#even though they weren't throwing other women under the bus

[iamonlyhereforthefreefood]

I think if you're a queer/neurodivergent/gender non-conforming girl then there was a high chance you had a "not like other girls" phase. And obviously there is a problem with the not like other girls thing because it demonizes girls/women who are more traditionally feminine which obviously there is nothing wrong with, however I do think when you're a queer not traditionally feminine woman or girl you start to feel disconnected from what allegedly is the typical female experience. I see so many posts and memes on Instagram that will be like "men won't get this" or "all women have had this experience" and it's something you don't get or something you've never experienced. And now as an adult I tend to ignore those memes because I'm older I'm aware that women aren't a monolith and every woman experiences life differently. But when you're 15 and see things like that you start to think "well if this is the typical experience girls have then clearly I'm not like other girls". A lot of "not like other girls" memes to have this sense of superiority "other girls are sluts, I'm not" "other girls are vain, I'm not" but at the same time I've seen plenty of memes that seem self deprecating and almost like they come from this place of isolation. I think a lot of girls who had a not like other girls phase really felt disconnected from their peers and those memes were a coping mechanism. I think most people outgrew the not like other girls phase because they grew up and met other women who were neurodivergent and/or queer, grew up and met other women with similar interests and hobbies, grew up and met other women who also had "not like other girls" phases as a result of feeling isolated in high school.

I'm not like other girls, because women aren't a monolith and I'm my unique own person, just like every other woman. I'm also similar to so many other women. I have so many hobbies and experiences that other women share, including the experience of being 15 and thinking you're broken for not fitting into society's idea of what it means to be a girl.

[xx-lemon-drop-xx]

Warnings: Female reader, Mentions of blood, threats, fighting etc.

Request: Yes.

Words: 1,054

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Qin Shi Huang

Attempts to trade himself to fight next instead. Brunhilde doesn't allow it. She believes in you as a warrior.

He's pissy at the fact you're fighting and could die in this fight as well. He definitely thinks this fight is one-sided. Qin is probably the most quiet in this round while watching you fight.

Part of him doesn't even want to watch you fight in case something happens. Though he knows he should just in case it's your last moments together.

Everyone is tense, it's not just Qin. Both you and the God are now wounded, and he wonders how Brunhilde could be so calm during all of this. He's experiencing so many emotions at once and none of them are good emotions either.

He wants you back by his side. Right now.

Qin get surprised when you use a move he hasn't seen you fight with yet and slay the god.

The arena was quiet, and you released your Völundr. Göll was happy her sister didn't die, and the rest of the humans where happy you won. It broke out in loud cheering as you limped your way back to Brunhilde and the others.

You where exhausted. Is this how it felt to fight a god?

"Hâo!" Your head lifted before you where casually just picked up by a happy Qin and carried the rest of the way to the infirmary. You laid your head down to rest. The blood loss made you a bit dizzy, after all.

"Hâo?"

"It means 'Good,' my Queen." He translated for you, peering down at you through the pretty blindfold he always wore to protect himself.

Lü Bu

He doesn't try to stop Brunhilde in throwing you out to fight a God. He's confident. You can do it.

You are wed to one of the strongest generals in all of history, after all.

Though deep down he does think the fight would be one sided. You are a women, and women shouldn't even fight to begin with in his perspective. Lü Bu watches the fight in silence.

It was so thick you could cut it with a knife. No one dared to disturb him while he was watching you. And all of them knew he would most likely go after Brunhilde, should you die.

Lü Bu is definitely the type to seek revenge should you fall in this battle. It's in his blood, after all. He's a warrior by blood, and you are just his wife.

The tension was thick, you where starting to stumble from blood loss in the arena. Sasaki murmured something under his breath, and after five more minutes you had stabbed the shit out of the God, slaying him.

Your Völundr partner ended up needing to carry you most of the way to the infirmary. You weren't in very good condition. Though everyone knew the doctors up here could easily take care of you.

Lü Bu was already in your room when you entered, watching silently as you got all patched up. It was silent for a little while, and all he really did was run his fingers through your hair, urging you to sleep for awhile.

He didn't loose you.

Poseidon

He immediately tries to skewer Zeus. There was no question about it. He moved so quickly most of the Gods couldn't keep up with him, and by the time he was calmed, Zeus was a bit bloody.

He's a dangerous man and you're messing with his wife. And that's not a good place to be lest you want to die.

Everyone was shaking up at his promise to slaughter Zeus should you fall in this battle. His aura was almost suffocating, and only let up when he was down the hall and around the corner.

Poseidon did not stay to watch you fight. He was not interested nor did he truly care. You where up against a mortal, after all. While he promised to take Zeus' life if you die, he almost positively knew you could take care of a mere mortal.

And that's exactly what you did. While you did get hurt, it wasn't enough where you couldn't walk yourself into your room to be taken care of, and Poseidon let you there a few minutes after the doctor's left.

"You didn't tell me about that move you used." He was blunt about it, though he was normally blunt about everything.

"I know," You said, "But this was the first time I ever had to use it." You're words surprised him, though he did not say much more than that.

Poseidon didn't stay here for long. That night you returned to your home in the seas, your husband at your side.

Hades

He couldn't say he was at all happy about Zeus putting you in the rings and your life in danger, though unlike his younger brother he did not chose violence against Zeus.

He simply stated how disappointed in his youngest brother he was, and then left to go and watch you fight.

Hades didn't know if the fight was fair or not. After all, humans are tricky creatures who have evaded his grasp of death more than once.

Though, he did stay and watch the whole fight. Should you die, he'd like to see your beautiful face one more time as you break away and crumble into shimmering pieces of green.

That never happened, though.

While he thought you where outmatched, you where a cunning and slippery individual, and while you did get wounded, so did your human opponent. And soon, your opponent was slain.

He was already meeting you as you entered the room exiting the arena. Hades did not let you use your feet for awhile after that as he personally carried you to the infirmary. He could feel your breath wisping against his neck as he carried you.

After you where patched up, he took you on a walk through the gardens. It wasn't often you both left Helheim for something, mine as well enjoy the sights.

"I thought I would have lost you, my dearest." He confessed, watching the breeze tussle your hair as you walked through the garden. You where ethereal compared to the garden around you.

[dootznbootz]

Hi! I want to know more about the Water wife, I´ve a really small understanding of this take on Penelope and i wANT TO KNOW MORE!!!!

Thanks for being so kind! 💙

I WILL HAPPILY

(understand that these are just headcanons/my ideas and I'm very silly)

Go through the tag of #my headcanons if you want more stuff though honestly, as...I write a LOT about her.

Not gonna lie, this is a LOT of rambling. Also certain things I won't say as I DO plan to someday write Odypen's courting and I want the readers to "fall in love" with her ALONGSIDE Odysseus. We already know him. But the Odyssey kind of keeps a lot of her intentions/sneakiness hidden on purpose because she's just as much of an enigma to Odysseus as the Narrator in a way. (it's one of the things I love so much about her). I hope to write her in a way that "reveals" HER as well.

Honestly I'll try and tag all my stuff with her with Water Wife (maybe without tm because...that was just for the silly and it's sometimes annoying to dig up the emoji thing on computer)

I take a lot of liberties with everything "nonmortal" (demigods, nymphs, etc.) because honestly it's just genuinely fun to write about plus I'm neurodivergent :P also have chronic pain, so I like writing SOME of my gals doing athletics. Mostly just Penelope and Helen being SUPER into it while other women have some activities they like. Ctimene for example, likes running and Anticlea woodcarving (who Odysseus learned it from)

Also silly thing, but one thing I always try to keep in mind is the idea of "A lot of people write women just reacting and not affecting" and I feel like people think Homer and other Ancient Greek Authors do that when...No. They write very dynamic and complex women. Penelope isn't JUST "sobbing" when the suitors are there. If it weren't for her schemes, she'd be married already. BUT NO!!! She's so cunning and held them off WITHOUT physical force!!!

"She should've killed them-" YEs! BUT there are also the political implications of that and xenia to consider!!! Literally at the end of the Odyssey, Athena has to calm everybody down!!! She couldn't do that without even more angry people coming at her!!! rtdyfugh ANYWAYS

I also take "likeminded" and sprint with it. For every shitty/wonderful thing Odysseus has done, she's rooting for it or would do something similar. They're as full of love as they are full of hate.

These two are that "evil couple" sometimes. She's sitting in his lap and they just humiliated someone publically and laugh at them and then they start nuzzling noses, giggling.

She's prideful in many ways as well and she's not against throwing someone under the bus if she needs to and WILL blackmail. You're afraid of snakes and she doesn't like you? "Oh my gosh! What do you think of my new snake necklace?"

She's pretty reckless often in her youth (Her and Odysseus both got that Adhd swag). For example, in my one fic's first chapter, it mentions how she ate a catfish that is making her sick. She rushed in and wasn't even thinking about "...Hey, isn't this one kind of weird?" She was pretending she was fine at first when she clearly wasn't as she doesn't like showing "weakness" (plus adrenaline). Also as she just gave birth like, 8-9 months before, she's in a weird funk of feeling strange about how her body has changed a bit despite recovering very well (water helps!). She's soooo happy she took the "beast" down. While sick, she knew she was reckless and mad at herself.

She's actually closest with Helen probably. Her siblings are a bit older than her and as she was born in a creek and quite smaller because of it (Naiads being affected by the waters they were born in) she got teased by some other naiads for quite a while. Helen is also, a little shit, in her own way so these two loved doing silly shit often. (Penelope, Helen, Menelaus, Castor, and Pollux, were this very strange little squad of kiddos who just...did random shit. They each have scars and knicks from their silliness (except Helen and Pollux))

Some of the scales she has on her arms and one shoulder, dry out quicker, from one of the times older naiads got a hold of her and kind of ripped at them :'D "Puddle girl"

It's something she carries with her in a way and when her water breaks with Telemachus, she hides it at first being like "Hey, let's head towards the caves!!!" until Odysseus realizes and he's so frustrated and upset with her has to scoop her up. (her stubbornness and recklessness) He scolds her after everything calms down like two weeks later.

Funny enough, I've had this idea for a LONG time even before I watched the 90's Odyssey. Odysseus just gives that vibe of "I'm not fucking leaving." don't he?

Odysseus: I can't believe you did that. The Canals were closer, Penelope- Penelope: I know but he'd be so much stronger if he were born in the caves and he is. AND I'm fine!!! I'm actually doing very well.

She hates bracelets. She usually ends up breaking them from messing with them too much.

Athena technically spoke with her first before Odysseus but Athena was WATCHING Odysseus for a longer time.

She's really close with her parents because her eldest sister got married quite young and her brothers are in the military. She goes running with dad often (let me have this) and she enjoys swimming (ofc), running, and pankration (Idk why I think it's really neat but I do)

She's got a scar on her temple that is kind of hidden by her hair from when she got washed away once when she was little (the scars she DOES have are because of her own novice attempts at healing, otherwise she doesn't have really any) and she's got a little crook in her nose, something she's self-conscious about as it was one of her first times "setting bone" with water and so it didn't end up perfect. It's not too noticeable but of course, you notice your own flaws more than others. (When she finally allows Odysseus to kiss her face, he immediately places a little kiss on her nose.)

There's...SO many more but yeah. a lot of basics.

[papirouge]

My ⚪️ aunt wants me (non American, 🟤) to go with her to a women’s march in january. She voted for trump because she thought gas was too expensive and doesn’t understand how tariffs work. now that she regrets her vote and learned that she can’t change her vote after, she wants me to join her marching on january to protest trumps plans. Told her I’m busy and that really, she’s stupid. Am I in trouble for making my aunt upset? Yeah but idc

Something feels so off about this whole thing, I think Elon made fake accounts and I’m amazed at how brain dead stupid americans are because when I checked, black and brown women march… to the polls while white women march in the streets but fall behind their white men at the polls

Don't go. And from Black woman to another I would advise you to divest from whatever struggle battle white women are doing. Not to say they're not legitimate, but that we need to learn to stop fighting and let others do the dirty work at this point. That's what Black women did for decades : battling for everyone else while hardy having the same energy reciprocated.

The fact that she even had the audacity to ask you, a Black woman to do that march should ring a bell, anon. White women really use black women as the token ones that will assist them at convenience, and will throw us under the bus 2 step ahead (i.e the election results)

Weren't Whitefem singing that tune lately that black women were male identified and will always side with Black men over some racial loyalty and therefore, were non trustworthy for the male decentered feminist movement? WELL. Didn't White women in majority voted for Trump? That's right, White women as a collective voted for the party whitefem identified at the leading powerhouse of misogyny in the USA. Before coming for black women for not deconstructing their male centeredness, they should take a cold hard look in the mirror and leave us alone.

White women will NEVER cancel JK Rowling for cozying up with known racists/rightoids (as long as it came to shit on trans people) or coming off more & more as a bully against other women disagreeing with her and I can bet they do not think one second before reblogging her whether their black or brown feminists may be not comfortable with that

...but the same women will cancel you for liking a Johnny Depp insta post or being pro life. They're dumbasses and you really shouldn't have any scrupulosity to pay their feelings dust. I said what I said.

It's crazy to see so many trumpies already regret their vote though. I lurk on r/leopardsatemyface & I thought the sub was purposely cherry picking cases but it's actually a widespread thing?? BRUH. Trumpies never beating the "dumbass" allegations....

And I also have very weird feelings about Elon too. He's giving not human. Him allegedly having ADHD is a cover. He's probably reptilian and play pretend inside a flesh body suit. His mom is giving High -Red- Priestress. I believe the story of that woman who said he spoke to demons as a child. I think all the test-tubes babies he's having are engineered to have demonic genes/programmed/optimized to carry his demonic brain chips. I always found fascinating how his fanclub is obsessed portraying him as a good father when he's just impregnating women he doesn't live with abd barely educated his children. He's not much better than the average deadbeat Black ghetto dusty those white men swear up & down are sooo superior to. And let's not forget the threesome he proposed to Azealia Banks or him role playing his own son on a Twitter account were he made pornographic tweets

[stellardeer]

Tbh I haven't personally seen any of the people who are saying that they don't like rap because it's violent or because it's about sex and drugs or whatever, but I have seen all the response posts and I absolutely believe those people are out there.

And while I've already reblogged posts that have much better thoughts on it than I do, I feel like some people just need to admit to themselves that they aren't willing to engage with content that isn't relatable to them. Also that they are being super racist and biased about it, but it's ridiculous to write off an entire genre of music for subject matter that is found across literally all genres. Just say "I don't personally connect with this because it is not directed at me" and move on. You don't have to deride the entire genre just because it doesn't resonate with you, personally.

I'll be honest, I like rap, but I don't listen to a lot of it on a regular basis, and the majority of rap in my library is female rappers because they just tend to have things to say that resonate more with me as an AFAB person. I don't listen to a lot of the songs that get played on the radio, but I don't really listen to much of anything that gets played on the radio because the subject matter is usually shallow and generic, especially in pop music. I don't really like music with a lot of bass unless I am specifically wanting to dance or party, if Im just chillin in my home I dont like EDM or pop or anything too flashy. I don't listen to a lot of music (of any genre) that talks about wanting to make a lot of money or stunt on people or whatever because I do not share those goals/feelings. It doesn't mean I think that music is bad or that the people performing it or listening to it are lesser in any way. It doesn't mean I'm gonna say "rap is bad because they just talk about getting money", as if that's the only thing anyone has ever rapped about. Like idk I think it's fine to admit that you prefer certain subject matter in songs because you relate to it more but to say that all rap is violent or sexist so you don't like any of it is literally just racist.

I don't really like Drake because the lyrics that he himself writes and speaks in his songs give me the impression that he views women as something to own and he wants to be the next R Kelly or some shit. The groomer rumors weren't surprising to me in the least, I saw it coming from a mile away. So even though I used to think his songs were good I stopped fuckin with him. I've never heard a Kendrick song that I didn't like though (but I did think it was a little corny that he did a song with Taylor Swift cause I just don't like her 🤷) But like.. the fact that some of yall won't even go listen to their music and form an opinion of your own? The fact yall just hear "rapper" and immediately turn away? "Oh I don't care about this because rap is violent", like for real? You don't even fucking know who they are or what they rap about you, you've just already decided you don't care?

And at the end of the day, yeah, you can say "well not ALL rap is violent, here's such and such song that isnt!" but, again, as others have put it, that's just throwing gangster rap under the bus fr, like there's a reason people listen to it, there's a reason it resonates with its audience, there's a reality to it, it isn't glorification (well, maybe for some rappers it is) but they are literally just talking about their lives. To say "I don't want to listen because it's too violent" is like saying "Sorry I don't want to hear your story because it makes me uncomfortable, you should just keep it to yourself." Yall get how racist that is, right?

[evilbeepthemeep]

I posted 9,304 times in 2022

163 posts created (2%)

9,141 posts reblogged (98%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

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I tagged 203 of my posts in 2022

#killing stalking - 15 posts

#eurovision - 14 posts

#mystic messenger - 6 posts

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Longest Tag: 127 characters

#though to be fair we were the weird ones since i had a massive unicorn balloon that made us friends and i let people feel me up

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

So currently I'm stuck in bed sick and unable to do much. I've had to pay out to get paracetamol and food which gets expensive.

Since I'm on universal credit I don't have a lot of money so if you can, please send some money via my PayPal which is hawkgay@outlook.com

66 notes - Posted April 7, 2022

#4

Kiwifarms is dying, reblog to make it die faster

73 notes - Posted August 25, 2022

#3

I swear down the people who shit on mogai/aces/aros/pans etc because they used to identify as one of them but came out as lesbian/gay/binary trans just can't admit they were wrong.

they'd much rather throw a bunch of minorities under the bus than say they were wrong about who they are.

like somehow it's our fault they thought they were ace cause we "tricked" them into it when actually we just gave out resources.

it's okay to be wrong sometimes, I thought I was a lesbian but no I was ace, NB and pan. I don't blame lesbians for that, it's just the language I had for myself at the time.

being wrong is apart of growing and admitting it is so much healthier than sending death threats to people who's identity you don't like.

77 notes - Posted December 6, 2022

#2

race is abt how ppl see u. when most ppl look at u, u look white. they cannot see into ur mom’s mixed genes before they decide whether or not to discriminate against u. there’s nothing wrong with being white. u can be white and celebrate ur mother’s heritage

First of all that's called white passing privilege which to be fair I do have to a certain degree. Like the other women at the domestic violence shelter my mum was in when she left me dad did say she was lucky we could pass but still doesn't erase the fact we weren't white

Second of all I have faced racism due to me and my family being mixed race. Details about my mother's upbringing were called stories by social workers and even an outfit worn by my grandmother on her 50th wedding anniversary was called a costume. I was literally taken from my mum and given to my abusive dad because she raised me in a very not white way

Third of all I've been an outcast my entire life due to not looking like my white peers. Hell I don't even fit into my dad's side of the family because when I stand next to any of them it's very clear I'm not white.

I've been discriminated against due to my status as a mixed race person in a country that fucking hates anyone who isn't white or performs whiteness correctly.

It's not just genes that impact how people treat you, it's also how you are raised and the people around you. I'm still as much mixed race with my green eyes and pale skin as my sister who has dark brown eyes and tab skin.

But what else do I expect from a terf who thinks biology is immutable and gender isn't a social construct

148 notes - Posted February 22, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Narc Abuse And Why It's Bullshit

Long post ahead and tw for rape apology, homophobia, transphobia and ableism

I decided on a whim to do a deep dive on who coined the term Narc abuse and the ideology used in narcissistic abuse circles.

And oh boy I found some info.

The term Narcissistic abuse was first coined sometime in the 90’s by a guy named Sam Vaknin. Notable things about this dude is he’s a writer, a philosopher, a physicist and has npd. Oh apparently he might not even have NPD and is just spouting bullshit to get away with being an unrepentant asshole.

Fun fact he was arrested and jailed for committing securities fraud in 1996.

Here’s a link to his CV. 

notice anything? He holds no qualifications for psychology or psychiatry. 

And even has this fun disclaimer on his website

Which means he has no credentials to talk or teach about NPD. Or Abuse. Or Domestic Violence.

I have combed through this man’s website, interviews and his medium articles and found some truly terrible shit. 

He’s misogynistic

Jacobsen: You agree with First Wave Feminism and Second Wave Feminism, and disagree with Third Wave Feminism and Fourth Wave Feminism. What defines them?

Vaknin: First and second wave feminisms (in plural: there are many schools) were focused on leveling the playing field and fighting abusive and exploitative practices such as prostitution and pornography.

Starting with the suffragettes, they focused on the franchise (the right to vote), equal wages, access (to healthcare, education, the workplace, daycare), revising the dress code (“rational dress”), the right to own and dispose of property, and converting marriage from indentured bondage to an intimate, hopefully lifelong equal partnership.

The third wave was a psychopathic outgrowth. While claiming to be inclusive and permissive, it was a defiant and reckless attempt to “empower” women by eliminating all boundaries, conventions, and mores of any kind in all fields of life.

What women have garnered from the confluence of the three waves is that they should make their careers the pivot of their lives, avoid meaningful, committed relationships with men, and pursue sex as a pastime with any man.

Ironically, the third wave played right into the hands of predatory men (“players”) who took advantage of the newfangled promiscuity while assiduously avoiding any hint of commitment or investment. Third wave feminists internalized the male gaze (“internalized oppression”) and pride themselves on being “sluts”.

The fourth wave of feminism is focused on real problems such as sexual harassment, rape, and body shaming as well as intersectionality (discrimination of women who belong to more than one minority). In many ways, it is an offshoot of second wave feminism.

Quote taken from Prof. Vaknin on Misogyny and Misandry

Transphobic

Philosophically, there is little difference between a narcissist who seeks to avoid his True Self (and positively to become his False Self) – and a transsexual who seeks to discard his true gender. But this similarity, though superficially appealing, is questionable.

People sometimes seek sex reassignment because of advantages and opportunities which, they believe, are enjoyed by the other sex. This rather unrealistic (fantastic) view of the other is faintly narcissistic. It includes elements of idealised over-valuation, of self-preoccupation, and of objectification of one's self. It demonstrates a deficient ability to empathise and some grandiose sense of entitlement ("I deserve to be taken care of") and omnipotence ("I can be whatever I want to be – despite nature/God").

This feeling of entitlement is especially manifest in some gender dysphoric individuals who aggressively pursue hormonal or surgical treatment. They feel that it is their inalienable right to receive it on demand and without any strictures or restrictions. For instance, they oftentimes refuse to undergo psychological evaluation or treatment as a condition for the hormonal or surgical treatment.

It is interesting to note that both narcissism and gender dysphoria are early childhood phenomena. This could be explained by problematic Primary Objects, dysfunctional families, or a common genetic or biochemical problem. It is too early to say which. As yet, there isn't even an agreed typology of gender identity disorders – let alone an in-depth comprehension of their sources.

A radical view, proffered by Ray Blanchard, seems to indicate that pathological narcissism is more likely to be found among non-core, ego-dystonic, autogynephilic transsexulas and among heterosexual transvestites. It is less manifest in core, ego-syntonic, homosexual transsexuals.

Autogynephilic transsexuals are subject to an intense urge to become the opposite sex and, thus, to be rendered the sexual object of their own desire. In other words, they are so sexually attracted to themselves that they wish to become both lovers in the romantic equation - the male and the female. It is the fulfilment of the ultimate narcissistic fantasy with the False Self as a fetish ("narcissistic fetish").

Autogynephilic transsexuals start off as heterosexuals and end up as either bisexual or homosexual. By shifting his/her attentions to men, the male autogynephilic transsexual "proves" to himself that he has finally become a "true" and desirable woman.

Quote taken from Homosexual and Transsexual Narcissists Frequently Asked Questions # 18

Homophobic

See the full post

355 notes - Posted July 4, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[levitatingbiscuits]

people would be calling din a child abuser if they weren't thirsty for pedro pascal

for real, the parasocial thirsting for pedro really gave brain rot to a number of his stans. i will never forget the people who tried using his ethnicity to derail posts from poc calling out disney's abysmal mistreatment of temuera in his own show. someone was literally like "why are you pitting two leads of color against each other?" no, we're fucking mad because boba was an indigenous leading man and his last episodes were taken over by the white guy who was created as a blatant rip off of boba. and yet boba is the one whose series was handled so poorly by disney. i will never forgive the showrunners for that. people are constantly bending ass backwards to make excuses for din while shitting on legacy characters who have been iconic for years, calling boba an inferior version of din or luke a baby snatcher or whoever else they need to throw under the bus to prop up their favorite mandalorian. i'm TIRED.

also as a poc, it's so funny seeing several white women in the fandom act like they are woke for stanning din/pedro the white latino. lmao shut up.

Yeah it's incredibly transparent that a lot of star wars fans are racist. The shipping/fanfiction/tumblr side of fandom likes to think that we're so much less racist/sexist than the toxic cishet fanboys you find on reddit and YouTube, because many of us are queer and/or women, but we're REALLY NOT. I'd argue that the most egregious fandom racism against Finn (and John Boyega), Mace Windu, the clones, and Boba Fett has come from US, rather than the YouTube hot take guys. As white fans, it's our responsibility to actively work to make fandom inclusive, otherwise POC actors and fans get silenced or harassed over whichever white blorbo is the flavor of the month.

It's also very telling that Boba lost a lot of his popularity when Lucas revealed that he was a Maori man instead of a white guy. If you play internet fandom historian you can find a ton of racist meltdowns and people complaining that Temuera Morrison wasn't "cool enough" to be Boba Fett, that his voice ruined the character and the old voice was better (even though you could still find plenty of editions where there was no dubbing), etc.

Imagine if they created a replacement of a white character like Han or Anakin or Kylo instead of a brown character like Boba, and then had that expy take over their show halfway through. The fans would have LOST. THEIR. SHIT. Yet Boba, who was so beloved and hyped for so long, suddenly isn't cool anymore when we can see his skin and instead this irrelevant white guy they can more easily project themselves onto/fantasize about being with is just soooooo much more interesting. Never mind that he has his OWN SHOW, he's gotta take over the OG's too. And his job, because obviously Boba can't be a cool bounty hunter going on a lot of different episodic adventures anymore when DIN'S around to do that. Let's just shackle him to Tatooine and follow Din whenever we want to show bounty hunting badassery or Mandalorian culture (which was quite literally invented to be Boba's background).

Also how fucking cool would it be to see BOBA FETT with the DARKSABER. Fans have been fantasizing about Boba with a lightsaber since the fucking Christmas special. Get on it Disney!!!

Thank you for sharing your perspective, I appreciate it!

[thekillingjoke-haha]

Love And Marriage

Spnquotebingo @spnquotebingo

Quote: You don't save a marriage by sleeping with other people.–Lucifer

Mostly Memory: slant/bold. Quote:small/bold

"What the hell, Anthony!" She yelled scaring both brunettes in the bed she shared with him. The women who looked half her age scrambled off the bed in a rush and ran out of the room getting dressed as she ran out the tower. This time she was throwing objects at the genius screaming and swearing every word under the sun. And yes this wasn't the first time, but its sure as hell will be the last. "How could you do this to me!? Time and time again I forgive and you do it again!!" She tried taking control of her emotions, but they over took her and laid everything out on the table.

Tony slipped on his clothes yelling back and forth with his wife. It was a screaming match that all of New York could hear. "Maybe if you weren't such a controlling bitch I wouldn't need to rush into the arms of a women that would get off my back!" He yelled back and she was stunned into silence. Tony continued talking. "Ever since we been together you've been trying to change who I am and I got sick of it, but you were America's golden girl I couldn't dump you. You just couldn't take the hint ,sweetheart." He finished his intoxicated words got the better of him, but drunk words were sober thoughts and maybe this is exactly how he felt after all these years.

"I want a divorce." She said her voice shaking not wanting to cry in front of the man she loved and she thought loved her back. "What?!" He turned on his heels and stared at her the shouting didn't sober him up, but those four words did. "What did you say?" He asked as if he didn't hear her. "I'm through, Tony. I'm tired of this back and forth. You said it yourself your not willing to change your partying playboy ways so I'm through." She said as she went to get her phone to call her brother. "I want a divorce." Those were the final words uttered to him before she stopped talking to him all together taking off the ring made from the metal of his original reactor the diamond glowing the same blue that lulled her to sleep. Y/n twirled the ring in-between her fingers a nervous habit after the years.

Steve got to the tower from his apartment along with Bucky and Sam. His two friends walked into her bedroom to hear Tony shouting and pleading for her to listen to him. Steve went to his sister as his friends pulled the thrashing man out of the room and to a different part of the building so he could cool off. Tony in the end didn't calm down and was getting violent to the point they had to knock him out and by then Y/n was getting packed with the help of Steve

The suitcase was harshly zipped up as she rushed closing it. Tears flowed freely down her face as she packed all her things well all the things she bought herself. She wasn't running, running was for cowards she was escaping before she drowned herself in whatever kind of love she once had with her husband. Y/n breathed in through her nose as her body convulsed with another fit of silent sobs. Trying to calm down she wanted to get think clear. Did she really want to leave? No, but he didn't give her much of a choice. The light tan line on her finger just further proved she wasn't turning back...not this time. Not even for him. Y/n needed time to think without the threat of the end of the world and out from under her now ex's crushing ego.

She was shacking with anger and in grief it happened again and she was done with it all. Tony fucking Stark her husband, lover, best friend cheated on her again for the third time that she knew of. Y/n saw it she was always there at the wrong time almost like he wanted her to see how pleased he was with another. Steve came out of the bathroom with more hygiene products. "How are you feeling? Are you okay?" He asked for what feels like the hundredth time. Steve knew Y/n wasn't okay he could see it and the sight made him want to rip Stark a new one. With a deep inhale she looked up at him with s slight smile as real as she could make it. "I'm okay I just need to get out of here. Fresh air. New scenery if possible." She said as she looked longingly at a picture on the nightstand not noticing that her brother left with her bags while she stared off. The picture was of her fifth date with Tony after being together as boyfriend and girlfriend for two years, a light festival their first openly public date for cameras to capture them together making it official. America's Sweetheart with a Playboy billionaire...that headline alone should have been the first of many red flags.

The memory played vividly in her mind. Her eyes shined like stars as she dragged him behind her. It was still light outside and the small park was crowded. "Come on, Tones!" She said excitedly as she dragged him along. Many people looked at them and whispered, but they didn't care. They spent the night talking about any and everything it felt so natural. Y/n stared into the sky on their picnic blanket having already painted her lantern with a good amount of wet paint still on her hands. "We've been on what feels like a million dates and this seems like the perfect one to ask you. Will you marry me?" Tony said holding a black velvet box with a f/c diamond ring. "I thought you'll never ask!" She pulled him into a kiss paint covering his cheeks as lanterns where released. He kissed back hands resting on her hips. "Let's go home Mrs.Stark-Rogers." Tony said with a smile. "Well come on then Mr.Rogers-Stark." He was once again dragged away. "No no no my name first Steve will not hold that over me!" Y/n giggled as the memory faded into a much older one.

The twelve year old girl was getting her hair brushed by her mother. "Mama what's love like. I know you love daddy so what's it like?" She asked it's been two years since her father died ,but her mother always said she stilled loves him. "Love is a amazing feeling that doesn't happen often and sometimes it can hurt." The blonde women said to her daughter she couldn't tell her wanting love cost more then giving it. "Why will it hurt?" The young h/c girl asked turning around. "You're to young to know right now, but at some point you will." By the time Y/n turned fifteen she learned that loving someone can hurt after she stood next to her brother and best friend looking at the slab of stone that marked their mother's grave.

The first time it happened she was pissed, but not at the right person at the time. The second red flag.. Screams are what filled the house as Y/n threw clothes at the tramp that was in bed with her drunk husband. She was so anger, but that just hid the pain she was feeling three years for him to cheat. After shutting the half clothes harlot out on the front porch of the Malibu home she stormed back to Tony. He stayed in his boxers on the bed looking dazed he was drunk. "Why?" Is all she could ask as tears fell down her cheeks. The billionaire stood up and walked toward her he wiped her tears. "I'll change. I promise." He kissed her head. She believed him she had faith that he couldn't change for them. After all Y/n did the same she gave up being a hero along side her brother because he told her he already worries about getting home to her as Ironman no need to add the stress of not knowing if she'll get home. So she hung up her red, white, and blue catsuit for him.

After a year Y/n sat in her art studio wear she sold her and other rising artist artwork after Tony said she shouldn't paint in the tower,she painted with her brother laughing messing with colors. She was thankful she put down plastic tarp beforehand a giggle rang out when Natasha walked through the door. Without saying anything she drops a magazine on the table of brushes next to Y/n. On the cover was Tony kissing some red head though a window tears welled in her eyes as she wiped her hands he eyes not leaving the cover till it was picked up off the table. Natasha comforted her as Steve took the magazine and paced. " Am I stupid for trusting him? Thinking he would change?" She asked as the waterworks flowed. "No ,if anyone is stupid its him. Ever since he came out as Ironman he thought he was untouchable. God imma kill him!" The red head said while Steve was flexing his hand not wanting to hit any of the stored art pieces. The third red flag for all to see.

The bus rocked back and forth as she looked over at her brother sleeping next to her. They were heading to the airport and he was going to see her off before possibly killing Tony. Speaking of she looked down at her phone and saw dozens of missed calls and hundreds of unread text. She felt that the world was so much bigger after leaving, after getting away from the place that no longer felt like a home. Turning back to the window a memory came to surface as a teenage girl sat on the bus watching old Brooklyn go by. She thought life was so slow she wanted to grow up faster and experience life. Y/n wanted to find love like her parents had. "What are you thinking about doll?" She turned and in Steve's place was Bucky her adoptive big brother. "Nothing important, James." She said with a sigh as the old modeled cares turned back to modern vehicles and yellow taxi's.

Tony woke up and ran around the tower while calling and texting his wife. "Friday track Y/n' s phone. He said as he went to the lab to get in his suit. "She's as NYC airline." The irish voice answered as he stepped into the suit letting it close around him. Before the hatch could open completely he was flying out of the tower to the airport. "Any idea which flight?" He asked wanting to get there before it's to late. "No boss, but the next flight leaving is heading for U.K and boarding in fifteen minutes." Time was running out he needed ever second he could spare. "We'll make it in ten." That night Ironman flew to save whatever he had left.

Y/n held her ticket in her shaking hands her breath uneven. Steve left after the bus dropped her off they said their goodbyes not making the separation hurt any less. Her thoughts came back to Tony all the good times made her smile, but the dark clouds took them over soon after. It felt so right to be in his arms thinking about the future they had with each other within seconds that became a distant memory. What's sad is she wants to go back wondering if she held on to those moments longer they'll last forever. The ring she slipped back on her finger weighed a ton. Y/n didn't have the strength to take it off not for good at least and this made her feel weak. Pain was heavy in her heart from the constant ache, but the little voice kept saying maybe if we tried harder he would have loved us the way we love him, maybe rushing into a relationship wasn't the best idea, maybe he's happier without us ,maybe not telling him about the positive test was the best option ,maybe...maybe.

A hand resting on her stomach she wanted to laugh, but that would have brought on a fresh wave of tears. She started off the day without Tony in bed and sicker then she's been since her pre-serum years. Y/n went to the doctor completely covered form any prying eyes and the test were clear she couldn't believe it she took about ten test in her studio bathroom before heading back to the tower. Howard warned her and Steve that the serum might sterilize them, but at the time both of them were to small and sickly and she knew getting pregnant might kill her anyways so they both agreed to it. Y/n wished she could hug the man today he made her better and let her have a gift she never thought was possible. A baby was growing inside her. Tony never really talked about kids and neither did she since that wasn't a possibility before, but the moment she held five of the clearer test she wanted to rush into his arms and have him be the first to know. That quickly fell apart that evening and now she's here.

The suit landed out side the airport and Tony immediately ran out of it into the building looking through his tented shades he followed the path Friday set for him rushing through security. "Now boarding flight A145 to United Kingdom. Ahora aborda—" The intercom rang out. He was running out of time. There he saw h/c hair one of a couple dozen in line due to the oddly timed flight. "Y/N!!" Many heads turned at the shout while so gasped and whispers started. She looked at him and froze. His eyes looked bloodshot and he wore baggy sweats and a AC/DC shirt. Turning back around she tried to get on the plane quicker, but a hand grabbed her arm. "Please listen to me. I'm so so sorry! I'm a fucking moron okay? I know I just keep screwing up between us and I know you're tired of me saying I'll change, but if it means I keep you in my life I'll do damn near anything." Tony's voice shook as his eyes welled with tears people crowed to see the Starks some seemed to clued in on the subject while others were lost. "You can't fix this Tony. There's nothing to fix between us you said your piece and actions speak louder then words there is no saving this." Y/n whimpered holding her hand in her own.

"I can save us, N/n! Please just give me a chance too. You and me against the world right?" She shook her head no as she looked into his brown eyes with her glassy e/c ones. "Wrong. You just don't get it do you? You don't save a marriage by sleeping with other people. And I gave you more then enough chances to change because God I changed so much for you!! I gave up saving people, gave up painting in the tower, stopped helping Pepper with business, stopped going to briefings, and so much more. All for you and you couldn't do one thing for me." With quivering hands she gently brushed the tears from his cheeks letting her hands go from his shoulders to his hands. "I loved you, Anthony. I always will have a special place in my heart for you, but clearly the same doesn't go for you." Y/n now held one of his hands bringing his knuckles to her lips giving them a chaste kiss.

She let go of his hand as she stepped back from him many of the passengers having already boarded the plane. "Don't say goodbye." He said voice small and weak. "...don't think of this as a goodbye. We just met at the wrong time in the wrong place. Maybe I'll come back to you and just maybe we can start again from the beginning, but until then this is a see you later." She turned and went on board as he stood their feet glued the the floor. Looking down at the hand she held the ring sat in his palm she left him with a piece of his heart while she took the rest with her. What is a marriage without love

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A/n this is the second to last one before the full masterlist is posted. Fyi I wrote a happy ending and if it's really wanted I'll make a short one-shot of it but angst ending for now.

Next quote is a free space and I'm going ham!!!!

[direquail]

I think about this a lot, honestly, because it's super relevant to my experience, too. It's hard to talk about because it touches on things that are really personal to people, and also discussing how people come to the positions they hold often involves discussing the process of uprooting internalized bigotry, which means being vulnerable in an online space (ew) and can potentially give transphobes and bad-faith actors ammo.

But I'll take a swing at it. This is going to be long.

(tw for discussion and description of some of intra-community bigotry, my internalized homophobia and transphobia and, like, a lot of navel-gazing)

One (tw for discussion of intra-community transphobia and internalized homophobia)

before college, I had lived as a lesbian for ~about 7 years in a town that was... not horrible to be gay in, not completely lonely, but there weren't a lot of us, and so not a huge variety of experiences.

And there was a lot of transphobia at the time, because that was the In Thing in a lot of informal, IRL gay spaces--throwing trans people under the bus for their gender-nonconformity, because the culture at large saw our desire as gender non-conformity--a failure of womanhood. "I'm a lesbian," the line went, "I'm not one of those trans people. I'm not a man, I'm a woman who loves women." (Phew, that butchphobia)

Then I went to college, and started going to queer spaces with lots of different kinds of queer people--including trans people. I met lots of other young queer women (which is how I identified at the time) who were figuring out a lot of things about themselves; people shifted their gender presentation entirely from one month to the next, cut their hair, got piercings, went from femme-presenting to butch or vice versa as they realized they didn't "have" to be one kind of lesbian. They came out, figured shit out, then came out again, and again--as many times as they needed to.

At the time, I was... soft butch? Yeah, soft butch. I hadn't had my hair down to my shoulders since I was about twelve. I had, on some level, always favored wearing "men's" clothes, even though I had learned how to wear "women's" clothes in a way that didn't make me miserable--and likewise, how to wear "men's" clothes in a way that still parsed as "feminine" (because, you know, I couldn't let myself be accused of wanting to be a man).

And I was wildly uncomfortable with the other butch women around me.

And you probably know where this part is going--I realized that there was absolutely an element of internalized homophobia, and lesbophobia and butchphobia. I saw myself in those women, and I had long since internalized that what they were was bad. My fear of them was my fear of myself--and what might happen if the world perceived the piece of them that was inside me.

But I learned to think otherwise, and I was happier for it.

Two

My freshman year was the first time I saw a drag king. And let me tell you, he was hot. For someone who didn't think of myself as someone who went for butches or men--he was smoking.

We ended up going out on a date, and out of drag, she was super cute. And femme, or so I thought. Nothing really came of it, we didn't really click. But we had fun.

A couple of years later, we ran into each other. She had changed her appearance completely, as happens with people going through college. Now she identified as butch. And for all that I'd been attracted to butches and femmes and lots of people who were neither by that point, there was still a moment where it felt... kind of weird? I'd thought of her as one kind of person in my head, and now I was seeing her in a completely different way, and all the scripts I'd learned were changed. It wasn't bad. But it was a little awkward.

For what it's worth, though, she made a really cute butch, too. I just had to take a minute to readjust.

Three (tw for description and discussion of internalized transandrophobia)

I was at another drag performance--far from my first, at this point--but for the first time, the drag king on stage was a trans man.

There was something I kept getting hung up on, even though he was very definitely what you would consider "passing"--and maybe that was it. Knowing that before he'd transitioned, he had been... like me? Like the people I was attracted to? Something about him got under my skin, and bothered me in a way nothing else did. The trans women I knew didn't inspire this kind of discomfort in me; I saw them as women and I responded to them like women. But I didn't know what to do with this trans man.

I kept it to myself and thought about it, and I realized that a part of me felt threatened, because I had built my identity around this idea of what bodies I was attracted to--even though I had already allowed trans women into my picture of the world and thought of them as women. But with trans men, the whole thing was turned on its head: The idea that someone could look like a woman, have the kinds of physical characteristics that I looked at and saw "woman", and yet be a man--it made me wildly uncomfortable. It shook all my certainty--in a way that meeting trans women didn't, even the ones that didn't pass very well.

And that, I realized, was because I was happy to admit more women into my view of the world--butch, trans, gender-nonconforming in any way--because I loved women, and I was immersed in a lesbian subculture that loved womanhood and loved challenging and expanding what womanhood could mean, or be. There were a lot of non-binary and genderqueer-identified people in my life, too, because some parts of the lesbian community are full of non-binary and genderqueer folks. Like, that just happens. We find our people, and then we find our people within the wider community of "our people".

But I felt defensive and confused and honestly kind of at a loss when presented with the idea that some people who I'd included in my expansive view of womanhood might actually be the thing I had low-key defined myself by the exclusion of: Men. Maleness on a "female" body disturbed me because the desire I'd built my identity around excluded it. I didn't know what to do with it. Even my understanding of non-binary and genderqueer identity, in some respects, depended on me including it under the umbrella of "not men". And that was (for me) a space dominated by women.

And so, my immediate response to a trans man was discomfort and dissonance. This was the flaw in my logic, the thing that went unaccounted for.

And yet, there he was. And I was confronted with the fact that the kind of body that I thought of as known, as familiar, could harbor something I thought I could recognize on sight, and didn't want anything to do with. Seeing a trans man made me realize that there were people who I could look at, feel attraction to, and yet they were men. And I might not know that until after I'd had those feelings, or maybe even known them (maybe been partnered to them) for years.

Luckily, I recognized this discomfort: It looked and felt similar (but not identical) to the discomfort I used to feel around butch women, the idea of non-binary and genderqueer people, and to a degree trans women, and so I was able to recognize it was a "me problem", not his problem, and process it through that lens.

Four (tw for description of transphobia)

I was trying out he/him pronouns for the first time--and going by a different name with some friends--because I was starting to suspect there was something off about my gender, and I knew if I wanted medical care, I was going to have to show my work, so to speak. And, this way, I'd be able to figure out whether this was right for me or not. Two birds, one stone butch, or something.

There was another butch who I'd become friends with, and she was respectful when I changed name and pronouns, but this one time we were hanging out she asked me a bunch of questions and then said, "I don't know why you want to change. When I look at you, I just see a beautiful woman."

And she said this like, five times, because I think she expected me to have some kind of reaction to it? Or maybe explain further? But I didn't.

Internally, I was thinking, "Yeah, so did I, at one point."

Because I understood her discomfort: I had gone through it myself.

There is a unique discomfort that's possible (though, not predestined) for lesbians who have to integrate trans men into their view of the world, and their understanding of desire--how they look at people, how they read people, how they interpret the bodies they see when they only have spare visual and social cues and don't (like you do online) have an entire backstory complete with labels and pronouns to explain everything.

What my friend said to me wasn't hurtful or invalidating, although for some people it absolutely would have been. But I'd been through it before, from the other side, and so it wasn't upsetting to me. I'd built a whole identity around being a woman and the kind of people I was attracted to as a woman. When you change even one element of that--the meaning of the bodies you've defined your attraction and identity by--you have the potential to change everything, including how you see yourself. I should know.

Likewise, when you admit that one fact about yourself and your gender, you have the potential to change the way you think about desire itself.

You never know how it'll shake out, of course; maybe nothing will change. That certainly happens. You want what you want and sometimes there's no particular reason why; it just is. I think it's really important to acknowledge that.

But you can never know, from the point of admission, what's going to happen next, and you save yourself (and potentially the people around you) a lot of pain and heartache by keeping an open mind and heart, and realizing that sometimes, your defensive reactions to hearing how other people experience the world have more to do with coming up against something that departs from your own experience--not "being erased". You still exist, they still exist--neither of you has to "win" to keep being who you are.

tl;dr

There is someone in your life--and if there isn't right now, there will be at some point--who you have thought of one way, who is unhappy in the way they are. Or, maybe not unhappy, but not, like, happy-happy, you know? You are comfortable in how you think of them, but they are more than how you think of them.

That person might even be you.

And someday, that person might trust you with something. And it will probably feel weird and unnatural, because the way they identify now sits at odds with some aspect of who you think you are. But they are not you; they are themselves, and they are who they are.

You don't know. You think you know, but you don't.

And even if you're really, really good at picking these kinds of things out--it's never foolproof. And if you get cocky, and think that you Just Know, at some point, you will be wrong.

And hopefully, the person you've just done that to will not be hurt by your assumption.

um im not accusing you of anything so dont take this the wrong way. dont you think saying "when you view gender as a pretty much infinite range, acknowledge the fact that theres no bounds of appearance for any particular gender, realize that you can never know what someones gender is just by looking at them, it becomes hard or impossible to label your orientation with rigidity with the typical gender-based labels." is.. kinda homophobic?

its normal for bisexuals to have this "gender neutral" attitude towards sexuality and gender like you, but as someone who is not bisexual (im a mono lesbian) i do not relate to this at all. woman DOES have an appearance... thats how i know im a lesbian.

youve been talking about how bi lesbians feel like their experiences are being erased and i sympathize with that but that also means you cant do the same to women that dont like men at all. its very belittling to my experiences to imply im attracted to an idea or a label instead of like, a real type of person.

just because you dont relate to it doesnt mean its erasing or belittling your experiences? that post was coming from the viewpoint of being genderqueer, and how that completely affects my view of gender, and thus my personal view of gender-based attraction. if its not relatable to you then cool, it doesnt apply to you, but trying to claim my genderqueer experience affecting my orientation is "homophobic" just bc it doesnt fit your experience with gender and orientation is shitty. and can yall stop assuming im somehow erasing mono lesbians when im just talking about my own specific personal experiences? im not speaking for all lesbian-kind, im not saying my shit is universal, so please stop acting like YOURS has to be.

and yes women do have a typical appearance, but emphasis on typical. theres all sorts of factors that broaden gender appearances, theres both cis and trans women who dont ""pass"" to others, theres some intersex women who have visible body differences bc of being intersex, there gnc women, various kinds of genderqueer women who present in whatever way they wish- you cant always tell someones gender by their appearance, and to deny that is to ignore all of those types of women, and can easily fall into transphobia territory. if someone looked at me they would probably just think "girl," but that doesnt mean im not a femme genderfluid enby.

[mahmoodjamal]

Tasting the Sky - Ibtisam Barakat PART I A Letter to No One 1981, Surda, West Bank Like a bird clawing The bars of a cage And wishing them branches, My fingers grasp The bus rails before me. But I wish for nothing. I'm midway from Birzeit to Ramallah, at the Israeli army checkpoint at Surda. No one knows how long our bus will stay here. An army jeep is parked sideways to block the road. Soldiers in another jeep look on with their guns. They are ready to shoot. A barrier that punctures tires stands near the stop sign. I regret that I chose to sit up front. The window of the bus frames the roadblock like a postcard that I wish I could send to all my faraway pen pals. They ask me to describe a day in my life. But I do not dare. If I told them of the fear that hides under my feet like a land mine, would they write back? A soldier leaps into the bus. He stands on the top step. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, dark like midnight. "To where?" He throws the question like a rock. I pull myhead toward my body like a tortoise. If I don't see him, perhaps he won't see me. He asks again. I stay silent. I don't think a high school girl like me is visible enough, exists enough for a soldier with a rifle, a pistol, a club, a helmet, and high boots to notice. He must be talking to the man sitting behind me. But he leans closer. His khaki uniform and the back of his rifle touch my knee. My flesh freezes. "To where?" He bends close to my face. I feel everyone on the bus nudging me with their anxious silence. "Ramallah," I stutter. "Ramallah?" he repeats as if astonished. "Khalas. Ma feesh Ramallah. Kullha rahat," he says in broken Arabic. The words sound like they have been beaten up, bruised so blue they can hardly speak their meaning. But I gather them. "There is no Ramallah anymore," he says. "It all should be gone by now." I search for the soldier's eyes, but his sunglasses are walls that keep me from seeing. I search for anything in his face to tell me more than the words he's just said about Ramallah. What does he mean? Are the homes all bulldozed down? And the people? My father and my family, will I find them? Will they wait for me? Fear is a blizzard inside me. A thousand questions clamor in my mind. It was less than an hour ago that I took the bus from Ramallah to Birzeit. Now I am returning. How could everything disappear in less than one hour? Something must be wrong with me. Perhaps I do not know how to think, how to understand my world. Today I chose to sit up front whenI should have chosen to hide in the back. I should have known a front seat lets one see more of what lies ahead. I want to open my mouth and let my feelings escape like birds, let them migrate forever. I am waiting for the soldier to step off the bus. But he doesn't. He counts us, then takes out a radio and speaks. I don't understand, and I am somehow content that I do not. I do not want to know what he says about me or the bus, or what he plans to do. He switches back to Arabic, takes the driver's ID, tells the driver to transport us all--the old passengers, the young, the mothers, students, everyone--to the Military Rule Center. He means the prison-court military compound on the way to Ramallah. I know where that is. It sits on the ground like a curse: large, grim, shrouded in mystery. In ten minutes our bus will be there. New soldiers wait for us at the entrance to the compound. One walks to our driver's window, tells him to let all the passengers off, then turn around and leave. The driver apologizes to us. He says if it weren't for the order, he would wait for us no matter how long it took. I wonder if he is afraid to continue on to Ramallah, to be alone when he finds out whether it's really in ruins. "Wait a moment," he says. "I will return your fare." But no one can wait. "Yallah! Yallah!" a soldier goads. "Hurry!" After a second head count, at gunpoint, we form a line and walk to a waiting area. We stand against a wall that faces the main door. The compound feels like the carcass of a giantanimal that died a long time ago. Its exterior is drab, bonelike, and hostile. We take out our IDs. Two soldiers collect them to determine if any of us had been caught in previous confrontations with the army. Our IDs inform on us. The orange-colored plastic covers, indicating that we all are Palestinian, pile up on the table like orange peels. Two college students, with thick books in their hands, are quickly separated from the group. For a moment, my dream of going to college feels frightening. "Hands up!" someone says, and one of the two soldiers now chooses the people he wants and inspects their bags, pockets, bodies. He skips the girls and women. All is quiet until he raises his hand to search a teenage boy standing next to me. Even before the soldier touches him, the boy starts to giggle. The sound breaking the anxious silence is shocking. At first, the giggles are faint, then they grow so loud that soldiers from outside the yard hear and come to see. The boy's laughter is dry and trembling. Worried. I know what he feels. He wants to cry, but in spite of himself, in spite of the soldiers and the guns, all he can do is giggle. Angered, the search soldier punches the boy, but like a broken cup that cannot hold its contents, the boy continues to laugh. The soldier punches him again. The boy's laughter now zigzags up and down like a mouse trying to flee and not knowing which way to turn. But a kick on the knee from the soldier's boot finally makes the boy cry. He folds down in pain and then is led inside the building. We stand still like trees--no talking, no looking at oneanother, no asking questions, no requesting water or trips to the bathroom, no sitting or squatting. We do not know what we are waiting for or why we are waiting. The hours stretch like rubber bands that break and snap against our skins, measured by the ticking of boots, going and coming across the yard, in and out of the building. I keep my eyes on our main guard, who now sits by the door. Lighting a cigarette from the dying ember of the one he has just finished and filling his chest with the flavor of fire, he makes frog cheeks and blows smoke rings that widen like binoculars as he glances at us through the smoky panel. He looks at us as though we are only suitcases in his custody I want to ask him if I can take out a pen and paper. If he lets me, I will empty myself of what I feel. I will distract myself from my hunger, for I have not eaten all day. And I will record details to give to my mother in order to avoid her wrath--if Ramallah is not really gone. But something in my mind wags a warning finger not to ask, not to do the wrong thing. It's a finger like Mother's, telling me to get home in a hurry, not ever to be late. But I am already many hours late. Mother tells me not to speak about politics. She is always afraid that something bad could happen suddenly. "Khalas, insay, insay," she demands impatiently. "Forget, just forget." And I do. I know less about politics than do most of my classmates. I never even learned how the colors of the Palestinian flag are arranged. Sometimes I glance at the outlawed flag during street demonstrations. I see it for seconds only,before the hand that holds it is shot at by Israeli soldiers. At times, I see the flag drawn in graffiti on walls. Someone does it at night and leaves it for us to discover in the morning. The soldiers spray over it during the day. Anyone caught with the Palestinian flag is punished. Mother does not want me or any of my siblings to do anything that could cause us even the slightest trouble with the army. "Imshy el-hayt el-hayt wu qool yallah el steereh," she says. Walk by the wall. Do not draw attention to yourself. Be invisible if you can, is her guiding proverb. If I see Mother again, I will tell her what happened to the bus at the checkpoint. "Why go to Birzeit?" She will slice at the air with her hands, half wanting to hear my answer, half wanting to hit me. Birzeit is where students go to college after finishing high school in Ramallah. Some also come from Gaza, Nablus, and other cities, towns, and refugee camps. In Birzeit, many students become active in politics and have fights with the Israeli army. They chant on the streets that they want freedom from the occupation. But I did not go there to chant for freedom. I have my freedom. It is hidden in Post Office Box 34. This is what takes me from Ramallah to Birzeit. Post Office Box 34 is the only place in the world that belongs to me. It belonged to my brother Basel first. He left Ramallah and did not want to give up the box, so he passed it on to me. On the days I don't go to Birzeit, I bury the key in the dirt under a lemon tree near our house. If I die, the key for the box will be under the ground with me. Having this box is like having a country, the size of atiny square, all to myself. I love to go there, dig the key out of my pocket, turn its neck around, open the door, then slowly let my hand nestle in and linger, even if the box is empty. I wish I could open my postbox every day. I feel that my hand, when deep inside it, reaches out to anyone on the other side of the world who wants to be my friend. Some postal worker in Birzeit must like me, perhaps because I put "Thank you to the postman" on all my envelopes. When many days go by without my coming for letters, I sometimes find a stick of chewing gum in my box. Someone has opened it first, written a line of cheerful poetry, then wrapped it again. Smiling, I skip out of the post office. I chew the line, taste its meaning. Paper and ink, poems and my postbox are medicines that heal the wounds of a life without freedom. On some days, I wish I could stay inside my postbox, with a tiny pillow made from a stamp with a flower on it. At the end of the day, I could cover myself up with one pinkenveloped letter and sleep on a futonlike stack of letters from my pen pals: Dimitri from Greece. He writes of a Greek holiday called No. I reply that all teenagers in the world should celebrate this day. Dimitri and I argue about baklava. He insists it's Greek. I assure him it is Arabic. Perhaps it is both, we finally decide to agree, since both our peoples love it. Luis from Spain. He is unhappy for reasons I do not understand. His country is not occupied, and he does not have a strict mother like mine. But I like it that he always writes something about basketball. He says when he gets out on the court he forgets all his worries. Hannah from Great Britain. What if I wrote "Great" next to "Ramallah" when I send my letter? From Great Ramallah to Great Britain. We would be equals then. Hannah's letters are always egg white, with the queen stamp, which I stare at for a long time. The crowned queen is beautiful. Hannah writes about the trips she takes with her family and the books she reads. She loves Gulliver's Travels and Emil and the Detectives, books that I, too, love, because Gulliver and Emil remind me of myself. Gulliver knows exactly what it is not to be free. And both Gulliver and Emil form fond friendships with strangers. Sally, a grandmother from America, speaks about eating turkey on Thanksgiving. "Eating a country?" I write back. She explains. And I laugh because Mother dislikes the "Roman rooster," our name for turkey. She would never let one in our house, much less cook it for a celebration. I have many pen pals: tourists, Holy Land pilgrims, and students who join pen pal programs to see the world through other people's words. Some write only once in a long while. Others write often. But all of them send me scraps of their lives translated into English, which I have been studying for six years, ever since I turned eleven. In return, I tell my pen pals about my school, friends, teachers, studies. I describe the seasons, the land, the wheat and olive harvests, and the Eid celebrations. Looking into a hand mirror, I describe myself if I don't have a picture to send. Translating many words and sentences, I also write about the Arabic language. I explain that verbs in Arabic form roots that create trees of nouns and word structures. An yaktub means towrite. Maktoob means a written letter. Katebah is a female writer. Ala-katebah is a typewriter. Kitab is a book. Maktab is a desk for writing. Maktabah is a library, the place where one finds books. All these words grow from the root verb kataba. Making words in Arabic is like planting a field with seeds, growing an orchard--words hang on the vines like grape clusters, leaves throw shadows of meanings to the ground. I am eager to answer all my pen pals' questions about language. But when they ask me about my childhood, suddenly I have nothing to say. It's like a curtain comes down and hides my memories. I do not dare part it and look. So I skip all childhood questions and reply only about the day. Today, I wish I could tell my pen pals that I was going to Birzeit to open my postbox, to meet their words. There were no letters from anyone. Maybe they were on their way, but the postal trucks were unable to get to Birzeit. The roads and mail system here are like our country, broken. Letters are like prayers; they take a long time to be answered. What would my pen pals say if I told them that I am standing at a detention center because I went to open my postbox for their letters? Now, gazing at the ground under my feet, I remember that I need to make up something ingenious to convince Mother that I did not go to Birzeit to talk to college boys or do anything related to Palestine or politics. I usually cannot convince her of anything. She is cleverer than I am. She is cleverer than anyone I know. Perhaps ten mothers in Ramallah are not clever at all because she has gotten their share of cleverness. When unsatisfied, she pokes my chest and curses me. To answer her, I write poems about the cruelty of mothers. "What difference is there between a mother and a soldier? None." I underline my answer. "Mothers and soldiers are enemies of freedom. I am doubly occupied." I post the poems on the wall like freedom graffiti or tuck them in "her journal," a journal that I keep only for my mother. She reads it when I am gone. Often, however, I write good words in her journal, hoping that when she sees them she will know that I care about her and be gentler with me. "God, I feel terrible for Mother because she works so hard. And I don't know what it is to be a mother in a land filled with soldiers and war. Please make her happy. Take from my happiness if that's the only way to help." "Liar," she pencils next to my words, then erases it. The faint traces remain. I see them. We never speak about her journal, but we meet there to say the things we cannot say out loud. My true journal is written with no pen or paper, but in my mind, with an invisible hand in the air. No one will ever find it. When Mother says to come home, I write in my mind that I feel at home nowhere. I want to wander the streets after school, walk forever, walk away from a world I do not understand, a world that tells me daily there is no place in it for me. And it is not just Mother who is afraid and watches over me. Father does, too. My parents, Suleiman and Mirriam, whom I call Yaba and Yamma, often disagree on things, but when it comes to me, they act as though they never disagree.My father copies his feelings from Mother the way one copies homework. On some mornings, they whisper a few words, then my father pretends to go to work early. But he waits outside until I walk to school, and follows me. He must want to see how I behave on the streets when I am alone. He does not know that I read him the way I read a street sign, and that I watch for him every day the way I watch for the snipers on top of the large buildings in Ramallah. They, too, watch how we walk and what we do. Without looking at them, we know exactly where they are. When my father walks behind me, as if he thinks he can outwit me, I feel sad. How little he knows me. "Yaba, why not wait outside until I leave?" I said one morning. "What for?" he asked. "So that you can follow me," I fumed. He became outraged and charged after me. I bolted into a room and locked the door. "Why do you challenge me?" he shouted. I opened the door and walked right up to him. He only shook his head, blamed my defiance on my schooling, and blamed himself for sending me to school. "You dig your head into your Nakleezi books like a sheep, grazing all day," he said, and sighed, perhaps wishing he, too, could read English books. I know that my father does not really want to put down my schooling, especially because of the way he treats the word chair, the only word in English he knows. He says it with pride, moves it around in his speech as though to gaina better view of things. He sits on it like it's a throne. Yet it is a lonely chair. My love for language and words seems to come between us. It takes away his authority over me. The books, not he, are my references. The soldiers are another force that separates us. Father knows that they, not he, are the ones who control every one of us. We are not free to be a family the way he wants, with him a lion in our lives. He is like a lion in the zoo. Any of us can be taken away any day. No one can stop that, no matter how hard he roars from the fenced space allotted to him. I compare my father with the fathers of other girls. He is poorer than many, and war lives inside him. Every night, he wakes up shouting that someone is going to kill him, kill us all. He punches at the air, kicks with his feet to free himself, and cries for someone to help him. Mother sleeps on the farthest edge of the bed to avoid getting hit. She pretends she does not hear his cries. But every night I run to comfort him. I bring him a cup of water and sit beside him. I ask him to tell me what he sees. Catching his breath, he mixes words and tears. My father has no language for the pain and loneliness he feels. Is that because he has lived all his life not knowing freedom? Or does he hide his freedom somewhere, the way I hide mine in Post Office Box 34? It is late afternoon, and we are still standing, still waiting at the detention center. My feet are aching for rest. Then, unexpectedly, I am released. My tears drip onto my shoes. Tears are my secret ink, inthe absence of real ink. Liquid stories. On the air that comes into and leaves my chest, I write all the things that happen to me. "Now the soldier hands me my ID and tells me that I can go home ..." I run toward the center of Ramallah, my heart heavy, as if it has stones in it. Questions rattle in my mind. What did the soldier on the bus mean? But ... Ramallah ... is ... still ... there. It is there. Juabah newspaper shop, Salaam taxicab office, Fam boutique, Abu Azmi grocery shop, Zabaneh market, Salah pharmacy are all closed, but all are there. I want to hold Ramallah the way one holds oneself when there is no one else to touch. Quickly, I realize that some fight between Palestinian protesters and Israeli soldiers must have taken place. The streets are deserted, except for speeding military vehicles. I walk cautiously. I feel afraid and alone. "Walk by the wall." Mother's proverb now guides me like a map. I hurry up until I get to the street near our home. But there, my heart begins to race, and my mind begins to fill with soldiers. Suddenly, I can see the kinds of things that my father describes in his nightmares. With every step I take, more images of war appear. I stagger through the door under Mother's scrutinizing eyes. She is filled with fury. But one look into my face, and all turns into worry. "What happened?" she gasps. I tell her that the soldiers detained me with many others. I tell her that, like Father, I have become ill with war. I describe to her the images I see. But I do not say I had gone to Birzeit. Perhaps she does not really want to know. For this, I am grateful. "When a war ends, it does not go away," she says. "It hides inside us." She knows. "Do not walk that road," she warns me. "Insay. Insay." "Just forget!" But I do not want to do what Mother says. I cannot follow her advice. I want to remember. Sinking in the sea Of forgetfulness I reach for the raft of remembering. Where the small girl I once was Stands alone, Holds a key to the postal box of memory, And awaits The day When she will Find her home By asking Her heart to Take her there.