#i remember when i was but a wee queer lad myself

[raineandsky]

Hi (if you are okay with writing this)

What about a hero (who’s a trans man) captured by the villain and the villain finds his top surgery scars and is surprised of the fact but not judgy or disgusted like the hero thought they’d be

Love ❤️ your writing,thanks

i hope you enjoy - thank you for the request!

“We don’t want to ruin this lovely suit the agency put together for you,” the villain purrs as they run a hand over the seams of the hero’s shirt. “Let’s get you into something more comfortable, hm?”

“Oh, uh, no,” the hero refutes weakly, “you can ruin it.”

The villain looks entirely unimpressed. “We have to wear unflattering uniforms when you catch villains. It’s only fair you do the same.”

“No, no, [Villain],” the hero tries, which the villain is pointedly ignoring in favour of moving too close, with too much purpose, “you don’t get it, I can’t—”

The hero’s protests are in vain. The villain’s hands are already on the hem of his shirt, and with a hefty pull they yank it directly over the hero’s head.

The hero can feel their stare burning into his chest. He directs his eyes to the ground to avoid seeing whatever disgust is inevitably on the villain’s face. Then, after a moment that’s painfully long, the villain says, “what kind of fight did you get in?”

The hero accidentally glances up at them in surprise. It’s not disgust on their face—it’s confusion. Not a look that the hero is unfamiliar with; the disgust will come once he explains.

“Fought a doctor and lost,” he says with a short laugh. “They’re, uh… it’s from top surgery.”

The villain’s face is blank. “Huh.”

Here comes the disgust. The hero sucks in a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest without thinking. “Do you have something I’m meant to be putting on?”

“Oh, yeah, ‘course.” The villain grabs a shirt and throws it at the hero, waiting patiently while he hurriedly puts it on. “So you’re, y’know…”

“Trans,” the hero finishes awkwardly. “Yeah.”

“Cool.” The villain turns to gesture to a door across the room. “Alright, through there, please. Let’s get this torturing on the road.”

The hero’s the one that’s staring blankly this time. “What?”

“What did you think you’re here for?” The villain’s scoffs. “I’ve caught you, and now I’m going to torture you about it.”

“No, I get that, I just, uh…” The hero glances around the room idly, like something will give him the confidence he direly needs for this interaction. He waves his hands vaguely at his chest. “Don’t you, like, have anything to say?”

The villain’s face contorts into a confused frown. “… I accept you?”

“I thought you’d be more…” The hero grapples for an appropriate word. “Judgy.”

“I’m a villain, [Hero], not an asshole,” the villain says with a tired sigh. “Being a guy or not doesn’t change the fact that you’re a hero and I hate you. If anyone does have a problem with it, though, send them my way. Always fancied myself a bit of an anti-hero.”

The hero can’t help the relieved smile pulling at his lips. “I’ll make sure to do that.”

“Thanks.” The villain waves impatiently at the door again. “Now, are we doing this or not?”

The hero nods plainly, some of his usual heroic confidence back. “Only If you don’t mind me breaking out in a few days.”

“Ugh, if you have to.”

But the villain smiles, the friendly kind, and the hero decides that maybe his nemesis could be his ally too.

[hickeys-dickey]

Pls share your thoughts about the gays in THAT scene… I would love to read them!

Ahh you are too kind, I am but a little swiss cheese brain but I'll try my best to sum up my thoughts, I have too many! I wanted a chance to grab some screenshots too! I'm going to put a read more because this is a long one buckle up lads.

So obviously the whole punishment for Hickey is designed to humiliate him (I would imagine this is one of the reasons his punishment isn't explained to him, because if Hickey truly was a naval petty officer he would know, and I think it's another way for Crozier to essentially say "I see you" and not in a good way). The fact we're not shown the other whippings shows the importance lies in the scene with Hickey.

I've seen a bit of discussion about his charge of "dirtiness", which isn't listed initially when we see him being questioned by the Captains, and whether or not it alludes to homosexuality but on a quick cursory search it does seem to have been used as a euphemism where an outright accusation of sodomy would mean a death sentence. The way Crozier throws it out there, no doubt to heap the humiliation onto Hickey and add crimes to the list to cover the fact he added lashes on to the punishment essentially for a bruised ego (but that's another matter), suggests a whole lot of venom to the accusation. Hickey's pointed look at Irving and Irving's quick shift of his gaze down suggests they both know exactly why Crozier has listed this among Hickey's list of crimes, and Hickey looks furious for it.

But I think this is also ultimately where the panic begins to set in. Again, there are far greater minds than me who have made excellent posts about queer coded characters in the terror, and I think it's no surprise that most of them are the faces that are focused on in this scence. It is clear long before this moment that Crozier's leadership is lacking, and people have already begun to voice concerns fairly loudly. Tozer for one is livid in the wake of Heather being injured, and the marines have clearly started distancing themselves from both the officers and the men. I feel like this scene, for a lot of characters is a point of major shift in either allegiences or character.

Tozer and the Captains are the first faces that are panned to in this scene and I think the expressions speak for themselves.

Tozer is visibly upset/concerned after the first lash. I do think guilt probably has a part to play, in that is was him whole told Hickey where Silna was, and presumably approved enough of the plan to not rat him out to anyone. Again, very probably part of Tozer's anger at Heather being injured due to what he sees is Crozier's poor management. Fitzjames is stoney faced, but is also the only one looking. As a man who many have noted pushes himself to pick emotional scabs, I think it would make sense for someone who is also notably queer coded and stuggles with trauma to make himself look directly at someone being whipped for a crime he himself might commit. Crozier isn't even looking, whether out of suddenly doubting his harshness or simply triggering something in his own memory it's not clear. I think the end of this shot also speaks for itself.

(Fig 1. Three Concerned (very likely not straight) men contemplate)

The lads at the back behind Mr. Johnson are all looking Directly At the whipping as it is taking place. Interestingly none of the men at the front near the table are looking. This is the stewards, officers, and marines. Whether out of respect or also Concern at their own skins (I think every one of these characters has been addressed as being queer coded at some point, minus the marines who are all, except Tozer, fairly nameless characters).

I'm not a gifmaker which is unfortunate for this section, though this is what is gifed in the beautiful gifset by sashneeka I reblogged (x). Tommy is also visibly upset, whether because he knows Tozer was involved in the plot to kidnap Silna and is concerned for him and any of the rest of the crew who had assisted in someway or voiced support. Billy interestingly does look briefly, and sets his jaw after in a way that suggests he's trying to fight the guilt of being the one to tell Irving about the whole affair with Hickey to paint himself in a better light. It could just as easily be Billy there on that table being lashed, but he somehow rationalises it in his head (probably because Hickey is a little bastard) that he was right in what he did. He does look down fairly guiltily after this, so maybe he hasn't quite settled on an opinion. Jopson also looks incredibly concerned/unsettled, and interestingly looks at Hickey right up until the whip hits where he flinches, and not for the only time in this scene. From what we know about Jopson's past, though not at this point, it may well be he is remembering similar punishment/mistreatment and like Fitzjames looks enough to pick the scab open and flinch from his own trauma.

The closeup of Hickey shows the full extent of his rage and humiliation building, and as I think Adam himself said, they whipped something out of Hickey that day and let him reach this potential that lay inside him (to become an even bigger bastard). He's fully severed all ties and feelings of loyalty after this and it becomes full on train to manipulation station from this point. I have a lot of Thoughts about Hickey also (which I am sure you are all aware of) but I think there was some semblance of Hickey attempting to start afresh on this journey, or at the very least keep his head down and go unnoticed. The trouble is, he notices Crozier as a flawed man, and one not from the upper classes like himself, and his ego can't help but think we're not so different, that could be me with the right connections. Well surprise lads, its murder time now and he's gonna make this old man pay for not recognising initiative but punishing it. I do wonder if Crozier wasn't booze sick and rattled from losing even more men under his command, would he not have come down so harshly for someone clearly defying the Articles to do what he thinks is right and save the men (a la Crozier and his fuck you I'm directly contradicting an order and leading this rescue party myself).

Tozer gets another wee closeup here and again looks like he has resolved something in his head too. Most likely that he thinks Crozier an unfit leader, and admiring Hickey for having the balls to do what he did (Hickey also never reveals anyone else who came with him, and when he talks about Hartnell and Mason's part in taking Silna it highlights their skill and bravery and (he thinks) commends them to the Captain. It's probably the only time we see him building up and applauding others). He looks dead ahead here and seems to have a very steely gaze, like yep fuck it looks like I'm going it alone now. It is interesting that Tozer goes from this to notably disliking Hickey (both at the start and when they are packing up - "you've just given me an excuse to give a big shove". This might be anger at Hickey having caused all the issues with Silna after the fact when Heather gets killed at Carnivale), but still follows him in the end. Hickey has the ability to kill, manipulate, steal, basically do whatever needed for their group to get ahead, which means Tozer can be part of the group and not have to dirty his own hands. I think Tozer probably has a complicated relationship with Hickey, but he does fall for the charm hook, line, and sinker, and the fact he seems concerned for him here suggests how easily he is sympathetic to those he sees as being wronged.

Gibby getting Hickey's blood on his hand (ayy) seems to visibly make him blanch, and I do find it interesting that the shot then pans to Tommy as though they are looking at each other when they are stood side by side. The similarities between them maybe? (I've seen and reblogged a lot of discourse about Tommy loving Tozer, maybe another nod to no one being so different to the man on the table?) Irving doesn't get much of a close up in the rest of this scene but bless him he looks equal parts terrified and guilty (another man who has been noted as having a list of many things to distract from the Gay Thoughts like why do you need to distract from Gay Thoughts Irving?). He also has the Far Off Look of trauma about him, probably because he too could just as easily be on that table.

I have many many thoughts about the way Hickey turns to look (and fucking smile???) at Crozier next, which is when Crozier is looking directly at him and Fitzjames looks at him. Like if I were Crozier I think my fucking blood would chill, look at this man. Being humiliated and lashed still hasn't broken him, if anything he has just become fully unhinged and looks at Crozier as though to say "did you really think this would work?". I would also say, this man has fairly quite for someone who is at this stage something like 22 lashes in? Like what the actual fuck Hickey?? I fully belive Hickey to be a psycopath, and most of what he does in the beginning of the series is an attempt to stay hidden until they get to Hawaii and he can ditch the crew, but I think it is fairly safe to say he isn't hiding it any more.

And he knows this is going to make the men doubt Crozier - I can't do a proper search because I am using my work laptop atm, but I seem to remember reading that a punishment greater than 12 lashes required a court martial (probably why Little steps in to say so when Crozier orders his punishment as well as them technically being lost at sea), which would be another strike against him as a Captain. Not only that, but Crozier does seem to grant him some mercy in letting him only be lashed I think 23 or so times? Probably because the tension is fucking palpable in this whole scene and Crozier can either choose to claw back some sense of control on the matter, or deal with the consequences of many people admiring Hickey for what he has done for the crew and start a mutiny. I think this is the first time Fitzjames sees the damage Crozier is doing to himself with his choices as Captain, and is probably just as concerned at the look Hickey is giving him. He knows this has unleashed something in this tiny rat bastard too, and that he will become the physical manifestation of Crozier's self-destructive tendancies. Crozier perpetually comes to everything just a fraction too late to change anything - he never saves any of the men, only comforts them as they die, and a lot of this has to do with his own ego and bad decision making, and I think this is the first example here of the fact his actions are having an effect on others to the point it will be his downfall.

Anyway, to round it off, I think this scene really epitomises the notion that Hickey is a mirror to the rest of the men, and they see their flaws in him. Those who have questioned Crozier's captaincy look concernced knowing they too could be being lashed. They too would have tried to get Silna to stop the Tuunbaq hunting them. Those who are queer or queer coded know they too could be being lashed for it. Crozier himself sees his unwillingness to follow the Articles in him, sees his own insubordination, and feels what Sir John meant when he said his position afforded him deference. Hickey may as well be a metaphor for all the men being lashed, theres not one among them who haven't voiced wanting to do what he has done. Let them without sin and all that. This is make or break for who holds loyalty to the Captain, and the turning point for who is going where. I think everyone except Jopson, Irving and Fitzjames ends up in the mutineers camp, and Irving ends up killed and mutilated by Hickey and Fitzjames is scavanged by them. Theres not one of them that isn't haunted by what happened in this scene, and Hickey would end up being the death of every single one of them. The only one who remains loyal after this is Jopson, who thinks his care and duty to the Captain can outweigh his other sins. Fitzjames and Crozier have a stronger relationship once he recovers from his withdrawal, yes, but Fitzjames also keeps him in check now (I'm thinking of Edward Little being threatened with flogging again because of course I am), and it is another step too late for Crozier's self-destruction. I've seen a Hickey/Fitzjames Christ analogy on here before too, so I hope you'll forgive me in comparing them, but Hickey in this scene really does get punished for everyone else's crimes in this scene, and becomes a sort of Christ-like figure, reborn as a complete version of the worst of himself from the pain of being lashed. They whipped something out of him!! Anyway, that about sums it up!

[mclennunf]

This Boy - Chapter 22

~John's~ I couldn't take my eyes off of him. I was filled with anger. Mike was still hiding behind me, not making a peep. Paul stood frozen staring at Jim McCartney. It took a few moments before anybody could speak, I think we were all trying to analyze the situation and trying to believe it was really happening. Jim took his eyes off of Paul and locked with mine. "I think it's best if you leave." I managed to growl out. The sound of my voice made Mike tighten his grip around my waist. "This is my home, son. I believe it's best if you leave."  Jim spat back, his voice sounding weak and shaken. 

"Take Mike upstairs." Paul ordered as he tilted his head slightly toward me. "Paul, no I'm--" I tried to object before Paul interrupted. "John, now." He said sternly. That meant walking right by Jim. I spun around and picked up Mike, who quickly hid his head in my neck and wrapped his limbs around my body. I took a deep breath and as I walked by Jim toward the stairs, it took every ounce of my strength not to head butt him. He glared at me as I walked by.   I made it up into Paul's room, and sat Mike down on the bed. I sat down next to him and took another deep breath. "Are you okay?" I asked Mike quietly. He leaned into my side and I put my arm around his shoulder. I could hear him begin to cry, the poor lad. I did not want to be locked up here and away, Paul needed me. "P-Paul is downstairs..with him," Mike said quietly. I nodded. "G-go sit on the stairs and listen, Johnny, he might need you," Mike told me. "Are you gonna be okay if I do?" I asked, already standing up. He nodded and lied down on his older brothers bed. I opened the door quietly and tip toed down the stairs half way, sitting down and listening carefully. It was silent at first, I heard a chair shuffle and Jim sigh loudly. "Why are you here?" Gin asked. "I want my home back, I want my children." Jim said quite loudly. I shook my head to myself. I waited for Paul to object, but he didn't speak. "The boys have learned their lesson, I've quit drinking. I need my boys back." Jim ordered. I wanted to throw things. I wanted to hit Jim McCartney so hard he didn't wake back up. "Stupid git." I mumbled to myself. "Paul, don't you have anything to say?" Jim asked. "Don't you? An apology, perhaps?" Paul spat back quickly. I wanted to stand up clapping, and place a huge kiss on Paul's lips. I was so proud of him for standing up for him and Mike, not backing down. "Paul I did those things because I care about you, you're my son after all." Jim scoffed. It was all so unreal. "You nearly killed me because you care? That's bullshit." Paul laughed. "Don't take that tone with me, young man." I heard him stand up. "Or what? You'll put me back in a hospital bed?" Paul stood up as well. I braced myself. "Don't you have any respect for your father?" Jim raised his voice. "Fuck you." Paul spat back and left the room, he stormed up the stairs passed me and slammed his bedroom door shut. Jim showed up at the bottom of the stairs.  I stood up. "Yer a swine." I growled at him. "Let me pass, kid." Jim shoved me, I fell but caught myself on the stairs. I took another deep breath, I couldn't hit him. Oh how I bloody wanted to, but I knew if I started hitting him I wouldn't be able to stop. I'd end up killing the old sod. Gin stepped out from around the corner. "Come on, let's all sit down in the living room and talk." She ordered, speaking loud enough so Paul and Mike would hear. Paul walked out of the bedroom with a still frightened Mike holding his hand. I leaned against the wall, allowing them to pass me. As Paul walked by, he lightly grabbed my hand. His touch reminded me that he was okay, and we were going to figure this thing out. Paul and I sat down together on the couch, Mike jumped up into my lap, Gin was in the chair, and Jim stood in the doorway. "Jim, you know the boys are both legally mine. Now that Paul is an adult, he's a secondary guardian to Mike. This is not your decision, its our's." Gin told him sternly. I couldn't believe how calm Paul seemed. Mike was fumbling with my fingers, not looking up at his dead-beat father that I oh-so-badly wanted to knock on his ass. "Then you should know that I've quit drinking and all I want is to be a father to you boys again." Jim said, calmly. "Had yer chance already and ye blew it, didn't ye?" I blurted out. The sound of my voice seemed to sooth Paul because his face softened. "Why are you here, Lennon? This is a family matter." Jim said as he stared me down again. "John is more family than you are." Paul said in an extremely low, monotoned voice. Jim's stare didn't break with mine. "If Paul and Mike agree, we can begin with visitations. Once a week, under my supervision." Gin said and sighed loudly. I tensed up immediately. "No." Paul said as he stood up and stared Jim in the eye. Paul had gotten quite a bit taller since the last time he'd seen Jim, and he looked more like a man than before. He was more muscular now with a lot more definition in his face. "I think it's time to go." I said as I stood up and shifted into the space separating Jim and Paul. "Bloody hell boy, what are you doing protecting him so much? Are you a queer? For MY son?" Jim spat at me as his nose inched closer to mine. I clenched my fists and huffed loudly in his face, using every ounce of my will not to hit him. Paul grabbed my shoulder and shoved me back. Paul grabbed Jim's collar, his eyes looked black with rage. "Don't you DARE speak to him like that!" Paul began yelling as he dragged Jim out into the vestibule. "Get the FUCK out of this house, and don't bother trying to be apart of mine and Mike's lives. FUCK YOU." Paul was screaming in Jim's face now, still beat red with anger. He opened the door and held his hand out toward the exit. Jim looked like his heart had just been ripped out and thrown in a puddle. Good. As he walked away, Paul slammed the door shut and slid down it, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. I knelt down beside him. "I'm so proud of you." I whispered. Mike flew into Paul's arms, burying his small crying face into Paul's shoulder. Paul stood up with Mike in his arms and swayed him back and forth as if he was a crying toddler. Gin stood in the doorway of the sitting room, clenching her chest, tears rolling down her cheeks.  I should've felt out of place, but I didn't. Paul didn't stop swaying back and forth in that spot for a while. Gin and I gave them their alone time and sat back down in the kitchen. "Do you think they would want some tea?" Gin asked me, still sniffling as she placed a pot of tea on the table along with four cups. "I'll go ask them." I half smiled as I stood up and approached the boys. Paul still hadn't moved from the spot he had been swaying Mike in. I kissed Paul's cheek. "Cuppa tea, love?" I whispered and kissed his temple. I noticed Mike was asleep on Paul's shoulder. Paul nodded and walked over to the couch, lying Mike down and placing a quilt on top of him. "Mum made this, she did." Paul whispered to Mike before kissing the top of his head. Paul walked back over to me, his head hanging. I lifted his chin with my index finger and kissed his nose lightly. "Are ye okay, m'love?" I asked him quietly. "Hard to look at him, y'know?" Paul said, his voice cracking a little bit as he wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. "Thank you for staying." He added. "Oh I wasn't going anywhere if my life bloody depended on it, Macca. C'mon, Gin is gonna see us." I told him as I pulled his arms off of me and dragged him into the kitchen. "I'm glad you boys are home safe, but I think it's time for me to resign. It's getting late after all." Gin said, almost awkwardly as she left the room and went to Jim's old room. "I love you, Paul." I said quietly as he poured us each a cup of tea. He let a smile creep out the side of his mouth. "I love you, John. I'm surprised you didn't kill the bastard." Paul laughed a little and put his hand on my thigh. "Oh trust me, I wanted to. Took all me bloody strength not to! Just seein' his bloody face got me blood boiling. Seein' wee Mike scared like that, and well, seein' you all red and mad." I told him as I sipped at my tea. "Seein' me like that made you wanna hit him?" Paul giggled a little. "Well, of course. But afterward I wanted to jump your soddin' bones, lookin' all sexy like that, y'know." I smirked and grabbed his hand, still placed on my thigh. "Are you hitting on me, John Lennon?" Paul said, trying to sound as shocked as possible. "I just might be." I said, in a low grumble as I leaned over and kissed down Paul's jawline and to his neck. "Paul?" Mike's little voice made us both jump. "Yes love?" Paul said as he took Mike's hand and pulled him up into his lap. "Thank you for protectin' me," he mumbled through a small whimper. "Ah Mikey, I'll always be here to protect ye." Paul said with a smile on his face as he hugged his small brother close, looking at me over his shoulder.  "Eh, Mike, do you wanna know a secret?" Paul said as he pulled away from the hug.  "Yeah!" Mike said, sounding a bit happier. "Johnny and I are gettin' married." Paul whispered with a smile from ear to ear. My eyes widened, I hadn't expected him to tell anybody. I suppose Mike wasn't just anybody, though.  "YOU ARE?!" Mike hugged Paul and quickly hopped off of him to hug me. "That we are, son." I smiled and hugged him back. "I'm gonna go t'bed, but remember to walk me to school tomorrow!" Mike was giddy, but yawning at this point. We said our goodnights and Mike ran up to his bedroom. "Brush your teeth!" Paul yelled after him. I laughed. "What are you on about, then?" Paul laughed too as he sat back down at the table, scooting closer to me. "Don't go freakin out on me, but I just wanted t'say I think you'd be a really great Dad, Macca." I smiled and kissed his cheek. Paul's cheeks went a light shade of pink. "Let's talk about Paris.. when were ye plannin' on goin' to do that?" Paul asked as he poured us another cup of tea. "Well I was thinkin' on me birthday." I replied with a smile. Paul nearly choked on his tea. "Ye birthday?! Bloody hell, Johnny. That's in a few soddin' days!" He said, surprised. "Shh, Mike and Gin are sleepin'!" I reminded him with a smile. "Is that too soon? Did you want time to think about it more?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "'No! I know I wanna marry ye, ye daft git. I'm only just surprised you'd wanna do it so quick." Paul said, defending himself and smiling. "It's settled then. We'll go to Paris for me birthday, and I'll marry the crap outta ye!" I giggled and kissed his hand, he laughed along with me. "Do you wanna tell anybody else?" Paul asked me a little quieter.  "I suppose we could think about it, I don't mind just goin' the two of us y'know. But if you wanna best man er somethin'..." I replied. "Lets talk more in the morning." Paul sighed and finished his tea. "Well we can at least think about it, love." I smiled and took our cups to the sink. Paul grabbed my hand and began pulling me toward the stairwell. "I don't wanna think about it right now. I've got something else on my mind." Paul said with a smirk. "Oh bloody hell." I smiled and picked him up over my shoulder, and carried him to the bedroom, throwing him down on the bed. "I'll give ye somethin' to think about." I growled as I winked and crawled on top of him.

[talkinganddrumsolos]

I Went To New Orleans And All You Got Is This Lousy T-Shirt

Among the glib and oversimplified beliefs I find utility in repeating to others is this recommendation: all Americans ought to visit New Orleans. I mean something more specific, of course, something like: all Americans ought to visit New Orleans but only partly for bon-temps decadence and also to see the most eccentric but perfectly logical extension of what your country's economic system and institutional racism and general human ingenuity hath wrought. To see a place where the the problems of Everytown, USA are humidified into a crucible but also where young black men regularly earn social and financial capital from playing the tuba. To see a place that is doomed in the short-to-medium term to repeat its own mistakes and doomed in the long term to Poseidon, yet "still I rise" until the sea level counters again.

This also requires having a particular point of view — some desire to witness regional cultural experience, and some empathic consciousness toward the underprivileged whose communities often are the originators of said cultural experiences. These things manifest in basic questions that should occur to any witness, as in "why is there an elaborate parade today for no particular reason?“ or “who had the idea to immerse seafood in butter?“ or “how does this elegant baroque richesse coexist with such stark inequality and tropical decay?” Apparently even this half-woke perspective is harder to come by in America c. 2017 than it it ought to be, but when presented with such marvels it isn’t really a big ask. It doesn't really matter exactly what type of privilege or cultural experience you're curious about; in New Orleans, chase any thread far enough and the intersections of oppressions and creative pursuits both should get you to some form of the experience I have in mind.

OK wait. That all scans way too grim and medicinal, especially since my personal experiences in New Orleans have been, on the whole, really fucking fun. As a wee lad my immigrant parents convened a family vacation to Louisiana basically as an excuse to escape winter and imbibe seasoned crawdads; I was old enough to remember specific things being entertaining and delicious but not old enough to find any of it particularly enlightening. About six years ago I sent myself to the Jazz and Heritage Festival for work with a colleague who happened to be a New Orleans native, and Josh basically gave me the weeklong crash course in Crescent City Conspicuous Consumption 101. The pump had been primed by jazz music mythologies and some vague inference that the city in the news and other mass-cultural phenomena all the time was indeed exceptional living history, but that was the start of the love affair really.

Throughout this last trip I just completed, well-meaning people kept asking me why I was visiting, which struck me as superfluous. I just assumed they would just assume I was there for the same reason that any other out-of-place-looking dude was suddenly in the area code: tourism. Well, that and the convergence of a few boring personal motivations: trying to make the most of forcible unemployment; trying to be warm during an East Coast winter, trying to ride a bicycle somewhere warm during an East Coast winter, trying to use some frequent flyer miles (I paid $11.20 for the flight), trying to see what attracted some good friends from college to land there and stay there, trying to take a vacation from my own simmering existential crises. But also I went to try to better understand why the music and food I’d developed a taste for existed and perpetuated itself not just by reading about it, but by consuming more of it. Basically, tourism.

If I had to pick a centerpiece event of the week I was there, it was probably the 21-hour period in which I attended the first parade of the Mardi Gras/Carnival season — the profoundly politically-incorrect Krewe du Vieux, followed by the more broadly satirical krewedelusion — and the following day’s second line parade of the CTC Steppers (nothing to do with Mardi Gras), which crossed an industrial canal into the Lower Ninth Ward led by 6-7 floats blaring bounce and modern R&B ahead of the brass band. The mere regular existence of these traditions, where ordinary people build ornate floats to slowly walk around the city in costumes for no discernible purpose other than merriment, is an manmade wonder of the world in itself. They also form a handy contrast: the white-encoded Krewe du Vieux vs. a social aid and pleasure club thoroughly suffused in blackness, skewering others vs. prideful celebration of self, depictions of Donald Trump suffering sex acts vs. a fair amount of twerking, the most economically successful areas of the city vs. a poor area still very much recovering from post-Katrina flood damage, anarchy as aesthetic vs. actual barely reined-in anarchy. In some figurative respects, and a literal one, it was night and day.

(krewedelusion, a younger, more diverse and more female set of sub-krewes, took on some sharper and generally more clever targets. Among the many were anti-AirBnB protests, Guy Fawkes masks, an all-women sub-krewe, the Krewe du Jieux [say it out loud], and a group named after James Brown: the Krewe of King James Super Bad Sex Machine Strollers. Their “security” staff was members of New Orleans Ladies Arm Wrestling. It, like much of New Orleans, doesn’t quite fit as neatly into the duality I’m setting up.)

I didn’t quite eat as much shellfish or see as much live music as I had intended, though it was still quite a bit. I did do my fair share of “chill,” as did apparently most of the city. On aimless strolls or bike rides through neighborhoods, an awful lot of folks seemed to be porch-sitting or biding their time in coffee shops or otherwise not really up to much in the middle of the day. Obviously there are plenty of people invisibly doing the building and harvesting and oil drilling and construction and shrimp-boating and cooking, and plenty of tourists to skew the visible numbers, but it seems like an awful lot of folks are marginally employed, or self-employed, or underemployed, or employed in weird service-industry hours, or just not employed. Coming from DC, a place where work-life balance is both bad and boujee, a place where people have more time than money was welcomed if a bit confusing.

Maybe this, and many of my experiences this time around, were filtered through the truly fine folks I stayed with. My friend lives with her girlfriend and another gay couple and most of that household is students and freelancers. One dude also plays in a moderately well-known rock band. Counting their central social circles, the whole thing was a bit like the Dykes To Watch Out For anthology like the one on their bathroom shelf. Basically my whole experience of this Mardi Gras parade in the presence of queer folks and at a gay bar, which, it turns out, was a pretty awesome vantage point for the freak flags of Carnival time anyhow. New Orleans has always struck me as a sort of place where people can build their scenes with relative ease, and as a general statement I’m glad all my peoples down there have found their peoples.

You see things from one subaltern position and you begin to see them all, and not coincidentally my gracious hosts are involved with several social justice communities. One night we went to a panel discussion called “Black Liberation in the Time of Trump” (it was hosted by a white anti-racism group called European Dissent) which seemed apropos. Chalk it up to my artistic interests maybe, but I’ve always observed the predominant power dynamic around New Orleans to be why black communities define so much of its cultural life yet hold so little of its wealth, and are many times legally restricted unduly in the development of that culture.

(Sometimes this discussion too easily excludes underprivileged populations that don’t fit on it. A friend of a friend, an black EMT, is often asked to list the “race” of patients, and reports that there are only two categories on the form — white and black — which is curious given the large Vietnamese and growing Hispanic communities in the city. Again, shades of grey here.)

I guess some well-meaning white folk see New Orleans as defined by its European cultural history, as in French Quarter architecture or Cajun or Italian food or erstwhile Catholicism, and there’s certainly a lot of that to go around. Here and elsewhere though, the United States of America’s popular cultural history has generally been defined by black people repurposing things for themselves, which is how you get to the neighborhoods where people actually live, and black Creole cooking, and Mardi Gras Indians, and Congo Square and jazz and R&B and traditional brass bands and modern brass bands and bounce and Cash Money Records, and a black majority population after white flight and Robert Moses freeway projects, and gentrification and/or tourism co-opting these things to sell back to moneyed mostly-white people. You can’t really enjoy yourself down there without noticing this.

One wonders whether many of the other relative post-Katrina newcomer folks participate in this cultural life of the city in any meaningful way — if it’s just another dangerous city with economic opportunity and terrible infrastructure (my God the roads), or whether the city’s exceptionalism is worthy of their deeper understanding and time investment as well. The city’s longer-term residents, I suspect, alternately welcome and revile these newcomers, depending in part on these newcomers’ engagement with local concerns. Turfing and perceived ownership in the cultural arena is a tricky topic; having “covered” transplanted white jazzmen based there and elsewhere, there are few clear rules. Yet sometimes even the best intentions for allyship or even active complicity needn’t qualify you for a hood pass, and it’s best to shut up and listen.

As is my unfortunate wont, I’ve made this whole reflection overlong and not particularly coherent. Maybe an incident from my last night in town would illuminate my general point insofar as I was trying to make one. I found myself at a wine and cheese and tapas joint with a huge outdoor patio and a monochromatically pale audience, whatevs, to see a cellist named Helen Gillet. She does a looping and improv thing across idiom, singing French chanson and American rock songs and original compositions and generally getting rad, somewhere between Andrew Bird and Tune-Yards and Yo-Yo Ma. Her last tune, fittingly, severed the hair on her bow. It was all a reminder that the New Orleans music tradition isn’t necessarily about tresillo patterns and trombones, but more generally about good and creative music.

Anyway, throughout the performance, we were frequently interrupted by two blacked-out military helicopters conducting drills above an adjacent abandoned Naval building. They would hover alarmingly low, as if to pick up a nonexistent passenger from a rooftop, then elevate away, occasionally leaving an enormous and unidentified explosion in their wakes. To put it lightly, it was very disruptive. But Helen kept at it despite the deafening roar of rotors, occasionally joking that they were listening. What else was she to do, right?

That creativity and revelry and uniquely resourceful art is valued in such quantity in New Orleans that it can support many musicians with a significant supplementary or working-to-middle-class income is, I think, no small wonder. But those military helicopters were a stark symbolic reminder that cellos are not actually ordnance; that these cultural pursuits are circumscribed by colonial and police-statist and capitalist and white supremacist systems that are more powerful, more insidious, more invisibly baked into the fabric of everyday life than we can at once describe. (This, too, was on the day we woke up and learned that Beyonce’s Southern-, Louisiana- and black-centric critically-lauded album had “lost” a Grammy award to a contrite Adele, which as many commentators pointed out, is a prime example of what systemic racism looks like in the music biz itself.) This oppression both gives rise to and then limns many of the things I love about New Orleans, and yet those things still happen, at least so far.

To a privileged observer it’s all beautiful and all damned and rarely quite so simple as one or the other. To a local, it must be hard to get on with your day unless you somewhat accept that it just is.