there by himself.

Apart from the occasional names slips, he had never witnessed any tender gesture, he had never overheard anything remotely ambiguous. The details that had tipped him off were more subtle, or well usually at least they were. They would simply sit a little too close to one another, with no free seat between them - the pair was never five feet apart so that to speak. But right now, unless he would turn off the parking lights, there was no way Alfredo could pretend he wasn't seeing the Don's right hand slowly lowering far too low along the other's back. It was clearly no longer a question of keeping his balance.

"Fine," the Don let out a dramatic sigh and the driver nearly said hallelujah - now that he had admitted defeat, they would be able to leave at last! "If you won't do it, then fine I'll ask our driver instead."

Holy shit, what the hell was going on that night?

Alfredo quietly took a step back to exit the scene but it was too late - both mafiosi were already looking at him. If they were seriously intending on making him break into the mayor's house, he sure hoped they were ready to give a real good tip.

Fortunately, the underboss shook his head and rolled his eyes (had they just swapped personalities?), before reluctantly talking: "'kay you win I'll go. But then, we're outta here." Mista put the box inside the trunk and headed back to the cottage, leaving the driver in the company of the big boss who didn't seem quite inclined to enter the car yet. So Alfredo had no choice but to stay with him outside, on the chilly night and very awkward silence.

It was only after the third hiccup of the Don that the realization came down to him: he wasn't injured by any means, he was just completely drunk.

"Umm," Alfredo knew he wasn't supposed to question his boss, but the silence between them was becoming seriously uncomfortable. "So were you celebrating something Signore?"

The mafia boss looked at him for a long moment - god, the poor driver sure hoped he hadn't made a mistake, before shrugging: "Not really. I simply like Champagne, especially when I'm not the one paying for it."

Who could have thought that someone who spent so much on luxury clothes could be stingy?

Alfredo decided to politely answer. "Yes, I've heard you own several vineyards in Europe Signore. It's clever, I'm sure you never run out it..."

At that, the mighty Giorno Giovanna ungraciously hiccuped again, and the driver had the decency to pretend not to notice it.

"Mhhh.. You don't get it," had the mafia boss just snorted in contempt? "It's not so much about the Champagne itself as it is about the pure satisfaction of having taken possession of it... The mere contentment in knowing that the stupid mayor will never be able to savor it now that it's mine, you know?"

No, of course, not. There was no way Alfredo could possibly relate to that: it must be one of those crazy rich people whims.

Not that he could say it out loud, of course. The night was getting colder and colder, so he hoped the underboss wouldn't take long to be back.

"Would you like a bottle?," the Don's question took him by surprise so the driver, out of reflex, shook his head.

"Good, or you would have had to convince Mista to go back."

The stingy rich bastard.

Alfredo couldn't believe he was thinking that of him, in any other situation he would never have allowed himself to think that of Giorno Giovanna, but there were at least eight bottles in the trunk, he had seen them. And the Don knew that.

Fortunately, the underboss chose that exact moment to reappear and slam the trunk door shut after charging it with two other bottles.

Discreet much?

But whatever, the Don seemed rather pleased with that and finally agreed to go inside the car - his customers' satisfaction was what mattered the most to Alfredo.

After all, with good service came good tippers.

And that night, in exchange for the obvious promise to keep his mouth shut about what he had witnessed, the underboss sure went overboard with the tip.

━━━━━ ༻ 🧹 ༺ ━━━━━

It was now 8:20 a.m.: even though the day had started way earlier for Agnese, she had had to wait for the mobsters living upstairs to rise and shine, so she could proceed to clean their rooms. It was by far the task she hated the most: grabbing her heavy cleaning cart, she pushed it towards what had to be the cleanest place of them all. The Don's private quarters, starting with his excessively large bathroom: since the fancy tiles there took the longest to dry, she would then continue with his connected bedroom.

However, as soon as she stepped foot inside, Agnese almost fainted at the horrible sight that met her eyes.

Clothes, confetti and popped balloons were scattered everywhere, pieces of glass were covering the soaked floor, and an astronomical amount of what furiously smelled like Champagne had been dumped into the bathtub, splattering the walls and the carpet- hell, it even seemed like some of it was still fizzing inside.

Up until now, she had thought that she had seen it all, that nothing that the most wicked mind was capable of, could possibly surprise her. But that was a whole new level of a mess.

Thankfully, the inscription on a balloon (the survivor, the only one that had not exploded yet) was what prompted her not to hand the culprit her immediate resignation letter.

The Don's birthday would only happen once a year.

And with some sheer luck, she'd be able to negotiate her well-deserved retirement before the next one.

**

That morning, Guido woke up because of a cuss word that reminded him very much of his native Italian countryside. He had no idea what time it was:  Giorno's expensive alarm clock having been inadvertently smashed the night before. He yawned gleefully and stretched out his arms before turning to face the lumpy shape beside him.

The mighty Giorno Giovanna, drool on his chin, was muffled in his blanket, and it didn't seem from the look of it that he'd be getting up any time soon.

He was probably dealing with a hell of a hangover right now - served him right for the astronomical quantity of Champagne in which he had literally bathed and drowned. Giorno would decidedly never learn from his past mistakes. Well, he was very much looking forward to taunting his lover for years about that unfortunate late birthday episode.

There was no way the mafia boss would be able to conduct his meetings of the day - changing the planning wasn't something to worry about even though it would piss the hell out of Fugo for sure. Feeling compassionate about what was awaiting Giorno, he gently patted what he thought was his head (?) and smiled as he heard him grumble in return. How cute.

Guido finally stood up to start his day, he would smuggle him some Ibuproben later but first thing first, his much-awaited morning tinkle. And a long hot shower. Yeah, that way he would perhaps find a ploy to avoid dealing with Giorno's responsibilities instead of him. While he was not hungover, the late night's events had completely drained him of his energy.

Giorno's bathroom truly was something: it was way more spacious and tidier than his own. To him, it was a literal spa: cool extra-powerful water jets, a gigantic glass shower cabin AND a massive marble bathtub, a myriad of bottles of heavenly-smelling shampoo, conditioners, shower gels and body lotions everywhere - hell, there was even a housekeeper politely handing him a towel.

...

Holy shit.

Trying his best to cover his naked glory, Guido Mista could only stutter pitifully:

"Uhh.. Yeah, so about that new raise of yours we were discussin' the other day..."

This would only be the fourth time of the year, so at this point...

[arlome]

For Phrack please! “The diamond in your engagement ring is fake.”

But of course, my darling!

(This turned out to be far longer than I expected )

They think they are so damn clever.

It’s a well-guarded secret, at first, kept away from all prying eyes and wagging tongues; something precious that only the two of them - and her loyal household - are privy to. It’s exciting and new, brilliant and all-encompassing, and her heart swells in a way unknown to her before at the thrilling, clandestine nature of this affection, one that is so thoroughly different than her previous affairs of the flesh.

It all goes swimmingly until he is seen leaving her house early in the morning one too many times, wearing the same suit he wore to work the previous day. The factory of vicious rumours begins producing all sorts of farfetched gems, and the nature of their relationship becomes the topic of various tea dances and garden parties all across Melbourne. Eventually, the good inspector is summoned to a rather awkward conversation down at Russel Street, that leaves him rather frustrated, but amuses his partner exceedingly.

“Not to worry, Jack,” she says, smiling lazily, her head pillowed on his sweat-slicked abdomen after a rather vigorous session of lovemaking. “We’ll figure something out.” 

The idea forms in her ever-thinking head rather organically, and even though he is reluctant to agree at first - no doubt worried she might come to resent the arrangement in some way - he ends up acquiescing to the scheme like the reluctant good sport he can sometimes be. And so, a decision is tentatively made and is left to lie as low as possible, until a few days pass and the two detectives find themselves on the same case.

They’re walking down Wellington St, heading to the police car that’s wisely parked a few blocks away from the rowdy part of Collingwood in which one of their suspects lives when Jack stops in front of a pawnbroker’s window, a rather reflective expression on his handsome face.

“Jack?” Phryne asks as he pats down his pockets with an air of deep concentration, but the man just holds up a finger at her inquiry and disappears into the shop.

He emerges a few minutes later, his lips set in his subtle, lopsided smile, and drops something small and circular into the palm of her hand.

It’s a comely Paste set in a simple gold ring, one square stone fixed right in the middle of a thin strip of reddish-gold. It’s probably too small for her taste - she’s accustomed to bigger, more substantial rings - but one look at Jack’s open face endears the thing to her. 

His eyes are smiling, shining with the shared joke, full to the brim with mischief so unlike him, that Phryne feels light on her feet. And when he goes down on one knee in the middle of the busy street, not even bothering with doffing his hat, she nearly snorts with the absurdity of the situation.“Will you fake marry me, Miss Fisher?” he asks, and the corners of his generous mouth twitch with the need to curl into a smile.

She laughs and shakes her head at the ridiculous mock-proposal, but nods almost eagerly nonetheless.

“Yes, yes, a million times yes!” she gasps dramatically, and squeals in delight when Jack springs to his feet and sweeps her off hers to a few lazy cheers from a slowly gathering crowd.

“Let’s see Russel Street having qualms about this!” Jack whispers in her ear, laughing almost giddily. “Here you are, making an honest man out of me.”

She brushes his cheek lovingly and leans into his tight embrace, ignoring the world around them.

“You were always an honest man, Jack Robinson,” she mutters, a little overcome despite herself. “I never needed a silly ring to tell me that.”They make love on her bedroom floor that night, slowly and deeply, naked and laughing, the silly little ring catching the low light between their shifting bodies. She never takes it off.

They let the gossip columns do their job for them; a few gatherings where the pair are seen together, the simple ring on Phryne’s finger prominent and telling, sends the socialites of Melbourne into a frenzy. The two detectives never outrightly confirm or deny a thing, but Jack is never summoned by Russel Street to awkward talks of a rather personal nature again. 

A fundraising luncheon at Aunt P’s brings the honeymoon to a rather jolting pause. The old battle axe takes one less-than-discreet look at the ring, blanches, and asks for a quick moment of Phryne’s time.

“Whatever is the matter, Aunt P?” Phryne asks, worried at the paleness of her aunt’s face. “We’ve left poor Jack alone with all those hungry-looking women; he might never recover if we don’t hurry back!”

Prudence Stanley scrutinizes her niece with considerable shrewdness, her head tilting in the direction of the ring.

“So, are the rumours true?” she asks, at last, her voice just a little on the shrill side.

Phryne blinks innocently and tugs on one dangling earring.

“What rumours?” she asks, seemingly naive, but the pitch of her tone rises slightly towards the end of the question and she winces inwardly. She has a ‘tell’ and she knows it.

“Don’t play coy with me, my girl,” he aunt replies sternly, pointing at Phryne’s left hand. “Are you or are you not engaged to be married to Detective Inspector Jack Robinson?”

Phryne sighs and abandons all pretence; it’s not like she ever truly stood a shot with the older woman.

“Jack and I have an… understanding,” she divulges reluctantly, mentally preparing herself for her aunt’s lecture on propriety and station. 

But Prudence Stanely only sighs worriedly and wrings her plump hands, nearly shocking her niece into a stupor.

“My dear,” she begins shakily, not knowing how to approach the situation. “You know I hold your inspector in the highest regard - he is a good, decent man; very educated too, which is a pleasant surprise, for a man of his station - but… well… my dear girl, the diamond in your engagement ring is fake.”

Phryne exhales in relief, smiles a little too brightly, and reaches for her aunt’s hands.

“Oh, Aunt P,” she says softly, her brow furrowing slightly. “I know…”

“You…you know?” the older woman stutters in disbelief. “But…”

Phryne purses her lips and nods.

“So, you’re not engaged, then?” Aunt Prudence asks,  and the forlorn note in her voice makes Phryne sadder than she anticipated.

“Afraid not, Aunt,” she replies, smiling a tad self - deprecatingly. “We’d much rather just live in sin.” Then, sighing a little at her aunt’s unimpressed look, she decides to amend her statement. “I assure you; even though the ring is fake, the understanding we have is, in fact, very real.” 

“Why the subterfuge, then? Why play make-belief with the entire world?”

Phryne laughs and shakes her head.

“Hardly the entire world, Aunt Prudence,” she protests, her hand caressing the older woman’s hand. “Just the constabulary.”

Understanding dawns upon the great battle-axe like the new day upon the sleepy land.

“The Inspector’s reputation, I take it?” And when Phryne nods her confirmation, she continues, “But why a fake ring? What if anybody else notices?”

Phryne shrugs. “It’s a shared joke, Aunt. A fake ring for a fake engagement. And you know I hardly care for other people’s opinions; a Paste ring from Jack is worth more than any diamond.”

Her last words take her by surprise. She’s rather shocked by her own conviction, and she suspects it shows. Aunt Prudence certainly notices it, deciding to grab the fleeting chance by its scrawny neck.

“If you’re that much in love with the man, why not just marry him and save all this trouble? I don’t understand, Phryne!”

The lady detective leans over and plants a kiss on her aunt’s forehead. She’ll save the mild panic attack at that particular revelation for later.

“I know you don’t, Aunt,” she sighs fondly and smiles. “If it’s any consolation, I’m rather certain that Jack would’ve proposed if he thought I was that way inclined.”

“And are you sure you’re not…?” the older woman asks, hopefully, her hands coming to rest on Phryne’s arms.

“Pretty sure. But I’ll tell you this, Aunt P; if there was ever a man who could make me reconsider my views on marriage…” she trails off, her eyes shining mischievously. 

Aunt P heaves a long, suffering sigh and shakes her head.

“Alright, I suppose nothing I can say will change your mind. You always were a strong-headed girl… and I suppose there are worse suitors… Senior Detective Inspector has a nice ring to it, and, of course, he may one day be the Commissioner of Police! Highly respectable position - “

When both women finally return to the luncheon, and Phryne finds and rescues Jack from a group of middle-aged women who are abnormally keen on murder mysteries, he places a warm palm on the small of her back and leans over to whisper in her ear.

“What was that all about?”

Phryne smiles and catches her aunt’s shrewd look across the room, noticing a new glint in the older woman’s eyes.

“Nothing to worry about, Jack; but I think it’s safe to assume that we’ve got another person on our team.”

And when they all sit down to tea, Aunt Prudence draws herself to her full, albeit rather lacking height, and turns to Jack with great importance and pride.

“Another slice of pie, Senior Detective Inspector?” 

And the dear man smiles and offers his plate.

“Don’t mind if I do, Mrs Stanely.”

They are so damn clever, after all.

[urfavmurtad]

What is your opinion on arguments that claim the islamic golden age proves islam isn't anti-science or "problematic"?

I read this article a year ago and I’m glad I bookmarked it bc it says pretty much my exact thoughts on this topic. First lemme just get this part out of the way:

Like many other concepts that shape our understanding of medieval history, the idea of a “Muslim Golden Age” is a historiographical construct. It promotes the notion that, until at least the early thirteenth century, the Muslim world experienced an era of unprecedented stability, prosperity, and cultural production. … Putting aside the fact that it imposes an anachronistic framework on medieval Muslim history, its main argument that the period between the eighth century and the thirteenth century can be characterized mainly by tolerance, cultural efflorescence, political unity, and religious harmony is contrary to many of the facts that one encounters upon reading the history of the various civilizations which are subsumed under the category of “Islamic civilization,” a phrase which conceals the linguistic, cultural, intellectual, theological, and political diversity of the lands in which Muslims resided during the medieval and early modern periods. This is to say nothing of the fact that the narratives promoted by these “Golden Age” perspectives are usually a reworking of official histories that do not take into account the realities of marginalized groups during the same period. The “Golden Age” perspective is also problematic because it is in many ways reactionary and a response to the many political, religious, and intellectual challenges faced by the Muslim world in the modern period. History, or rather particular historical narratives about a “Golden Age,” therefore becomes an important repository for the “greatness of Islamic civilization” and a refuge in which Muslims can seek solace in order to refute the idea–promoted mainly by those hostile to Islam–that Muslim civilization was, is, and always will be characterized by death, destruction and chaos.…

In other words, the nuances of Muslim history and civilization are completely obscured in the face of broad, sweeping statements geared towards emphasizing not only the uprightness, but even the absolute supremacy of Muslim civilization, as it was believed to have manifested between the ninth century and the eighteenth century. It is at this point where history ceases to be a critical intellectual endeavor and instead becomes polemic and apologetics.  

The “Golden Age” is one of those abstract things that exists more as an idea than as a reality, like all other “ages” (“Dark Ages” etc). It’s important to point out that this is an Orientalist idea that was created to give the impression that Muslims in the distant past were productive and peaceful, versus “modern Muslims” (in the 1800s) who suck and must be brought back to their ancestors’ values by Ye Olde Hwhite People. It was not a term used by Muslims or Arabs themselves until the permanent inferiority/superiority complex (we r the Sasuke Uchihas of the world tbh) kicked in last century and people started using it.

No one can agree on when the “Golden Age” exactly took place. In the earliest usages of the term, it was just meant to refer to some vague past period of glory, to differentiate the past from the present squalor. The people using it did not have a damn clue about Arab history. In its modern-day usage, there is an enormous range from like… 700 AD to 1300 AD. Or even longer. That time period involved multiple civil wars, plagues that destroyed a huge portion of the population, genocides, invasions, ethnic cleansings, famines, breakdowns of society–as is expected of such a huge time period, of course. There were plenty of periods of stability and progress within that time period in some regions, interspersed by various issues… so where exactly is the line drawn? Was there really one “Golden Age”, or did Muslim lands, like literally every other civilization on earth, just go through periodic growth and collapse eras, up until the present?

No one can agree on where the “Golden Age” took place, either. Every single place where Islam was practiced? The lands of the Abbasid Caliphate, in general? The remains of the Umayyads in Spain? Fatimid Cairo?  Khorasan? Mughal India? Ottoman Anatolia? What? By the 1000s AD, Muslim lands were ruled by dozens of different empires. They had different laws, different populations, different levels of development and urbanization. Some were more built-up and wealthier than others, again like every other civilization on earth. Some areas were largely rural and illiterate, others were urbanized and better-educated. Some empires attacked others and absorbed them; dynasties rose and fell all the damn time. Throughout the “Golden Age”, non-Muslim lands were invaded and absorbed into larger empires, growing the area governed by Muslims even larger. Parts of the Middle East/North Africa/Andalus/India remained poor and isolated, other parts of it became wealthy and connected to trade routes. I mean… of course?

Like… I don’t think ppl realize what a large area of land we’re talking about here. Are people under the impression that every inch of land conquered by some Muslim dynasty was not only urbanized, well-developed, wealthy, and tolerant, but also homogeneous? Not all of these places had the same conditions!! Not all were even majority-Muslim throughout this period! Many had virtually nothing in common beyond the fact that their rulers were all Muslims of various sects–and many of those rulers were only nominally religious, again just like every other civilization in the world. There were different ethnicities being ruled over by different ethnicities–I mean by the 1000s the Turks were already running amok. This whole Orientalist idea that the Abbasids were in complete control of their peaceful happy lands until the Mongols destroyed them or whatever is nonsense.

It’s all a bit like saying that Europe had a “golden age” after the Italians took over Constantinople while rural French villagers had finally realized how to wipe their asses. Hell, it’s like saying that Europe already had a “golden age” during Byzantium’s peak centuries earlier while the western half of the continent was enjoying a Germanic Rave Party. You can’t assign one label to hundreds of years of history encompassing thousands of different tribes and dozens of empires on different continents.

No one can even say what they mean by “Golden Age”. Usually it’s referred to as some combination of scientific development and “tolerance”. It goes without saying that when you’re talking about like 600 years spread over parts of Europe, North Africa, the Middle East, and Southeast Asia, the idea that all of these areas were happy, peaceful, and productive places for that time span is insane. Not to mention that there were plenty of eras outside the “Golden Age” that had just as much development. Why exactly are the Ottomans or Safavids or Mughals not considered part of this age? What measure of goldenness are we using rn, is there a table I can consult to see how many gold units are necessary to become Golden or some shit? What does “tolerance” mean when we’re talking about eras in which religious minorities were almost universally discriminated against, even in the best-case scenarios? Are we supposed to just ignore those laws, the mass slavery, conquests, etc? Is “golden age” code for when we were the ones oppressing the people of foreign lands?

But typically, when people (this includes not just Muslims btw) talk about the “Golden Age”, I think they are picturing one of three vague areas, in different continents and eras. One is al-Andalus in what is now Spain/Portugal. Plenty of people have heard of Cordoba and its “tolerance”. The second is the Syria-Iraq-Iran region (as though they’re all one place???) and especially Baghdad at some point before the Mongol invasion of the city, like 800s-1100s or something. Again, even when people know very little about Islamic history, they often know of the completely-misrepresented “House of Wisdom”. (In my experience, the focus is almost always on the Arab parts of that area, while places like modern-day Iran are basically ignored, despite the fact that this is where many Muslim literary traditions, architecture, and research kicked off. I think it’s because the “Golden Age” is usually billed as an era of peaceful coexistence, and there weren’t many happy religious minorities in Iran. There’s also doubtlessly some Arab-centrism thrown in there.) The third and imo less well-known one is Fatimid Egypt. Fewer people have heard of the Fatimids themselves, but many institutions and ideas associated with Arab science and learning are from their time.

These are… uhh different dynasties on three different continents in different eras. But let’s roll with it for the sake of argument. The article I linked to sums up my thoughts on al-Andalus (side note: I know someone who calls Spain “occupied al-Andalus” in 100% seriousness and it makes me laugh every time. “No wait only WE’RE allowed to be imperialists!!!” - ancient Islamic proverb):

Another myth that Islamic Golden Age writers like to promote is the idea of medieval Islamic Spain (al-Andalus) as a haven of tolerance and coexistence. Although it is certainly true that there was a large degree of coexistence of faiths in medieval Spain and some important examples of toleration, there was also a great deal of intolerance. In fact, some of the most brutal episodes in Islamic history occurred in al-Andalus. In 1066 a Muslim mob murdered nearly 4000 Jews in Granada (the first major pogrom to occur in Europe), while in the twelfth century the Almohad dynasty forced all Jews and Christians in al-Andalus and North Africa to convert to Islam (or choose exile); among the most important of these exiles was the Jewish philosopher Moses Maimonides (d. 1204). The works of various Muslim philosophers and theologians, including both al-Ghazali (d. 1111) and Ibn Rushd (d. 1198), were publicly burned in the courtyard of the Great Mosque of Cordoba. Other episodes, such as the Martyrs of Cordoba (851-859) and destruction of Santiago de Compostela (999), also show that al-Andalus cannot simply be reduced to a paradise of tolerance. The existence of oppressive institutions, such as slavery and the social stratification of Andalusi society also underscores this point. However, just as we should not claim that al-Andalus was a haven of tolerance based on several examples and anecdotes, we should also not reduce Andalusi history to a sequence of ravages and massacres, as some anti-Islamic thinkers have done.

Al-Andalus was, for its early history, ruled by a remainder of the Umayyads, who had been overtaken by the Abbasids almost everywhere else. By necessity, they had to negotiate with their (mostly Christian) population to avoid unrest that would make them weak to enemies coming north from Morocco. While non-Muslims were discriminated against on a level that would cause Nazi accusations if it were implemented against Muslims in the West today, there were in fact plenty of decades in which development thrived and both Muslim and non-Muslim scientists and researchers made important progress, and there were times in which people lived in peace, even if it wasn’t an equal peace. After the collapse of the Umayyads, there was a period of unrest, followed by domination by the Almoravids and then the Almohads, the latter of whom were one of the nastiest Muslim dynasties to get into Europe prior to the Ottomans. People reacted somewhat negatively to the convert-or-die order and the “Reconquista” restarted not long after. The history of the territory is more complicated than “science and peace then iron maidens and Catholics :(((”.

The Fatimids were an Arab Ismaili dynasty that ruled parts of the ME and NA from Egypt for a couple hundred years starting in the 900s AD. During the first century of Fatimid rule it is absolutely true that Egypt, and especially Cairo, developed a sophisticated and wealthy culture that gave rise to all sorts of authors and scholars. But like every other long-lasting empire on earth, in terms of tolerance and peace, it was a mixed bag, and some leaders were better than others. Some Fatimid caliphs were out of their god damned minds, the most notable of whom was al-Hakim, who facilitated both an increase in scholarship and learning and a campaign of terrible religious persecution, against both Sunnis and Christians and Jews at different points of his lifetime. He was like the Arab Louis XIV or something. Nonetheless, many educational institutions did flourish in this era. Al-Azhar, which today puts out fatwas about how Shia people are devils, was in fact founded by the Shia Fatimids…

The Syria-Iraq-Iran trio, by which I mostly mean Baghdad bc 99% of the time that’s what people focus on, was one of the Muslim world’s most urbanized and educated cities for quite a while. The Mutazilites are usually credited as the ones to kickstart this, and this was a school of early Islamic theology that incorporated a lot of Greek/Hellenized Christian ideas into their works, to the chagrin of most other Muslims at the time. The Mutazilites shouldn’t be seen as hippies or harmless–they did often persecute other Muslims (and non-Muslims) and attacked non-Muslim lands in order to subjugate them. Eventually they went too far and triggered a backlash. But they saw themselves as “rationalists” I guess the word would be, and that is what drew them to the creation of learning institutions. These are some of the first places that commissioned the translations of Indian texts after the first Arab conquests of parts of India, and those texts included many important mathematical concepts that were expanded upon by (or sometimes wrongly attributed to) Arabs. Even as this school began to fade, it left an imprint on what is now Iraq, and huge numbers of scholars from the surrounding area did visit its large cities to further their education at various points. Again–world history is really long!! Starting in the 900s AD, it was ruled by all sorts of Iranian empires, then the Turks came to town, then the Mongols came in and wrecked shit. Periods of progress existed before, during, and after that era, interspersed by periods in which progress stalled. Tolerance went from ehh to really bad depending on the particular ruler and dynasty in charge of the area, which is completely expected.

To sum it up: there was no one “Islamic Golden Age”. There were many different eras of relative progress/tolerance interspersed with less-happy eras all throughout the Muslim areas of Europe, North Africa, the Middle East, and Asia from Islam’s creation to the modern day. And of course there were! This was a huge area and a huge time span. How much of that is due to Islam itself is, uh, debatable, to put it gently–certainly the enormous wealth that came from conquest and domination of trade and slave routes didn’t hurt, and not all major figures of this “age” were even religious. I don’t think many people would call the 1500s-1800s the “Christian Golden Age”. But whatever factors you want to attribute it to, it is at least true that multiple Muslim empires, at various points in time, did contribute a lot to the development of science and medicine. Granted, it wasn’t even close to every area ruled by Muslims in every time period from 700 to 1300, and to say that these areas were tolerant or progressive by modern standards is lunacy, but still.

The idea that there was one singular chunk of time in which “Islam” as a whole was tolerant, peaceful, progressive, wealthy, and scientifically knowledgeable–after which something (Mongols, imperialism, ??? we just don’t know) happened to reverse all of that–is a modern idea mostly promoted by Orientalists, and it’s been adopted as a magical Lost Age by Muslims who feel bad about the admittedly shitty situations that many currently find themselves in. But past Muslims dealt with war, poverty, dictators, destruction, and intolerance too. Sometimes people in the “Golden Age” were ruled by horrible leaders and influenced by terrible, intolerant, anti-science movements; other eras saw a backlash to that and facilitated better conditions and people rebuilt. Then there would be some disaster that set people back again, on and on. Just like today. And just like every other part of the world, including Europe. Things move in waves, man. timeisaflatcircle.gif

(Also if I see that “Muslims invented MATH. There was NO MATH before goddamn 610 AD” post with like 5000000 notes one more time imma cry tbh)

[sakaar-wheretherestendsup]

Completely unrelated:

The whole Scarlett Johansson thing happening right now.... (I’m not talking about Ghost In the Shell- that should’ve gone to an Asian woman, not a white one), but for her being cast as a Trans man: I understand the need for representation and the fact that trans people need to be shown properly in the way that they are in society in true form, but what about all those times where a straight actor played a gay man/woman, what about all those times where a straight man played the role of a trans woman, what about all those times a gay individual played a straight person???? I mean, it’s called acting for a reason, is it not? I’m not trying to be callous or ignorant here, don’t get me wrong, nor am I trying to hurt anyone’s feelings. I understand the argument that if trans actors got the chance to play non-trans roles, this wouldn’t be that big of a problem, but the thing is, in most of the comments and reactions I’ve been reading on this situation, very few people are using that as their argument. Most of it is just the fact that straight or non-trans people shouldn’t be playing trans people. I just don’t understand why? It’s a role? Acting is about becoming someone you are not. It’s about leaving your comfort zone, it’s about adopting a different persona, a different personality, a different individuality.

Let’s talk about the race card. I’m sure some (a lot) of people would say, “according to that logic, a white actor playing a person of another race or color shouldn’t be a big deal, but it is and Hollywood is starting to acknowledge that”. Here’s the thing though, there’s a lot of history surrounding the introduction of race into the industry. At the beginning it would be a major thing if there even was a character of color included in a script! And then, IF there was, they would have a white actor play him/her. What that implied and outright said, was that “we don’t find person’s of color attractive enough to put in films, or make films about them. Gradually, when the issue of race started sweeping the whole country, they started including more people of color in films. Then, the issue became more about proper representation, and having more important roles with more people of color (and different from just black and white at that) rather than just having them in the first place. The issue was, and still is, about having people in films that mirror the way society is. If you have a white man playing a black, Asian, or Indian one, then the message that’s being sent out is “we think white people are more attractive than the actual type of person we are trying to portray.” It’s also saying, that “we don’t actually believe society should be the way it is and have all these different people live and work cohesively”.

I understand that you can say that gender identity and sexual orientation should be treated the same way, but what these two topics and issues really need are awareness and acceptance. I’m not saying they shouldn’t have proper representation, but you also have to be practical about some things. The main issue surrounding gender identity is most people’s’ lack of acceptance or “believability” of/in it. What these big Hollywood films do by making biopics and storylines surrounding gender identity issues and casting star studded names in and as those people is bring awareness to real people that went through real, painful facets of life to become who they really were/are. I get that in an ideal world, everyone would like to say that by casting trans people in such roles would be the thing that would really be making a statement and really be enforcing awareness, but frankly that’s not going to happen. I’m not trying to be insensitive, but while it is undoubtedly true that a lot of lgbtq+ people would flock to theatres and fill some seats and watch those movies, the overwhelming majority of people won’t, and those percentage of people that won’t are the ones that need educating, not the people who already know and accept and appreciate trans people! The people who don’t aren’t going to go watch a movie with some person they couldn’t care less about playing another person they don’t particularly care much about knowing. Those movies in those cases would tank. “What about Love, Simon, and Wonder Woman, and Black Panther, and other such movies that represented minorities in a correct manner and did so well!! Look at that! That’s what proper representation does. The right way will prevail!” Yeah. No. Black Panther? Look at how fucking long that took. A whole black cast with black superheroes and black super villains and black music and various “black” cultures. Very. Fucking long. and it did well for various reasons: 1. They started introducing some of the characters earlier to get audiences used to them, 2. They used some big house names in the cast to kickstart a few things (Lupita (big before BP-Oscar winner), Michael B. Jordan, Forest Whittaker, Angela Basset), 3. it was a MARVEL STUDIOS, Disney film. It had ALOT of backing and fandom support, and 4. Finally, yes of course one of the biggest reasons for its success and impact and influence was the fact that it was an all black cast and a black superhero done all in the right way, but all those people that filled those seats?? They had been waiting for this for ages! Ages. It was way past time for something like this! And again we’re back to the race card. WONDER WOMAN. Let’s talk WW, it did great! It even didn’t have a huge name actress! But it did have a huge name character. Wonder Woman herself drew a huge part of her audience. And the fact that it was a female directed film. Again, another group of people, who had never been given an opportunity like this. LOVE, SIMON. Love, Simon did really well for a movie solely surrounding a gay kid. In fact, it’s the biggest “blockbuster” for such a “genre”. 8, even 4 years ago? It would’ve tanked. With a pretty much “no-name” cast besides Jennifer Garner (who is not the center of the storyline), it would’ve gotten nothing, but it did. Why? Because for the past couple of decades, Hollywood has been “experimenting” various times with gay concepts and storylines and characters. It’s not a “new” thing. It’s not something people haven’t heard of. It’s not something only a handful of people accept or recognize and appreciate. It’s still a battle and gay acceptance has a long way to go with the public, but it’s not “strange” (mostly) for someone to see a gay character on screen because it’s no longer considered “strange” (mostly) to interact with, and associate with, and live lives with, and develop relationships with gay individuals in the real world.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the trans community. Of course none of that is their/our fault. It’s the world, and the media, and Hollywood, and people who refuse to accept. But the thing is that while, I’m sure the trans community has been suffering and waiting for ages as well, the truth of the matter is, that a majority of the public is not recognizing that. They’ve barely begun to accept the l, g, and b parts of “lgbtq+”, so on the cycle of awareness, recognition, acceptance, and complete normalcy of these things, the trans community, unfortunately, is still put on awareness. Even now, this last month, with all the pride parades across the country, the amount of non-lgbtq+ persons toting signs of awareness and accceptance for those first 3 and last letter were bigger than those for trans. We’re still stuck on awareness. When Trump pulled his shit about the military and trans people, people stood up and fought back but it was all surface level. It was all “we stand with trans people”, “trans people are people too”, “we recognize and accept trans” and things like that. It hasn’t gone beyond that yet. We’re still at the point where we need all the help we can get in awareness. And the fact of the matter is that that means getting Hollywood to make films about trans people. Successful trans people, not successful trans people, good trans people, bad trans people, trans people of all colors, races, shapes, and sizes. Just like they did and are doing with gay, and lesbian, and bisexual people. And we need this films to gain awareness. BIG AWARENESS. Not just theatres with seats filled only by lgbtq+ and some supporters, but more people than that. People that will go to watch their favorite actor or actress. Or a certain director or production house. That means getting and letting big stars be cast as iconic trans people, so that the public will start recognizing and accepting them/us.

Also, back to the acting thing. Where do we draw the line? Of what people are allowed to play and what they aren’t? Race makes sense, on a fundamental level it just makes sense, there’s not much acting experience you can learn or earn by playing another race in an official capacity. You can learn by playing character types. And I’m sorry, but sexual orientation definitely falls under character type. So does gender identity, in a sense. Just like religion. If you extend the line to gender identity, then will you extend it to sexual orientation? And then after that, to religion? What’s the point of acting then? I get that some of you will say there’s a lot you can don by just staying in your lane, but for people and actors who have done so much of that, what about them? Some of the most iconic and award winning roles and movies have centered around sexual orientation and some gender identity issues. It gives the actors a challenging and emotionally charged role. How is that disparaging or improper representation? Will you eventually start getting offended over the fact that a Jewish individual might play a Hindu, or vice versa? Or whatever variation with religion that could come up? Shouldn’t there be , with that logic, “proper” representation there then too?

Also, again, I apologize, but what if the actual trans actors that are auditioning for the role just aren’t what the studio wants? That’s just show business. You have to get over that. Basically what you’re saying is that if it fits your bill and works properly somehow in your mind, it’s fine, but if it doesn’t it’s not? That’s not for you to decide.

The ScarJo thing: frankly, her non-marvel movies recently haven’t done that well and a lot of that is simply on the stories of the films she’s been in and some of it is also because of the controversy surrounding her (but not too much - the money depends on the entertainment factor, sorry). Personally, I love her as Natasha/Black Widow, I think her acting chemistry with her co-stars is fantastic. She plays really well off of other actors, and she’s a good actress. should she have thought GitS through? Yes. But she didn’t. Actors make idiotic choices all the time. The trans role she’s taking on, if she does a good job, I’ll like her performance, if she doesn’t, I won’t. It’s as simple as that. A lot of that also lies on the directors and story-writers shoulders as well so there’s that. There’s a lot of crap with her and Woody Allen that I don’t condone, but I’m also trying to come to terms with the fact that there are quite a few actors who I love who had said nice things about him in the past (Hugh Jackman, Cate Blanchett, Javier Bardem, etc.). So there. That’s my bit. Thanks for listening. I apologize if I offended people, I’m trying to simultaneously understand and explain what I’m thinking/feeling. I’ve never written such a long post about anything in my life. I promise I don’t hate trans people. Or any people really. Actually, I hate neo -nazis, and those that are explicitly trump followers (not simply republicans but trump followers, there’s a difference- you know who you are). Anyways. I don’t. I’m a liberal, minority colored woman myself, (not that that means anything), but yeah I get it. But it’s confusing.

[stereksummerexchange]

That’s Debatable

@simplysparklingtapanga | AO3 

by @sunshinexlollipops

Stiles is known for not being a run-of-the-mill omega.

He’s mouthy, stubborn, strongly opinionated, and he doesn’t appreciate egotistical alphas in the slightest. In fact, he’ll tell them exactly where to shove it— … if he could. Sadly, when you’re in a Contemporary Issues class at school with a teacher who loves write-ups, one must curb the tongue to some degree.

Even when lacrosse star and alpha Derek Hale is being a massive asshole, and continues to argue with Stiles every chance he gets.

Contemporary Issues is like a gift for Stiles.

While others are merely placed here because it’s senior year, and a credit means freedom at this point, for Stiles, this is paradise.

Getting to tell alphas who think with their knots to shove it? To discredit social expectations for omegas, as well as the legal side of things? A place where he can debate and tear down opposing opinions with facts and his sharp wit?

It’s a solid yes. With grabby hands.

It’s not that much of a surprise. After all, he’s somewhat known for the paper he wrote about male circumcision his junior year. But, he’s mainly known for being an omega who thinks a different way and will let you know about it.

So, when it’s the first day of school, and every kid is groaning about, Stiles shows up to his Contemporary Issues class — first period, which means he’s been blessed to have it every morning yes — with a grin on his face and a bounce in his step. Some kids are honestly taken aback by his enthusiasm as he picks his desk near the back wall in the corner, and they eye him groggily with either confusion or distaste.

But it’s alright. Stiles isn’t going to be in this class to please anyone. In fact, it’s the exact opposite.

And, right on cue, he gets the first objector.

“Oh god, Stilinski is in here?”

“Jackson, so happy to see you,” Stiles smiles as the alpha glares his way, choosing a seat that is the furthest from Stiles, which happens to be right by the door, “Tell me, how does your hand compare to Lydia after the break-up?”

Jackson’s face blotches up red, unlike the beta orange of his irises, “You little—“

“Bilinski, you’re in here!?”

Stiles smiles as Jackson sits down at his desk in silenced frustration— meanwhile, Finstock is frowning in the doorway, “Sure am.”

Finstock makes a quick motion of the cross on his chest and then sighs as he enters the room.

Oh, this is gonna be so fun. He can’t wait till the first assignment.

A lot of other students start filing into the room then, and thankfully Jackson has had some of his social circle join him, so he’s too preoccupied with them to really give Stiles an earful more than he already has. It leaves Stiles alone, though, he’s kind of used to it at this point.

He’s never been liked by the majority for who he is.

And, as if the universe wanted some cosmic irony for that statement, in comes Beacon Hills High School’s prized student— lacrosse Captain and respected alpha, Derek Hale.

Stiles groans under his breath, because it seems like the asshole circle is complete. Pretty much the all-stars of the lacrosse team are in this class, and Stiles has no doubt that Finstock pulled some strings to get so many of them on his roll call outside of the locker room.

But more than anything, Stiles knows about Derek. He’s heard things, and while they are rumors, he’s caught Derek in action.

Stiles has seen how he left his girlfriend Jennifer Blake in a broken, mascara-teared messes in the hallway. He’s seen Derek pull into the parking lot in his black Camaro and rev it a couple times, just because he wants more people to look at his already envied ride.

And, there’s that time freshman year, before Stiles presented as an omega, that he tried to join the lacrosse team with his best friend, Scott.

It didn’t go well, and Derek ran laps around them both with a smirk on his face. Stiles even fell and twisted his ankle because Derek’s lacrosse stick tripped him, and he didn’t even offer to help or do anything when Scott had to help Stiles off the field. In fact, all Stiles got to hear was his thunderous cry when Finstock announced Derek was officially on the team.

So ever since then, Stiles hasn’t exactly been fond of Derek Hale, unlike what seems to be the entire student body. Compared to the disappoint he gave to people, Derek’s arrival makes everyone in the class smile some, and Finstock even cheers.

Well… maybe this isn’t going to be as great as he expected.

Ugh.

But maybe there is such a thing as small favors, because right after Derek sits down, Stiles is greeted to the best mop of hair ever.

“Scott!” Stiles grins, throwing his arms up in the air.

“Great, we have the wonder twins now,” Derek gripes as others groan.

Stiles normally would shoot something back, but he is too happy to see Scott— his platonic soulmate, he’s here!

Scott smiles at Stiles and walks in, quickly taking the seat by Stiles.

“Dude, I was wondering who would have this class with me,” Stiles lightly hits Scott’s shoulder, “Why didn’t you text me or say anything about your schedule?”

“Didn’t get it until this morning,” Scott huffs out an exhale, and he quickly takes a hit from his puffer before continuing, “The guidance office had to print it out for me. Otherwise, I would’ve called you first thing.”

Stiles shrugs, still smiling, “Eh, either way, you’re still here, man, so how could I complain?”

Even with Derek Hale present, Stiles at least has Scott, so there shouldn’t be any problems.

***

There’s a problem. A major one.

And, of course, it involves Derek Hale.

It’s the third day of school, and now things are finally starting to settle into the motions.

Finstock can’t keep dragging his feet, and instead of a get-to-know-me worksheet and a bare-boned PowerPoint introducing them to the class they already know about, he’s forced to start handing out actual classwork.

Which meant that, finally, Stiles was going to be able to do what he loved most— debating.

He was practically vibrating in his seat as Finstock announced the topic for the day: the average dropout rate, per secondary sex, over a course of ten years.

There was an article printed onto another sheet that is stapled to the assignment, and Stiles read through it rather fast. After all, he’s like a sponge when it comes to information— he absorbs it at a phenomenal rate.

And, one he was done looking over various graphs outlying the data and statistics, Stiles was ready to go, answering each question with quick scrawls of his pen.

He could help but smile when he was done, and wait for the discussion end of things.

However, that’s when his problem with Derek Hale arose.

“So,” Finstock started, looking at his own printout of the article, “What did you have to think about the outcome of this study? Why did more alphas and omegas manage to make it through this educational hellhole?”

Stiles raised his hand with eagerness. He was so ready to school his class. He was actually looking forward to it.

But then Derek Hale just raises his hand, looking smug and like he understands the way the world works simply because he’s on top of it, and of course, Finstock lets him go first because he is.

“I think,” Derek started, and people were turning around in their seats to hear what the big, bad alpha had to say, “it shows that more and more people are refusing to bond nowadays. There have been a lot of programs and preventives put in place to where an alpha could, to put it simply, Coach, smash and dash an omega.”

The whole class laughed and giggled at Derek’s words, and Finstock even chuckled.

It made Stiles seethe.

He held his hand up straight, gaze locked into Finstock who seemed to make sure to do a thorough sweep of the room before finally calling on Stiles.

“Well, I think,” Stiles started with a bit of a tone, and he ignored the way he could hear the eye rolls from Derek and his posse, “it’s because, while there have been more preventives put in place, that bonding traditionally has become less of a priority for the modern-day omega. The study mentions,” there was a small collective groan that suspiciously sounds like a particular group of alphas, “that there was a small questionnaire given to multiple high schools while they were collecting attendance information. From the last study year, over seventy-five percent of the omegas wrote that they didn’t want to bond until after college, somewhere around their thirties, compared to previous twenty-five percent at the beginning of the study. So, while things may be changing in the terms of ‘smashing and dashing,” Stiles made sure to send a quick glare to Derek before he continued, “there has also been a lot of change in the minds of omegas. It’s more so of a progressive development rather than anything suggestive.”

Finstock nodded, as did a few other students. Which, good, they needed to be able to think for themselves outside of Derek’s circle.

“Good point, Stilinski. But I’m afraid that both of you have valid points.”

There was a squawk from both Stiles and Derek then.

“What do you mean, Coach?” Derek asked, and he seemed a bit offended, “Stilinski doesn’t—“

“He does,” Finstock explained, but before Stiles could celebrate he adds, “but that doesn’t mean he’s won the argument.”

Which yeah, Stiles’ fire died out a little as Derek held his chin up higher.

Scott swallowed uneasily, like he wasn’t sure how to gauge anything, especially with the way Stiles gripped onto the edge of his desk out of frustration.

“The point about this class is that there are a lot of issues that involve varying morals and opinions. While you can be wrong when it comes to your facts being incorrect, but your perspectives? Not so much. This is why you see so many debates, so many arguments over these issues in politics. There is not a wrong or a right that is exact. You two could stay here and bicker back and forth the whole school year, but it won’t make a difference of who’s more in the right than the other.”

Stiles then looked over to Derek, and he met the alpha’s gaze. They stared at one another, and then Derek puffed up his chest, and Stiles’ gaze narrowed.

“Wait… No. No— ignore what I said,” Finstock urged from his desk after he noticed their rivalry blossoming, “Don’t actually try and bicker the whole school year—“

“But—” Derek started, and the entire class then starts to look between Derek and Stiles like they aren’t sure what they are witnessing.

“Oh god,” Finstock croaked.

“—the article also mentions addition programs dedication to sexual and mating education, as well as additional actions being put in place, like passing out condoms and other items out to the student body. Specifically, with alphas and omegas, there are new policies about things like sports and locker rooms, bathrooms, and other things in which there were high rates of accidental matings occurring due to exposure, and those rates dropped after those measures were taken.”

Stiles rolled his eyes lightly, “Sure, the article did mention that—“

“Here we go…”

“—but like I also stated, there were questionnaires passed out at the schools this data was collected from. They stated they saw a significant change in the mentality of omegas towards matings and alphas in general that showed that, despite these programs offering safer environments and alternatives, omegas weren’t wanting to be with an alpha in any way till far later than before. There was even a drop in unsafe sexual activity outside of school, so it wasn’t just because they told the janitors to check the stalls every other five minutes that things shifted in a different direction.”

“Okay, sure, but—“

“This is going to be a long year,” Finstock sighed alongside the rest of the class, and he collapsed in his rolling chair, face in his hands and his body sagging with resignation towards his doom.

Read the rest on AO3

[conscientiously]

A LINE BY LINE RESPONSE TO:

Original post here, if you’re so inclined to read without my annotations. 

Let’s jump right in, shall we?

A Line by Line Analysis of “I Am A Female And I Am So Over Feminists” by Gina Davis

“I believe that I am a strong woman, but I also believe in a strong man.”

A strong man? Just one? Also, what does believing that strong men (excuse me, a strong man) exist have to do with anything?  Are you arguing that feminists don’t believe in strong men?  I don’t feel that the existence of men who are “strong” by whatever convoluted definition of that word you’re implying is a particularly debatable point, not to mention its irrelevancy.

“Beliefs are beliefs, and everyone is entitled to their opinion.”  

This is true enough in context, but you’ve already demonstrated that you confuse belief with irrefutably true fact.  Being “entitled” to hold an opinion that defies or ignores a proven statement is called ignorance, and it’s one of the biggest problems in the world today.

“I’m all about girl power, but…” 

Are you aware of the definition of feminism?

“… in today’s world, it’s getting shoved down our throats.” 

As we all know, the most unpalatable, troublesome public figures we hear about day after day after day in media coverage are all feminists working to further the cause of gender equality (looking at you, Donald Trump).  

“Relax feminists, we’re OK.”

Who exactly is the we you’re referring to here? Does it include women who are being brutally tortured, publicly shamed and killed around the globe because of their gender?  Does it include girls who are denied education because of their gender?  Does it include transgender women?  I could go on and on.  You are grossly generalizing.  Congratulations on being happy with your life—just don’t assume all women have your privilege.

“My inspiration actually came from a man (God forbid, a man has ideas these days).”  

God forbid, a woman writes an article bashing feminism without confusing women’s rights and male oppression these days.

“One afternoon my boyfriend was telling me about a discussion his class had regarding female sports and how TV stations air less female competitions than that of males.” 

At this point, you may notice my respect of your writing skills falling equal to my respect of your opinion on feminism.

“In a room where he and his other male classmate were completely outnumbered, he didn’t have much say in the discussion.” 

As an obvious expert on gender studies and sports media, I’m sure his insights on that topic would have been absolutely invaluable.

“Apparently, it was getting pretty heated in the room, and the women in the class were going on and on about how society is unfair to women in this aspect and that respect for the female population is diminishing quickly.” 

I’m not sure what your point is with this story.  The coverage of women’s sports on television is far from a top priority of any feminists I know.  It’s also not representative of the issue of global women’s rights.  It’s an irrelevant personal connection to a problem much larger than you, your boyfriend’s class, or even (God forbid) the WNBA.

“If we’re being frank here, it’s a load of bull. First of all, this is the 21st century.” 

Here, in fact, we are agreed.  It is the 21st century.  And focusing on this sub-sect of inequality that is undeniably superficial compared to the real problems real women face worldwide is a load of bull.

“Women have never been more respected. Women have more rights in the United States than anywhere else in the world.”  

Yes. This is exactly the problem that many, if not most, self-proclaimed feminists work to solve.  How much more chauvinistic can you get than to claim that since women in America have “rights,” feminism doesn’t matter anywhere?  I am not just an American woman, I am a woman of the world.  I want to show solidarity with Malala Yousafzai, a Pakistani who was shot in the head on her way to school because of her gender.  I want women who have fewer opportunities than I do to know I care about them and am working to make their lives better.  Please, lift your nose out of your privilege and see the serious problems women face in our global community.

“As far as sports go, TV stations are going to air the sports that get the most ratings. On a realistic level, how many women are turning on Sports Center in the middle of the day? Not enough for TV stations to make money. It’s a business, not a boycott against female athletics.”  

I can’t believe we’re still talking about equal ESPN coverage.  And I can’t believe how sweeping your gender-based generalizations have become.  Oh wait, they’ve been this bad all along.

“Whatever happened to chivalry? Why is it so “old fashioned” to allow a man to do the dirty work or pay for meals?”  

Number of times I’ve asked myself if the author of this article knows the definition of feminism: approaching double digits.  Feminism is not about refusing to let men play historically male roles. Feminism is not about policing your personal relationship choices. In fact, it’s the opposite.  It’s letting you, as a woman and ultimately as a human being, take the role you want in your relationships and your community and your world.  And letting all other women do the same.

“Feminists claim that this is a sign of disrespect, yet when a man offers to pick up the check or help fix a flat tire (aka being a gentleman), they become offended. It seems like a bit of a double standard to me.”  

First of all, logical fallacy: almost everyone becomes offended when they are shown a sign of disrespect.  That’s not unique to feminists, and it’s not a double standard.  Also, the part that is disrespectful is when people (not always men) offer something without first asking whether another person wants it.  A culture where we don’t pay attention to what others want is a culture of normalizing and excusing rape, abuse, theft, dishonesty, and ultimately, collective egocentrism.  

“There is a distinct divide between both the mental and physical makeup of a male and female body. There is a reason for this. We are not equals.” 

There is a very simple explanation for this physical phenomena: reproduction.  You are substituting anatomical truths for sociological ones.  No feminist I’ve ever heard of is out to create a uni-gender human race. But every feminist I’ve ever heard of is out to change the ignorant beliefs that because men and women are different, we’re not equal.  

“The male is made of more muscle mass, and the woman has a more efficient brain (I mean, I think that’s pretty freaking awesome).” 

Now I see what you were saying about believing in a strong man.  You refuse to acknowledge the manhood of any men who have less muscle mass than you.  You are doing such a great job generalizing the sexes and blatantly ignoring anyone who doesn’t conform to to the two dominant categories!  I mean, I think that’s pretty freaking awesome.

“The male body is meant to endure more physically while the female is more delicate. So, quite frankly, at a certain point in life, there needs to be restrictions on integrating the two.” 

I'm sorry, are you actually arguing in favor of gender segregation? After all, that is the opposite of integration, which you say you want to restrict.  Men, you get the northern hemisphere.  We women will all live in the southern.

“For example, during that same class discussion that I mentioned before, one of the young ladies in the room complained about how the NFL does not allow female athletes. I mean, really? Can you imagine being tackled by a 220-pound linebacker? Of course not.” 

Actually, I can absolutely imagine that situation, because you can’t police my thoughts. And many women worldwide can do more than imagine it, because something similar has happened to them in their experiences with rape, abuse, or torture.  Also, how is this is still about sports?

“Our bodies are different. It’s not “inequality,” it’s just science.” 

The bodies [phenotypes] of a white man and a black man are different.  The body of a pregnant woman is different than that of a menopausal woman.  The body of a sedentary, obese person is different than that of an olympic runner.   Are there inherent inequalities in these differences, too?  Does every physical difference between people contribute to a hierarchy of superiority? Groups like the Nazis and the KKK answered yes to these questions.  And while we’re on the subject of science, does science have an answer for the pay gap that pervades its own very field of study? Can science explain religions that deny women leadership roles in them? Physical differences are not the end-all-be-all of gender inequality.

“And while I can understand the concern in regard to money and women making statistically less than men do, let’s consider some historical facts. If we think about it, women branching out into the workforce is still relatively new in terms of history.” 

Only because of millennia of patriarchal oppression.  But please, go on.

“Up until about the '80s or so, many women didn’t work as much as they do now (no disrespect to the women that did work to provide for themselves and their families—you go ladies!). We are still climbing the charts in 2016.” 

Okay, we were planning to talk about historical facts.  These seem to be historical (and present) stereotypes you didn’t bother to research.  Or perhaps they’re alternative facts.  But please, go on.

“Though there is still considered to be a glass ceiling for the working female, it’s being shattered by the perseverance and strong mentality of women everywhere.” 

Wowzers!! I had never thought of it this way before!! You mean women can take a stand against the pay gap and demand equal salaries to make their workplaces fairer for everyone?? We should come up with a term for that movement!! What do you think would be a good word to indicate a strong and persevering woman who shatters inequalities and advocates equal rights for her gender??

“So, let’s stop blaming men and society about how we continue to “struggle” and praise the female gender for working hard to make a mark on today’s workforce. We’re doing a kick-ass job, let’s stop the complaining.”  

This is like heading to the bar to celebrate the end of finals week…on Tuesday night. Disastrous. Yes, women are working hard to fix problems and they should be celebrated.  But the work is not done and the struggle (which is not imaginary nor ironic and will not be put in subliminal quotation marks here) is not over. In some places in the world, it is even getting worse. So we agree: let’s stop the complaining, Miss “I’m so over feminism,” look around us at the problems women face and get back to work.

“I consider myself to be a very strong and independent female.”

 Whoa, me too!!  And I know a lot of other women who would say the same thing!! We should, like, call ourselves something!!

“But that doesn’t mean that I feel the need to put down the opposite gender for every problem I endure. Not everything is a man’s fault.” 

You’re right; not everything is a man’s fault (the one man again though? The strong one, right?).  Who do you blame though, for the pay gap, which you’ve at least acknowledged as being real?  Or is it just no one’s fault?  When systemic sexism evolves from centuries of being entrenched in a patriarchal worldview, that’s just not worth assigning blame for?  God forbid we offend any men reading this article!  No, screw it: if you are a male, and you’re reading this, your gender is responsible for thousands of years of oppressed, forgotten, enslaved, uneducated women who could have contributed to today’s society and made the world we currently live in a brighter place.  I am not going to blame you for everything (though I could go on), but for that, I see no other instigator.  

“Let’s be realistic ladies, just as much as they are boneheads from time to time, we have the tendency to be a real pain in the tush.”  

Careful, you almost sound like you believe there is a shared characteristic between men and women!

“It’s a lot of give and take. We don’t have to pretend we don’t need our men every once in a while.”  

The infamous royal we.  You, madam, do not have to pretend you don’t need your men (I notice you shift to the plural here. Interesting choice.) every once in a while.  But I don’t have to conform to your generalizations of a female as needy, vulnerable and dependent on men.  Neither do women who choose to be single, women who choose to depend on other women, or women who don’t have the option to make these choices, who have no one, male or female, to depend on because they are isolated, imprisoned, abused, or abandoned.  

“It’s OK to be vulnerable.” 

If you met a woman who spent her childhood physically and verbally abused, forced into prostitution, and who was risking her life by asking you for advice on getting out of her current life situation, would you pat her shoulder comfortingly and say, “It’s OK to be vulnerable”?

“Men and women are meant to complement one another—not to be equal or to over-power. The genders are meant to balance each other out. There’s nothing wrong with it.” 

Your reasoning here has tied knots in my brain by its paradoxes.  If the genders are meant to complement, balance, and not overpower each other, then how can they not be equal?  In what logical reality does that make sense?  Regardless, the world we live in is not one where one gender doesn’t try to overpower the other.  Men have spent all of human history overpowering women, and they are not letting up now.  There most definitely is something wrong with that.

“I am all about being a proud woman and having confidence in what I say and do.  I believe in myself as a powerful female and human being.” 

No but really, have you even looked up feminism in the dictionary?

“However, I don’t believe that being a female entitles me to put down men and claim to be the “dominant” gender.” 

Neither do I, although I think out of fairness the men of the world should perhaps allow us to spend the next few thousand years in control and see if we end up better off than we have with them in charge.

“There is no “dominant” gender.” 

Right.  Really.  All sarcasm aside, I agree with you 100%.  That is why I identify as a feminist.  I see men around the world claiming to be the “dominant” gender every single day, and I want to set it right for my daughters and their daughters until modern gender inequality is as archaic as Adam and Eve are to us.

“There’s just men and women.  Women and men.” 

No, no, no. You were doing so good for a sentence or two there, Gina.  This article gets an A+ in perpetuating the binary gender paradigm. Whether or not you personally believe being transgender is a natural gender identification, you can’t simply will away the existence of people who identify outside “just men and women” by ignoring them.  If you want to be relevant to the feminist conversation, you need to address everyone it includes, not least among them transgender females, who are much more likely to face gender discrimination than cisgender females.

“We coincide with each other, that’s that. Time to embrace it.”  

What a specific, attainable, and empowering call to action to end this illuminating article!!  I am going to go embrace a man now and thank him for all he’s done for me and my fellow women!!  I am going to go hug my female professors and thank them for teaching me for a lower salary than their male colleagues!!  I am going to send a thank you note to my boss for allowing me to “build character” by living on lower wages than my male coworkers!!  And don’t forget about the gender segregation act taking effect next month. I’ll see all y’all men at the equator, which will be the only place we’re allowed to “coincide” from now on!!

A personal message to Gina Davis: Please, educate yourself on what the majority of feminists are fighting for.  You will find it not so different from your own views, if you think about the problems your fellow women face across the globe.  You are privileged to be a white American female, in a loving relationship with a stable income, internet access, and constitutional rights.  You are legally free to write articles that help perpetuate laws that deny other women the same exact right.  But by the same token, you could use your rights, your freedom, and your education to help further the cause of those women who lack them.

[scholarly-squid]

Being involved in science right now is... weird.

First post on this blog! And this one sure is going to be a doozy. Long post ahead.  I mean long.

In this time of COVID-19, being on social media has been what can only be described as an absolute nightmare.  I’ve been studying a STEM field at my university and I’ve had involvement in laboratories for years now.  Let me tell you something - this whole experience has been painful to watch.  I’m used to people, on both left and right ends of the political spectrum, passing judgement on what scientists do and how they do it.  Science is so wonderful because it is so cutting edge, but that does lead to controversial topics coming up fairly frequently.  Ethical debates, be it about testing methods or AI or what have you, are always swirling around on the internet. Thankfully, there are teams dedicated to determining ethical guidelines for this sort of debate. 

The problem with what I’ve seen on the internet lately is that there is very little scholarly debate about what actions to take, many experts are in agreement, and when scientists make an educated decision, people blatantly disregard it using a number of opinionated, jargon-heavy excuses.  Examples abound:

 I shouldn’t have to wear a mask because they said at one point that masks aren’t necessary and now they say they are. Scientists are untrustworthy.

Scientists only want to lie to you about COVID-19 so they can make more money off of you.

Well if scientists are so smart, what about this one time when a scientist did something bad?

Scientists are all elitists, trained by universities to use and abuse the common man. 

There are plenty of ways I would absolutely love to poke holes in these arguments I’ve seen later, but that’s besides the point.  The issue with these statements popping up everywhere is that there is no way for scientists to refute them logically.  Not because the arguments are right, but because they are completely illogical and based in fallacious reasoning. 

Fallacies are really easy to fall for, and a distrust of science only makes their roots dig deeper into our society. I understand though why they are so popular.  It gives people a reason to think they are different, or somehow defying the status quo, in a society where individualism is held to the highest regard (for me the US).  They also provide an easy solution where there isn’t one.  In scary times like the ones we are in, it feels good to rely on something you know, something comforting, as opposed to something you don’t know.  Science is by nature experimental, new, and groundbreaking, and that’s pretty scary.  People in the general public tend to lack a strong basis in understanding fallacious reasoning, because its really, really tricky to grasp, and isn’t frequently taught in classrooms.  I don’t want to sound like some preachy kid from the debate team or something, because believe me the last thing you should be doing to help people on the internet understand what they’re reading is yell “ThAt’S a FaLlAcY” because it will only make them feel bad, and in response, angry and defensive.  But understanding when you hear a fallacy yourself is one of the most important things I’ve ever been taught in my life. If you are unfamiliar with fallacies and want a list to keep handy, here’s a good start.  This can help you and perhaps others understand whether what they’re reading is a good source, or if the arguments are flawed.  

But why this desire to distrust science in the first place? For one thing, science has been made into the one thing it shouldn’t be: Political.  The call from the Right is typically that progress as a whole is bad unless it has been privatized, because academic scientists are untrustworthy, government agents who have been trained to look down on the rural middle and working classes of America. The call from the Left has honestly been somewhat similar, though perhaps less vocal: that major scientific progress is the work of private, rich medical companies, who don’t care about their impact on people or the earth, and that holistic methods (think essential oils, anti-vax movements, etc) should in part or entirely replace peer reviewed medicine.  Both of these views may be extremes.  But when your sweet Republican Great Aunt Mary, who has never been educated in collegiate level, or much high school level, STEM or logic courses, sees her friend Susan from the Community Republican Facebook page, post her piece about scientific elites trying to squash middle America, Mary has no way to refute it logically and it is associated with the group she is already involved in, and Mary sympathizes with Susan because she knows and trusts her.  And when Mary sees a Democrat refute it, it causes her to dig her heels in even more and double down on her support, because of how partisan politics in America has become.  If you’re not right, you must be wrong.  The same goes for the Left, of course.    

Another reason for distrust: as scientists we don’t do well communicating our findings to the public in a non-biased, yet easy to digest way.  Our knowledge comes from and is displayed in peer-reviewed, dense as hell articles that involve confusing acronyms, long Latin or Greek names and phrases that one would need a high-level physiology course to understand, and figures that screw with the head to look at without deep knowledge of statistics.  I’ve read and written scientific articles, and let me tell you, they’re absolutely awful and intimidating to look at and I hate how they are written (and I’m writing this, which is also dense and awful and intimidating.  I’m trying my best to consolidate I promise). Its no surprise that people who are unfamiliar with these topics would have a difficult time understanding them, and that could cause some to get bruised pride.  

The issue then lies in people attempting to become more scientifically literate through sources that aren’t straight from scientists.  News media, Facebook pages, Clickbait, all of that loves to make money off of clicks.  Its amazing how quickly “a chemical found in small traces in blueberries found to reduce some plaques in xyz brain region in mouse study” becomes “Could the Cure for Alzheimer’s be BERRIES?!” That sounds a whole lot more final and wrapped up and spectacular than a small minor change.  Then comes the issue of scientists in the media saying they know end all be all.  Elon Musk yelling about needing to reopen the economy, or Neil DeGrasse Tyson giving a talk on areas of science in which he is not an expert (despite training in astrophysics), is a whole lot more interesting to people than Normal Nancy giving an hour long talk on a specific subset of a specific subset of a specific subset of virus with zero intonation or emotion.  Sensationalized science is science that sells, even if it isn’t right, and people start to think of these individuals in the media of what a scientist is supposed to look like.  As a community, I respect scientists with all my heart.  Overall though, we do need to come up with a better way to reach people who aren’t open to us.  Have scientist approved websites, pages, and magazines that are specifically for the lay public. We should avoid making sweeping statements or overextending our knowledge if we somehow do gain fame.By continuing the way we have, we further alienate ourselves.  I of course don’t mean sacrificing research quality, or dumbing down scientific publication. Just finding ways to talk to people in a more relaxed way.

I suppose what I’m trying to say here is people don’t hate science without reason, even if the reasons are flawed.  And distrust of science doesn’t mean people are inherently bad people.  Perhaps they are just ignorant, ignorant and stubborn.  But people who do profit off of not listening to scientists are truly putting people at risk for selfish gain.  The problem lies in that not listening to scientists is extremely dangerous, not just right now, but all. the. time. 

Why is it a danger that people don’t have the means listen to scientists? Obviously it currently is putting people’s lives at risk. Not wearing masks to public places, being so angry at policies one doesn’t understand that they spit and cough on people in retaliation, or march in massive groups to protest.  People who do these things are a danger to themselves and others.  But we have been building up to this point.  I saw an interesting op-ed recently about the death of the expert that made a few interesting points.  The advent of the internet has brought us so much access to wonderful information.  But without education on finding scholarly sources early on and with full intent to promote gaining wisdom from those with experience, it becomes a breeding ground for dangerous mistaking of opinion (or simply wrong fact) for fact.   Anyone online can say they are an expert.  Once a person’s mind is filled with ideas that align with their own belief system, especially from someone who claims to be an expert, no researcher, academic, or other scholarly source can convince them otherwise.  If “my PhD in biochemistry” isn’t enough to answer the question “Well what makes you qualified to speak on biochemistry?”, then we’ve run into a serious problem.  People who have the true information individuals are seeking have been neglected for sources that fit with people’s personal values.  Its a natural thing to have happen of course, but when everything is online, and there isn’t much one can do to stop misinformation through regulation, these beliefs spread like wildfire, and this creates demand for pseudoscientific and untrue actions medically, politically, or socially.  These aren’t just ideas, they manifest into actions which can actively harm people.  

Its a weird time to be a scientist because not thirty years ago, your word was taken as law by many in the public, and if it wasn’t, it wasn’t out there to see all over the internet.  Now we are hit with a serious health crisis and everything is online, and the truth rears its ugly head: that no one who really, really needs to wants to listen to your life’s work. No one is respecting researchers who work tirelessly to come up with vaccinations and tests.  While you spend day in and day out working late hours trying to come up with a means to save lives, people come back and spit in your face.  Science, especially in academia, has always been a somewhat thankless job, (save for the pay if you get really lucky), and many times people won’t understand you. They know you’re smart, but they don’t really know what about, and it can be difficult to convey.  But that simply comes with the territory.  What pains me most is the severe retaliation during a time of crisis, instead of a renewed understanding of the need for science.  I don’t consider myself a scientist yet, considering I’m still learning in college. But I can’t help but feel that if we don’t find a way to educate people, and quickly, my field will be useless.  Because it’s not science that makes a difference, it’s people adopting science to inform their decisions.

If you know a scientists right now, especially someone working in virology, epidemiology, specifically COVID-19, or really any other field of life science, please thank them.  Hell, all STEM fields, for that matter.  They are truly trying their best during a time when it feels like all rationality has flown out the window.  And if they have any advice for you, listen to them.  By listening to scientists, you set a precedent for those around you to listen as well, which could get us all out of this mess quicker and healthier.

If you have any questions or comments, pop by my ask box.  Or reply too, doesn’t matter to me. My blog is all about conversations about science, science culture, and science literacy, and this may be my first post but it won’t be the last. Also this was super long, confusing, and ranty, so if you want clarification please ask! And if I don’t have answers I will try my best to direct you to someone who does. 

All y’all stay safe, and be smart.

[dagripster]

Rose Colored Sunglasses: The Art of Distraction in 2017 Media

A Political Deconstruction behind Katy Perry’s “Chained to the Rhythm”

“So comfortable we’re living in a bubble-bubble so comfortable we cannot see the trouble-trouble, so put your rose colored glasses on…and party on.”

Imagine this: You’re at a house party and you don’t quite know everyone there. You make awkward eye contact with someone you might be attracted to, then pretend you were looking at something else and then check your phone. It’s the art of distraction. So when things get uncomfortable just put on your rose colored glasses.

Katy Perry has been shocking audiences with her Wow! factor whether you’re a fan or not. Admit it: You’re like me. When she pops up on my TV or shows up in my timeline I roll my eyes and scroll past it. When she shows up on my timeline being, well, Katy, I half-smile, nod my head and again—scroll past it. If she’s not singing about kissing other girls or dancing with sharks in a cupcake bra she is distracting us.

Take off your rose colored sunglasses and pay attention to this.

Besides Katy Perry, what else is showing up on your timeline? For me I’m constantly seeing oppression, tragedy and political mayhem apart from whatever 90s sitcom is reuniting for a 2010s remake on Netflix. I’m constantly reading about Russia’s involvement with the 2016 presidential election and Trump’s attempt at running our great country (again, attempt.) He’s provoking foreign world leaders and hurting people who rely on him for answers. Members of the LGBT Community are falling back to the wayside and racism is becoming the social norm again after years of regulation. So you nod when it appears on your timeline like me, and then scroll past it. Maybe you’ll even post a half-assed status update about said topic and carry on with your Spotify Playlist. That’s when you’re putting your rose colored glasses on and enter Katy Perry’s ever ongoing house party located within a white picket fence while the world outside implodes because, let’s face it—this drink is on Katy Parry and we’re all slaves to the rhythm.

She’s trying to tell you something.

If you’re not going to listen to her cry for help, then she’ll gladly continue to distract us by playing your favorite song and putting it on repeat. That’s when the cupcake bra comes out from the closet and forced into your personal space. Remember, the drinks are on her!

Now, I’m no conspiracy theorist but I’ve heard my share of claims and ideas. I’m also not a political writer so please forgive any political sways or mistakes, but there is something here.

“Are we tone deaf? Keep sweeping it under the mat, thought we can do better than that…I hope we can…”

I’m imagining members of the Trump administration running around the Whitehouse trying to cover up any nook and cranny that might expose any leak or flaw regarding Trump’s presidential win. And that includes Russia’s involvement. We know it’s there and we know there was some involvement but we just keep missing our grasp because we keep-putting-on-our-rose-colored-glasses. Throw them out!

We think we’re free, drink! This one’s on me! We’re all chained to the rhythm.

I have a few 21 year old little cousins who all live in New York City. I was born there and moved out to Los Angeles when I was 26 to launch my career. They’re all still in NYC and I’m reminded that they’re 21 whenever I open a platform of social media, whether it’s a video filled with screaming girls doing a shot off another girl or the stereotypical hot guy bartender, or on Twitter where I read a drunk rant about one of their ex-boyfriends. Back in the 70s (now, I’m a product of the late 80s) from what I understand and learned about in history class is that this was the age range that was protesting against Vietnam and the draft. They took a stand and stood up for their country and ultimately helped shape the future of our country by showing Americans that we all do have a voice and if we use it wisely and collectively we can accomplish something! Something is wrong with America again, and we need those same voices. But where or where has everyone gone? When I look around, why do I see everyone look the same? I just can’t put my finger on it? Oh, right. They’re all wearing the rose colored glasses on and partying on. We think we’re free, were in trouble, but thank you Katy Perry! This drink is on you! Sure! I’ll be right over!

When I first heard Chained to the Rhythm on my local radio station in my Uber to work I—say it with me—rolled my eyes. “Another pop comeback,” I thought to myself. Lady Gaga returned in 2016 from her 2013 piece in which the self-proclaimed Queen of the LGBT community was now singing about being the rich bitch, the upper class in a song titled “Donatella.” When news broke of Lady Gaga’s 2013 effort that was called ARTPOP a commercial failure, geez? I wonder why? Because as a gay man myself, I was very excited to hear new poetic justice and raise my arms in a Hallelujahfashion, but instead she sang to us about her new social standing and class. In short, she is better than us. Side-eye emoji. Like Lady Gaga, Britney Spears and everyone else in pop culture, Katy Perry was also staging a comeback. I was never a KP fan…until I heard Chained to the Rhythm. I closed my eyes in the backseat of this random Prius I was riding in and listened to the song my driver was blasting. For some reason rather than glazing over the song, my brain chose to listen to each word as if it were a key or amulet in a Super Mario video game we might need to unlock another level.

I imagined a little boy not unlike the one we saw in the news from Aleppo. He was crying, covered in ashes and alone in this dark gloomy desert that very well could have been America. In this ghost town was Perry’s white picket fenced house. It was burned down of course but Perry emerges from the ashes and cradles the little boy and gives him his own pair of rose colored glasses, where he experiences a world of euphoria with life and vibrant colors. He was alright because he could distract himself from what the real world’s issues were. He’ll be fine as long as he chooses not to remember what happened to his parents by removing his glasses because if he does, mother Perry will be there to remind you to put them back on unless you choose to help. There, there.

…Up in your high place liars! Time is ticking for the empire, the truth they feed is feeble as so many times before, they greed over the people, they stumbling and crumbling and we about to riot they woke up-they woke up the lions!

Perry brings along a friend in this statement piece by the means of Skip Marley, the grandson of Bob Marley where he helps deliver her message. He’s a little more aggressive than Perry is and a lot less subtle. He immediately calls the administration liars in their high places in response to these money laundering thieves that run the Whitehouse. He notes how the time is ticking for this empire (can we call it that?) If this administration isn’t more careful or caught, they’re about to wake up the lions, and these lions are angry…and hungry! But how can we if we’re too distracted by these glasses that, let’s face it-are very pretty and with the right filter can airbrush us on the spot! It could be argued that is what Perry alludes to when she says “Are we crazy living our life through a lens?” in the beginning of the track. We have Bob Marley’s grandson is warning us! This has to mean something.

Are you lonely up there in Utopia where nothing will ever be enough?

Let’s face it—we live in America where the ideology of the American Dream is manifested throughout the world. We were taught even as children that getting a good education after High School can promise us a successful lineage into our adulthood. As millennials can see it is just not that easy anymore, or simple. Unless there is some form of wealth that can afford a Master’s Degree or PhD, I think we’re stuck in this in-between place that is America circa 2017. That is why we created the caricature of a lady called Kim Kardashian. She’s fun, right?! She’s pretty, young, her sisters are silly and we giggle a little when we watch a 6 second clip on one of the many social media platforms created for us. But at night, when the world sleeps and the sunglasses are put away, up there in a Kim Kardashian utopia, it must get lonely and nothing is indeed ever enough.  We struggle to pay off a costly student loan that might not have gotten us where we wanted to be while in moments, a sister is driving a car worth the same amount. And she didn’t have to lift a finger! What fun, right? Let’s sweep this under the mat too because we can do better than that…I hope.

It goes on and on and on… ‘cause we’re all chained to the rhythm.

Perry wraps up her statement piece by singing about the endless loop we got ourselves into. If we keep this up we might not be able to get out. Why? Because we’re all chained to the rhythm.

Next time you log into a social media account or talk to Sarah, the co-worker who likes to talk pop culture over by the water cooler at work, think about the lost little Aleppo boy in that imaginary post-apocalyptic America looking for his parents. We need to take a minute to take off those very pretty rose colored glasses because there is still time to set things right. While we should thank those innovators for creating Snapchat, Facebook, Linkedin, Twitter and even whatever outlet it is you’re reading this from, they just helped give us the voice which we are choosing to ignore and distract ourselves. We need to stand up like the way those “millennials” (for lack of better comparison) in the 70s did and stand up to make our voice heard because at this rate, we’re going to sit back in Katy Perry’s very comfortable recliner in her white picket fence house where she is hosting this nirvana of a party and not move a muscle until these glasses are taken away. Then what do we do? We can’t decide to revolt by then. It might be too late. Many of us might even be gone at that point. Otherwise, Katy Perry will continue to distract us with her cupcake bras and Lady Gaga and Britney Spears will shimmy themselves to death and we will continue to hand a Kim Kardashian-type free cash. Like Katy Perry claims in this 3 minute and 58 second song, she will continue to entertain us if we so choose to distract ourselves otherwise we need to listen to the underlying message in what is in fact entertaining us and do something about it.

Take the rose colored glasses off and save us.

Katy Perry is a product of Capitol Records. “Chained to the Rhythm” written by Katy Perry, Max Martin, and Sia. Produced by Max Martin. Released on February 10, 2017. Available on Apple Music and Spotify